mymoonisgrey

[mymoonisgrey]

holy mother of god i never felt so giddy in my life

CALLING YOU HOME — SATORU GOJO

pairing — pilot!satoru gojo x air traffic controller!reader

summary — captain satoru gojo is the most infuriating pilot you've ever had the displeasure of guiding through tokyo's airspace. for months, he's turned every radio call into an opportunity to flirt, compliment your voice, and generally make your work life insufferable. you've never seen his face, but you're convinced he's exactly the kind of arrogant pilot you never want to deal with outside work. if only your heart would stop racing when you hear his voice.

word count — 16.5 k

genre/tags — aviation AU, pilot x air traffic controller, annoyance to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, workplace romance, voice kink if you squint, long distance relationship (kinda), he falls first and falls so HARD, i love him in this ugh, yearning endboss, dramatic love confessions bc we need

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, mentions of grief/loss (death of family member), strong language, aviation emergencies, and satoru gojo being criminally sweet over radio frequencies.

author's note — friendssss i really hope u like this one bc i am obsessed lol. grab your headphones, play your favorite music and prepare for takeoff <3

masterlist + support my writing + ao3 + artwork by @3-aem

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land.”

You didn’t even need to check the screen. You’d recognize his voice anywhere, even in your nightmares—warm, cocky, and already grinding on your nerves like nails on chalkboard.

“Miss me, honey?”

Your pen snapped in half. Around the control tower, heads turned in your direction. Maki, your longest colleague and friend, pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Even Ijichi raised an eyebrow from his station. You hated them all a little for how they all enjoyed the situation so much.

You closed your eyes, counted to three, and then hit the transmission button. “Flight 447, you do realize you’re on a public frequency, right? Everyone can hear you.”

“As long as you’re listening, Control, that’s all that matters.”

“Lucky me,” you muttered, pulling up his flight information on the screen. Scattered clouds drifted past the tower’s angled windows, casting fleeting shadows over your cluttered workstation. “Also, you’re late, Captain.”

“By two minutes. Come on, that’s hardly anything.”

“More than enough time to get on my nerves.”

“I love it when you talk to me like that.”

Behind you, someone coughed—probably trying to hide a laugh.

“And I love it when you stop talking,” you shot back.

His laugh came through the radio, warm and amused. “Someone’s feisty today. Is the coffee in the tower that bad again?”

“Coffee’s fine. It’s the pilot that’s giving me a headache.”

“Mmm. I like it when your voice gets all defensive, beautiful.”

There it was again. Beautiful.

Always beautiful. Never ‘ma’am’ or ‘tower’ or even your call sign like every other normal fucking pilot with a shred of professionalism would do. With Gojo, it was always pretty, or beautiful, or—God help you—honey. Like he was talking to a date he wanted to charm, not calling for airspace clearance on public frequency.

You’d corrected him once early on. “Use proper radio protocol,” you’d said, but all he replied was, “Sorry, Control. Slipped. Won’t happen again, pretty.” 

It had happened again. And again. And again.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and entertaining the fantasy of reaching through the frequency and strangle him with your headset cord. Instead, your fingers found the stress ball on your desk and squeezed until your knuckles went white.

“You don’t even know what I look like,” you said, frustrated.

“Your voice tells me everything I need to know. And I’m betting you’re even more beautiful than you sound.”

“Is that why you like hearing yourself talk so much? Because your voice tells you how pretty you are?”

He laughed. “Ouch. You’re brutal today, Control. Permission to land before you completely break my poor heart?”

“Flight 447, you’re cleared to land, runway 24L. Wind 240 at 8 knots. Try not to crash while you’re busy thinking about how charming you are.”

“Copy that, beautiful. And for the record? I wasn’t thinking about myself.” His voice dropped lower, not caring at all that he was on public frequency. “I was thinking about you.”

Heat crept up your neck. Around the tower, a few heads turned your way once more—grinning, and you wanted to punch them in the face. 

You were silent for a few seconds and you could basically hear his grin forming on the other end of the line.

“Looks like I’ve got you blushing. Well then, see you on the ground, Control.”

More heat crept up your neck. You yanked off your headset and slammed it down on the desk, resisting the urge to scream into a stack of paperwork. Goddamn it, he made you want to quit your job. Or strangle him. Or both.

You looked out the tower’s window just in time to watch his plane break through the clouds and touch down. A fucking textbook perfect landing. Of course it was. Captain Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most infuriating pilot you’d ever had the displeasure of guiding in. And unfortunately, he was also the best.

It had started a few months ago when he began regularly flying the international routes from Japan to Central Europe—the very same routes you’d specifically requested when you transferred to Haneda. 

The 2 AM flights? The twelve hour shifts from hell? The ones that made most controllers question all their life choices and develop an unhealthy, codependent relationship with the espresso machine? 

You loved them.

These were the long flights where pilots were usually dead tired and just wanted to get home. Communication was professional and efficient. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter, just vectors, altitudes, and a few polite acknowledgments. You could guide a Boeing 777 from Tokyo to Frankfurt with maybe twenty lines of dialogue, max. That was the dream.

These pilots had been airborne for twelve hours or longer—the last thing they wanted was a chatty air traffic controller stretching out their shift with unnecessary conversation. And the last thing you wanted was to listen to their rambling. You loved those quiet and professional pilots—the ones you barely had to talk to, just guide them in and call it a day. Great. Easy work. You loved your job when it was uncomplicated.

While your colleagues dealt with the chaos of domestic flights—tight turnarounds, grumbling pilots, weather complaints, gate drama and all that shit—you got the stern and serious long-distance flyers.

Until Captain Satoru Gojo.

The first time you handled Flight 447’s approach out of Prague, you braced for the usual. Someone who’d been flying for thirteen hours straight and just wanted to land, deplane, and find the nearest bed. What you got instead was a happy voice that sounded like the man had just woken from the greatest nap of his lifetime and could easily fly for another thirteen hours.

“Tokyo Control, Flight 447 requesting descent. And might I say... what a beautiful night it is up here.”

You blinked at your radar screen. It was 2:03 AM. Cloudy skies. Visibility barely above minimum levels. Nothing about it was beautiful.

Most pilots at this hour could barely remember their own call signs. But not Gojo. Gojo sounded wide awake and relaxed—and, unfortunately, talkative. 

God, he talked so much. Always cracking jokes, always so cocky, always dragging out what should’ve been a thirty second exchange into a five minute monologue over the radio.

“Flight 447, descend and maintain flight level 240.”

“Descending to 240. Had to adjust our approach three times tonight because of wind shear. Amazing how much the atmosphere changes in just a few thousand feet. Did you know that—”

“Flight 447, contact Tokyo Aproach on 119.7.”

He sighed. “Copy that, beautiful. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”

It started professional enough—well, as professional as someone could be while constantly calling air traffic control ‘beautiful’—but overtime, he got more and more flirty. Somewhere around the fifth or seventh flight, you guided him in, he stopped sounding like a pilot and started sounding like a man leaving voicemail notes to his girlfriend. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Did you miss my voice, honey?”

“Until next time, beautiful.”

Maybe it was his personality, as if he simply couldn’t help himself—like he’d physically explode if he didn’t borderline sexual harass his ground crew and was naturally incapable of having a normal conversation. But goddamn, did it annoy you.

He’d never even seen you. Didn’t know your name, wouldn’t recognize your face if you passed him in the terminal. He probably couldn’t even point to the tower from his cockpit window. And yet, every transmission felt like he thought he was on private frequency with you, and not broadcasting on public monitored by half the airspace.

And oh my God, the rambling—the fucking rambling. And, of course, you were his favorite audience.

“You know, Control, I was reading this article about albatrosses during my layover in Warsaw and it got me thinking. Did you know they can fly for years without ever touching ground, like literally sleeping while they fly? Can you imagine? They use these tiny wind gradients over the waves to do that. Makes our fuel consumption look pretty inefficient, doesn’t it?”

You already felt your soul leaving your body.

“Although I bet you could optimize their route better than they can to save even more energy. You’ve got such a lovely voice for giving directions. Very authoritative. I like that—”

Sometimes he’d yap for minutes until you got so annoyed that you’d rip off your headset before he could finish whatever outrageous story he was about to finish and waved at Ijichi to take over. Poor Ijichi—an actual saint and unfortunately still a rookie, so he was your victim—would sigh, slid on his headset and took over the frequency to reply to Gojo’s rambling about birds in a very distinctly male, distinctly unimpressed voice.

“Flight 447, this is Tokyo Control. Please state your current altitude.”

A pause. “Oh. Um. Flight level 380. Sorry—Is the other controller… did she…?”

“Flight 447, maintain current altitude and heading. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ijichi shoot you a pained look and mouthed, “Your boyfriend’s looking for you” while you pretended to be very busy with paperwork, highlighting the same line of a weather report you’d already read four times.

You’d complained to your supervisor, of course. Marched into Yaga’s office with a list of incidents and timestamps of what you considered to be highly unprofessional behaviour that was interfering with air traffic operations.

Yaga had listened, occasionally nodding, while you explained in detail why Captain Gojo’s voice should be banned from all airspace. When you finished, he’d leaned back in his chair and given you that look—the one supervisors gave when they were about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

“Has he ever caused a delay?” Yaga asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“Missed a radio call?”

“No, however—”

“Failed to follow vectors or altitude assignments?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Has he ever said anything explicitly inappropriate? Sexual harassment, offensive language, anything that would violate communications protocols?”

You’d opened your mouth, then closed it. You were fighting a losing battle.

Yaga had shrugged and pointed out that Gojo never said anything explicitly inappropriate, never caused delays, and had the cleanest safety record of any pilot flying commercial routes in Japan. Zero incidents, zero violations, zero passenger complaints. He was the perfect pilot.

“The guy’s annoying but harmless,” Yaga had said at last, and slid your complaint folder back across his desk.

Harmless. Right.

Harmless if you didn’t count the fact that he was actively driving you insane and making you seriously consider changing careers. Or at least requesting a transfer to cargo flights, where the pilots were too busy dealing with departures every thirty minutes to spend time talking about stupid bird flyting techniques.

But damn it—you worked so hard for this position. You were a certified, professional air traffic controller with five years on the radar and an impeccable safety record. You’d studied for two years to pass the brutal exams, survived months in training simulations and clawed your way up from ground control to tower to approach and finally to the international routes. 

You directed aircraft worth billions of dollars, carrying hundreds of lives, through some of the most complex and congested airspace in Asia. You coordinated with air traffic controllers in twelve different countries, handled language barriers, time zones, techchnical delays, and medical emergencies—all while being always fucking calm and polite. 

Okay, scratch the polite part. But you got the job done, and that’s what mattered. And you were not about to throw it all away because one stupid, obnoxious pilot with an equally stupid, attractive voice was too dense to tell the difference between air traffic control and fucking Tinder.

Okay, forget about the calm part, too.

It didn’t help that your colleagues found the whole thing all too amusing. Your colleague Maki—who handled mostly domestic routes and therefore dealt with normal, professional pilots—had already labelled Gojo your ‘work husband’.

And every time his flight number popped up on the radar, she’d make kissy faces in your direction and sing, “Oh, your boyfriend’s calling,” to which you’d reply “He’s not my boyfriend.” Or worse, she’d lean over your shoulder while he was in the middle of yet another monologue, whispering when you’d finally ask him out. Of course, she knew he’d hear every word on the other end of the radio, prompting him to tease you with, “She’s right. When will you finally ask me?”

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to flight level 200.”

“Left 090, down to 200. And might I add that you sound particularly lovely today, Control? Did you do something different with your… well, I can’t see your hair, but I bet it looks very pretty.”

Maki would choke on her laughter like a middle schooler watching her crush talk, and you’d have to clench your fists to stop yourself from punching them both.

And it didn’t help that everyone loved him, of course. 

Everyone except you, apparently.

The ground crew basically fought over who got to service his aircraft. You’d see a swarm of orange vests crowding Gate 7 whenever Flight 447 rolled in—like teenage fangirls waiting backstage for their favourite boy band. It was ridiculous.

You’ve seen how the gate agents would always check their hair and straighten their ties. Hana from passenger services bought new lipstick “just in case” she ran into Captain Gojo during a layover. 

Even the janitors—the fucking janitors—somehow developed a sudden obsession with the floor around Gate 7. Mr. Takeshi, who’d been mopping this place since the airport was built, now took his sweet time in that exact area. Like. What the fuck.

It was like the entire airport had developed a collective crush on a man most of them had never even spoken to. All based on stories and the occasional glimpse of him walking through the terminal in his pilot uniform.

You’d never actually seen him. In the months he’d been flying your routes, your shifts always ended right before he arrived—or you were stuck up in the tower when he was on the ground. Like you existed in parallel universes. You guided his plane through the airspace, but never actually crossed paths on the ground.

Everyone said he was stupidly pretty—so damn dreamy and everything. You could’ve looked him up, googled him, stalked the airport intranet. But you didn’t. For all you knew, he was sixty with a beer belly and balding. But unfortunately, he also had an infuriatingly attractive voice over radio communication.

Which only made it worse.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those days where everything had gone wrong the moment you’d stepped into the tower. The coffee machine was broken, spitting out something between coffee grounds and mud. Your computer crashed twice during the morning shift, erasing twenty minutes of logged flight data. And to top it off, Ijichi had called in sick, leaving you to handle both international and domestic flights with only Maki as backup—who was currently tied up managing a medical diversion across three different frequencies.

So when Flight 447’s call sign appeared on your radar screen a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule, you felt your eye twitch.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors for approach.”

You glared at the radar. Of course he was early. And of fucking course he was screwing up your carefully timed arrival window. You’d scheduled him between two other flights, and now you had to rearrange everything yet again.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000 feet.”

“Left 180, down to 3,000. You sound tense, Control. Long shift?”

Deep breath. Remember, violence is not an option.

“Just doing my job, 447.”

“Ouch. That’s definitely tension. Let me guess—computer crash? Did someone steal your lunch? Ah wait, I know—the coffee machine spat out mud again, didn’t it?”

You blinked at your screen. How could he possibly—

“Flight 447, maintain current heading and altitude.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. I brought you something from Zurich. Might help improve your mood.”

You paused, finger hovering over the radio button. “You… brought me something?”

“Mhm. You know those famous Swiss chocolatiers? Heard they make the best chocolate in Europe, so I picked some up for you.”

You stared at your screen for a beat, unsure whether to feel weirdly flattered or wildly uncomfortable. Probably both.

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“I know enough,” he said, still annoyingly casual. “I know you prefer late international routes because they’re usually quiet and professional. I know you drink your coffee black, because I’ve heard you complain—more than once—that no one washes out the cream dispenser in the break room, and that it will one day cause a biohazard. Which, judging by your mood today, I’m guessing no one’s done that in a while, so now the good machine’s off to maintenance again, and you’re stuck with that old one that just spits out grounds.”

A pause.

“And I know you stay late to help train the newbies, because I’ve heard your voice in the background on calls. I have to say, you’ve got this calm, patient tone that makes it almost sound like you’re not seconds away from strangling them. It’s kind of adorable, really.”

You sat up straighter. How did he know all that? And more importantly, why had he noticed all that?

You didn’t respond right away, unsure what to respond at all. Then, finally, you clicked your radio.

“Flight 447, turn right heading 240. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Wait, that’s it? No ‘thank you’ or ‘wow, you’re so thoughtful for bringing me treats form overseas’? I declared that stuff at customs, you know. It was a whole ordeal.”

Despite your awful morning, your lip twitched. “You declared chocolate at customs?”

“Had to. They were weirdly suspicious about a pilot carrying so much chocolate in his carry-on. I told them it was for someone special, and they got all sentimental and waved me through.”

“You told customs agents I was special?”

“I told them the truth. …Though I may have implied you were my girlfriend to avoid further questioning.”

“You what?”

His laugh crackled through the headset, way too pleased with himself. “Relax, beautiful. Customs agents don’t exactly hang out with air traffic controllers. Your secret identity is safe.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach. Stop inventing fake relationships with me at international borders.”

“So we’re not dating? Huh. That’s news to me.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah. And your job involves listening to me, technically speaking.”

“My job involves keeping you from colliding with other planes, not entertaining your delusions.”

“See? You care about my safety. Such a good girlfriend, Control.”

You could almost hear the smirk through the static. Across the tower, Maki—finally free from her emergency—was trying desperately to look anywhere but your direction. She was listening too, you realized, her face reddening as she barely held in her laughter.

“Flight 447 switch to Approach now, or I will reroute you to Osaka instead.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d miss me too much.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, okay, I’m switching,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll make sure the chocolate gets delivered to your gate. It’s got your name on it. Well… your call sign, anyway. Couldn’t exactly ask for your real name without sounding like a creep. Oh, and there’s a little something extra in the box, too.”

Your finger froze over the transmit button. “What kind of extra?”

“Just a little something. See you on the ground, beautiful.”

The line went silent as he switched to Approach, leaving you staring at your screen with a whole lot of annoyance, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation swirling in your head.

Maki rolled her chair over without missing a beat. “Did he just say he brought you chocolate? From Switzerland?”

“Apparently.”

“And declared you his girlfriend to customs?”

“I hate him.”

“And there’s something extra waiting for you at the gate?”

You gave her a warning look. “Stop that.”

“You realize most guys don’t even text back. And he flew across eleven time zones and smuggled in fancy chocolate for you. Yeah, no one does that unless they’re into you.”

“It’s creepy.”

“Sure,” she said. “So creepy that you’re smiling about it.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You absolutely are.” She leaned closer. “And you’re totally going to check the gate during your break.”

You turned back to your screen. “I have work to do.”

“Right. Want me to cover for you while you go see what the handsome pilot brought you?”

“I’m not—” 

Your radar lit up. “Tower, this is Flight 892 requesting vectors for approach.” Saved by traffic, or whatever. You put your headset back on, thankful for the distraction, and focused on the radar. 

You were definitely not thinking about Swiss chocolate.

Or whatever extra he brought.

Not even a little.

Okay, maybe a little.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You waited until Flight 447 was safely out of range and someone else’s problem before making your move. The tower had quieted into its usual evening rhythm—slower, calmer, manageable. Most of the midday traffic was gone. And you? You were definitely just walking to the gate to, you know, get your steps in. Obviously.

“Off to investigate your love offerings?” Maki called as you headed for the elevator.

“Gate operations check,” you tried, but you couldn’t fool her.

The box was sitting right there at the international gate desk—impossible to miss. It was white and elegant, wrapped with a dark green ribbon, and with your controller call sign handwritten on the tag. Hana, the gate agent on duty, lit up the moment she saw you.

“Oh! You’re Control Seven! Captain Gojo dropped that off a few hours ago. He was very specific that it had to go to ‘the controller with the most beautiful voice in aviation.’” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s so romantic.”

You stared at the box. It was bigger than you’d expected with a fancy logo that suggested the box probably cost more than your monthly food budget.

“Did he… say anything else?”

“Just that you’d had a rough day and deserved something sweet.” Hana sighed. “He’s so thoughtful. And his eyes? Like a winter sky.”

Winter sky? My god. You swore everyone around here was losing their goddamn minds over this man. You were so fed up with the collective swooning, you were starting to wonder if you were the only one left immune to his bullshit.

“Right. Well. Thanks.”

Back at your console, you set it down and stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. Maki appeared at your side, peering over your shoulder.

“Holy shit. Is that from that famous Swiss brand? Do you even know how expensive that place is?”

“It’s just chocolate.”

“Just chocolate?” Maki carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each handmade confection was perfectly nestled in its own spot. “These are, like, forty bucks each. There’s at least thirty pieces in here.”

Ijichi gave a low whistle. “Your pilot boyfriend just dropped twelve hundred dollars on chocolate for you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” But your eyes were still glued to the box, your brain struggling to process the fact that someone had just casually spent more than your rent on Swiss truffles. Someone who’d never even seen your face.

“Oh my God, try one,” Maki said, already plucking out a champagne truffle. “Don’t be shy.”

You picked a dark chocolate filled with salted caramel and bit into it. It was... really good. Incredible, even. Probably the best thing you’d ever tasted. Which, somehow, only made this entire situation worse.

“Girl, you are so lucky,” Maki sighed, popping another piece into her mouth. “A hot pilot who brings you fancy chocolate? Where do I sign up for that kind of harassment?”

“He’s probably not even attractive. I’ve never actually seen him.”

Both Maki and Ijichi froze, their mouths full of chocolate.

“Wait,” Maki said slowly. “You’ve never seen him?”

“Our shifts don’t overlap. I’m always in the tower when his flights come in.”

“Oh my God.” Maki turned to her computer. “I’m looking him up. The airport has photos of all the regular pilots for security, right?”

“Tower, this is Flight 234 requesting vectors for approach,” crackled your headset. 

You grabbed your radio. “Flight 234, turn right heading 090, descend and maintain 4,000 feet.”

You moved quickly back to your station, eyes fixed on the radar screen. Behind you, you could feel Maki and Ijichi staring at you, clearly waiting for you to come back to them to gossip, but you waved them off without turning around. 

As you guided the aircraft in, your hand absently toyed with the ribbon around the box, and that’s when you noticed the ‘something extra’. Tucked beneath the chocolates was a postcard that showed the Swiss alps. You turned the card around.

“For the voice that always guides me home. Thank you for keeping me safe up there.” — S

You shivered.

Out of annoyance. Obviously. Not because of the note. Or the postcard. Or the very stupid, very warm feeling creeping up your neck. Nope. Pure irritation. And maybe a tiny bit of cardiac distress. From rage. Clearly.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You’d barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you’d thought about stupidly expensive Swiss chocolate, that annoyingly sincere note, and the way his voice had softened when he’d called you special. It was infuriating. You were a professional, rational adult, not someone who lost sleep over a cocky pilot with a bedroom voice that was clearly a walking red flag.

Yet here you were at 12:28 PM, exhausted and surviving on your fourth cup of awful Tower coffee because an emergency landing had turned your normal shift into a fourteen hour marathon. A passenger going into labour during a flight from Beijing had caused half the Pacific to be rerouted, and by the time the situation had been handled, the night shift was understaffed and you’d agreed—more or less voluntarily—to stay and help out.

The tower had gone still in the way airports only do at night. Just you and your collegue Kai on shift, and him busy on a separate channel, handling a delayed cargo inbound. Somewhere below, the terminal lights flickered as the cleaning crews did laps. You rested your chin in your palm and tried not to hate everything.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting approach clearance.”

It took your brain a second to catch up. Flight 447. He’d just arrived from Paris. Of course. You took a breath.

“Flight 447, unable to clear for approach at this time. We have outbound traffic. Maintain current altitude and turn left heading 270 for holding.”

“Copy that. Left 270. Long night down there?”

You rubbed your eyes. “Medical emergency earlier. You’ll be in the hold for about an hour.”

“Roger. Hey—did you get the chocolates?"

Despite your exhaustion, you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. “Yes. Thank you. They were... unnecessary.”

“But good?”

You exhaled. “Really good.”

“Knew it. You sound tired, Control. How long you been on?”

You checked your watch. “Fourteen hours.”

“You shouldn’t be pulling shifts that long. You always look after everyone else but you’ve got to take care of yourself too, you know.”

You paused, the words hitting you sideways. Maybe it was the fatigue making you soft, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, he didn’t sound like he was trying to get a rise out of you. He sounded genuinely concerned—and it threw you off more than any flirtation ever had. You didn’t even have the energy to fight him on it.

“Someone had to cover.”

“Not at the cost of your own health. You drinking water? Eating real food? And I don’t mean the sandwiches they sell in the vending machines in the gates.”

“I did eat something a few hours ago. I’m okay. We had a pregnant passenger go into labor. Coordinated three hospitals and rerouted six aircraft, then landed them priority.”

“Is she okay?”

“Baby girl, born healthy. I heard from the flight attendant that they’ve named her Sky. It’s kinda cheesy.”

“That’s beautiful.” His voice was soft. “You helped bring a little life into the world tonight.”

“It’s just part of the job.”

“It’s not just your job, you know that,” he said gently. “It’s you being the person people count on when it really matters.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know why I always ask for this route?”

“Because you like to annoy me?”

He laughed quietly. “Because your voice is the best part of my day. Doesn’t matter what went wrong, how difficult the passengers, or how many delays we had to deal with—the moment I hear you on frequency… I know I’m okay. I know I’m home.”

You blinked. Words tangled somewhere between your chest and your mouth, but none made it out. How could they? Not with your heart thudding like it was trying to escape. Not with your lungs suddenly feeling too small. 

It was silent in the tower. Kai was still busy on the other frequency with his cargo flight, leaving you alone with nothing but Gojo’s soft breathing in your headset and the pounding of your pulse. 

You pressed your forehead to your arms on the desk, willing your heart rate to slow. Eventually, quietly, you said, “Why? Why are you being so… like this? You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. I know you work too hard and care too much. I know you’re calm even when the tower’s on fire. I know you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and you use it to keep people safe.”

You could barely breathe.

“You deserve more than what this job takes from you, you know,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

“You’re so stupid,” you whispered, the insult so soft it barely had teeth.

“You’re exhausted. Lie to me tomorrow.” A pause. “You know, the cherry blossoms along the Seine were beautiful in Paris.” His voice grew wistful, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound wash over you in the quiet tower. “I’d love to show you someday.”

“Your girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate you taking other women on romantic trips to Paris.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said without hesitation. “I wish you were my girlfriend.”

You took another deep breath, slower this time, but it didn’t help. Your face felt hot, your pulse wouldn’t settle, and worst of all, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t happening. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that information? 

Normally you would have hung up by now, would have found some cutting remark to shut down whatever this was becoming. But maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into your bones, or the way his voice had gone so unsual gentle, that made you let it happen—this slow unraveling of the careful distance you’d built between yourself and the voice that had somehow become more important to you than you wanted to admit

“You’re insane.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of your arm, as if you could bury the whole situation under your sleeves. As if he couldn’t still hear every shaky breath of yours over the radio.

“What? No comeback?” he teased. “You really must be tired.”

“I hate how you say stuff like that,” you mumbled into your sleeve, “when you know I’m too tired to fight back.”

“Sounds like good timing, then.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mhm. I like when you sound all sleepy,” he said, lower now, almost like he was smiling. “It’s really cute.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if I have a boyfriend or something?”

“Sounds like you want me to ask you.”

“I don’t.” You exhaled slowly, turning your head so your cheek pressed against your arm. “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Good,” he said. “So no boyfriend. Because it would be really awkward for me to take you to Paris if you had one. Boyfriends tend to get weird about that sort of thing.”

A soft laugh escaped before you could stop it. “You don’t even know me. Why are you so persistent?”

It was silent for a while—so long it made your skin itch. You glanced at the console. Still active. But then his voice returned.

“Because for months, your voice has been the only thing that’s felt like home,” he said. “Every flight, every approach, every time you say my call sign... it feels like coming home. And maybe that’s stupid. Maybe I’m just a pilot who’s spent too many nights alone in hotels, wondering what it’d be like to hear you say my name—my real name—just once, but I…”

The tower felt impossibly still around you, save for the sound of his soft breathing in your ear and the heavy press of something strange in your chest.

“Flight 447—”

“Can I ask you something? And you can say no.”

“…What?”

“Do you want to switch to a private frequency?”

You shouldn’t. It was a clear breach of communication policy. You knew that. But the tower was empty, Kai was distracted, and there was something in the way he said it that made you want to say yes so terribly much.

“Frequency 121.9,” you said.

“Copy that. Switching now.”

Your heart thudded. You flipped over to the private channel, palms slightly clammy against the controls, and waited.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 on private frequency.”

“I’m here.”

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “Tell me something about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Doesn’t matter. I just want to listen to your voice.”

You went quiet for a beat, still resting your head on your arms, the headset cord wrapped loosely around your fingers. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but something warm had started to bloom low in your chest.

“That’s… I don’t know what to say.”

“Start simple. What did you have for breakfast?”

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Coffee.”

“Just coffee?” He groaned. “That’s terrible for you. You need read food.”

“Says the man who probably only eats airplane food and orders hotel room service.”

“I make great scrambled eggs, actually,” he said, a little smug. “Secret ingredient is a little cream cheese folded in at the end.”

“You cook?”

“Mhmm. And I make the best carbonara.”

“According to who?”

“According to me. And I’m a very reliable source.”

You smiled again. “Very humble, too.”

“Absolutely. So, what about you? What do you do when you’re not busy keeping pilots from crashing into each other?”

You surprised yourself by answering. You told him about the pottery class you barely had time for on weekends, how you were trying to teach yourself guitar but could only play three chords and a more or less decent version of ‘Wonderwall’. You admitted to watch trash reality TV while folding laundry, and how your poor balcony basil plant had died three times and counting despite your best efforts. 

It just... flowed. And it felt good. Comforting, even. 

You found yourself sharing more than you meant to, your voice softer than usual in the quiet of the tower, like the distance between you made it easier to be honest. 

You hadn’t realized until now how much you’d come to like hearing his voice. Not the cocky, smug tone he usually used on open frequency—but this version. Soff and warm in a way that felt almost intimate. Like he actually cared about your answer. Like he actually saw you, even from thirty thousand feet away.

You were quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why did you become a pilot?”

A breath passed. Maybe two.

“I had a little sister. She died when she was twelve—leukemia.” He paused, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breathing. “She was obsessed with those National Geographic documentaries, always making plans about all the places she wanted to see—the Andes in Peru, hiking the Highlands in Scotland, and seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland. She had this whole notebook full of destinations she wanted to visit, with pictures cut out from magazines.”

You didn’t move, afraid even a shift might break the moment.

“She never left Japan. Never even got on a plane. But the day before she died, she made me promise I’d see the world for her. That I’d go to all the places and tell her about them.” Another shaky breath. “So I became a pilot. And every flight, every city, every sunset high above the clouds—she’s with me. I take pictures for her. Collect postcards.” His laugh barely held. “Probably sounds crazy.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.” You sat up straighter in your chair and rolled your sleeves down, suddenly feeling the night air’s chill. “So the postcards from Zurich…”

“I brought one for her, and one for you. I thought... maybe you’d like it too.”

“Flight 447,” you said softly, unsure what else to do with the weight in your chest.

“She would’ve liked you,” he added. “She always said the most important people are the ones who make you feel like home—even when you’re thirty thousand feet in the air, circling your home airport at in the middle of the night because you cannot land.”

You were silent for a while, unable to find words.

“Control? Can I ask you something else?”

“…Yeah.”

“Would you like to go out with me?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t even breathe at first, hand hovering near the console, but instead of replying, you slowly set your headset down and stood—legs unsteady. You crossed the small space behind your chair, ran a hand through your hair, tried to get your lungs to work again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for him sounding that sincere. He was still up there, circling in the dark, waiting for something you weren’t sure you could give. You braced your hands on the edge of the desk, heart pounding, and finally lowered yourself back into the chair. Slipped the headset on again.

“I…” you began, but the rest of the sentence never came. Your throat tightened too much.

“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, okay?”

Then Kai’s voice cut through your main frequency. “Control Seven, runway’s clear for your holding traffic.”

You switched back to the private frequency, your voice steadier than you felt. 

“Flight 447, you’re cleared for approach, runway 24L. Wind 180 at 5 knots.”

“Roger, cleared for approach runway 24L.”

You hesitated, your finger trembling slightly on the radio button, then softly, “Land safe, Satoru.”

Silence stretched between you, each moment an unbearable weight as you waited for him to speak, with only the soft static of the frequency for company. When his voice finally came back, it was barely above a whisper.

“You’re so unfair, Control. How am I supposed to sleep now that I’ve finally heard you say my name like that?”

Your chest tightened, a fragile tenderness settling in your chest, and you closed your eyes, lost in the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“See you on the ground, Control… and sleep easy tonight.”

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

After that night, everything changed.

What had once been the most frustrating part of your job had quietly become the part you looked forward to most. You told yourself it was just the routine, the familiarity. A comforting voice between the chaos. But when Flight 447’s call sign popped up on your radar, your chest would do that stupid flutter before your brain could stop it. And the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain began crumbling piece by fragile piece.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors, and good morning to my favorite controller.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile anymore. “Good morning, Captain. Turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 4,000.”

“How’s that terrible tower coffee treating you today?”

“Still tastes like mud. But it’s keeping me awake.”

“You really need someone to bring you proper coffee sometime.”

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Will do, beautiful. Save me a cup of that mud, will you?”

You caught yourself still smiling after he’d switched frequencies. 

Your colleagues noticed the change immediately. Maki would glance over with that knowing grin the second his call sign blinked onto your screen. Sometimes she didn’t even say anything—just raised her eyebrows and took a dramatically loud sip of her green tea.

Even Ijichi who was usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to soften. Now, he’d offer a small, genuinely happy smile when Satoru’s voice came through the speakers, like a younger brother observing something inevitable unfold.

The conversations with Satoru grew longer, more personal. He’d tell you about the cities he flew to—the morning mist over Prague’s cobblestone streets, the way the late afternoon sunlight painted the Alps during his approach to Munich, the bustling markets in Vienna that smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm strudel.

“There’s this little bakery in Prague,” he said once. “Sells cinnamon sugar spirals on a stick that taste like sugar bread. I picked some up for you and will drop them by your gate when I land, though they might be a bit smushed from the flight, but I swear they’re really good.”

You imagined him standing there, maybe still in his uniform, coffee in one hand and some pastry in the other, sunlight filtering through narrow European streets. You wished you could’ve been there with him.

One Tuesday evening, he came on frequency a few minutes early. “I saw the Northern Lights last night for the first time,” he said, skipping all pretense of small talk. “Over Helsinki. It looked incredible. I took about a hundred photos, even though they don’t do it justice, but… I tried.”

“Your sister would’ve loved that.”

“Yeah. She would have.” His voice grew soft. “I wish you could have seen them too. With me.”

You hadn’t planned on any of this. You didn’t know where it was going. But every word felt a little easier than the last. Like you were building something one flight at a time, stitched together from shared late night conversations, shared silences, and a voice that had somehow made its way under your skin. And you hadn’t even seen his face.

At some point, the flirting had stopped feeling like a game. You weren’t sure when the shift happened, only that it had. One day you were rolling your eyes at his compliments, and the next… you caught yourself smiling before he even switched on the mic.

He’d compliment your voice and your hair he’d never even seen, and you’d toss something sharp right back at his ego. He’d ask about your day like it mattered, and you’d ask how the clouds looked up there in the sky. 

Somewhere between the banter and clearance codes, you stopped resisting the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he called you beautiful. Stopped pretending it didn’t matter. Stopped pretending you didn’t wait for his call sign, or feel the flutter in your stomach when he said your call sign like it was something he’d been waiting all day to say.

“You sound tired today,” he said one afternoon, somewhere over the East China Sea, his voice laced with concern.

You stifled a yawn. “Double shift. Someone called in sick.”

“That’s the third time this month. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you took a day off? And I mean not just sleeping in because you worked late, but actually doing something for yourself?”

You paused, thought about it, and realized you couldn’t remember.

“That settles it. When I get back from the Zagreb route next week, we’re going somewhere. Somewhere with decent coffee and food that doesn’t come from a vending machine.”

“Is that a request or a demand, Captain?”

“It’s a promise.”

Late night conversations on the private frequency became your favorite kind of bad habit. You told yourself you weren’t abusing the system—you just happened to monitor 121.9 a little more closely on nights when you knew he was in the air.

When the tower thinned out to near silence, leaving only the hum of the monitors, and his overnight flights aligned perfectly with your shifts, you always found a reason to switch channels.

“Can’t sleep up there?” you’d ask when his voice came through the static.

“Autopilot’s handling the boring parts. Thought I’d check on my favorite insomniac instead.”

“I’m not an insomniac,” you’d say, leaning into the console, exhausted but smiling. “I’m working.”

“It’s 3 AM. You should be in bed, curled up with a blanket and binge some Netflix.”

“Someone’s gotta guide the pretty pilots through the night sky.”

He never missed a beat. “Just one pretty pilot in particular, I hope. Otherwise I might get jealous.”

And you let him win these little exchanges. Because the truth was, the static of 121.9 had quietly become where you truly felt yourself. A place where your voice softened, where the walls came down, where you weren’t Control Seven—you were just you. Tired, overcaffeinated, sometimes frustrated with everything—but somehow still able to breathe easier when his voice filled your headset.

You didn’t have a name for what was growing between you—but it was there. Steady. Constant. Cruising at altitude and waiting for the moment one of you was brave enough to land.

Those conversations could last hours—him circling above the Pacific while you guided other aircraft, both of you stealing moments between official duties to talk about everything and nothing. He’d tell you about passengers he’d met, you’d share stories about the quirky new controller in the tower. He’d describe the view from his cockpit, you’d explain what the radar looked like from your perspective.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we’d met differently?” he asked one night.

“How do you mean?”

“If I wasn’t a pilot, and you weren’t up in a tower. If we just... bumped into each other at a grocery store or something.”

“Would you have still talked my ear off about arctic birds?”

“Probably.” He laughed. “Though I might have started with the weather like a normal person.”

“I don’t think you know how to be normal, Captain.”

You found yourself looking forward to his flights. When Flight 447 appeared on your radar, it was like a switch flipped on inside your chest. And when his route changed and he wasn’t there you caught yourself glancing at the flight board more than necessary. If his flight was delayed by weather or mechanical issues, you’d feel it settle heavy in your chest like stones until his call sign appeared on your screen.

“Miss me?” he’d tease whenever your shifts missed each other and the silence stretched too long.

“You wish.”

“I do, actually. Horribly.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “The frequency’s been blessedly quiet without you. You wouldn’t believe how efficiently I can work without your constant interruptions.”

“Liar. You were bored as hell.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach before your big ego causes your plane to crash.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little to late for that, Control? It’s this big since you said my name that one time.”

You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, but you were smiling. Always smiling. And he knew it. You both did. And pretending otherwise had started to feel pointless.

“…I missed you.”

You leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of your console, and hunched your shoulders, trying to shake off the shiver that traced down your spine at the sound of his voice in your ear.

“Approach is waiting, Captain.”

A few weeks had passed since that first private frequency conversation, and you still hadn’t given him a direct answer about the date. But somewhere between his stories about sunrises over the Himalayas and your chaotic work anecdotes, the question had become less about whether and more about when. Even if you didn’t have the courage to admit it yet.

“So,” he said one Thursday evening, while preparing for approach, “about that date…”

Your heart stuttered in the smallest, stupidest way.

“I know a little café in Shibuya. It’s away from the main tourist spots and makes the best matcha lattes in Tokyo. Perfect place for two hardworking colleagues to grab a coffee.”

“We are colleagues, Flight 447.”

“Colleagues who happen to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Colleagues who work together professionally.”

“Colleagues who talk on private frequencies at 2 AM about the Northern Lights and their horrible exes.” His voice carried that familiar teasing note. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? I promise not to talk about aircraft separation minimums the whole time.”

“The worst that could happen is that it gets complicated.”

“It’s already complicated.”

You were quiet for a moment, knowing he was right. You shifted slightly in your chair, fingers idly twirling the cable of your headset.

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“The café’s called Blue Mountain,” he said before switching. “Saturday afternoon. If you’re free.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, you lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your apartment as the last traces of twilight faded from deep purple to black outside your open window, and replayed every conversation, every laugh, every time he’d called you beautiful.

You were a grown woman. A professional. You managed emergencies, rerouted aircraft in storm systems, made decisions in mere seconds that kept hundreds of people safe every day.

And here you were. Heart in shambles over a man you’d never even seen in person.

It didn’t make sense. Pilots are arrogant. That’s a universal truth you’d learned over the years in air traffic control. They walked through airports like they owned the sky, had egos the size of their aircraft, an attention span of a goldfish when it came to relationships, and probably a different girlfriend in every city.

Satoru was a pilot. 

Therefore, by the sacred logic of the universe, he was a bad idea.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way—given your heart to people who’d seemed so sure, so persistent, so convinced they wanted forever until they didn’t. Until the reality of loving someone flawed and human became too much work, too complicated, too real.

But now here was him—persistent, charming, relentless in his pursuit of something that existed only in radio waves and imagination. All he had was your voice and whatever fantasy he’d constructed around it. And fantasies, no matter how beautiful, eventually shattered when they met reality.

You didn’t know much about him. Not his favorite movie, or if he was the type to do laundry right away or leave it on a chair for three days. You didn’t know who broke his heart last, or what he looked like when he was nervous. You didn’t even know if he wore glasses or if his hair curled when it rained.

For all you knew, he talked like this to every controller on every route. Maybe you were just one more frequency he’d tuned into. A novelty. A nice voice to pass the time.

Yet you knew he brought you gifts from cities you’d never visited. You knew he worried when you worked too many hours. You knew he talked to his dead sister through postcards and photographs, and somehow let you be a part of that grief. You knew the sound of his breathing thirty thousand feet above you, and sometimes wished you could fall asleep to it.

But this wasn’t real. Whatever this was—chemistry, attraction, some strange radio wave Stockholm syndrome—it couldn’t be real. Real relationships required proximity, shared experiences, mundane Tuesday mornings and arguments over who left the bathroom light on. Not conversations between approach vectors and weather reports in the middle of the night.

He’d never seen you laugh until your sides hurt, never witnessed you cry out of frustration. He didn’t know that you were shy in crowds, that you overthought everything, that you had trust issues wrapped around your heart like scar tissue.

This was in between. A connection built in the air, not on the ground. And you were being smart by saying no. You were being practical. Responsible. You were doing what made sense.

But why did the idea of never knowing the warmth of his hand in yours make your chest ache like you were already grieving something that hadn’t even had the chance to exist?

You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up higher, and pressed your face into the pillow.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those graveyard shifts where the world felt like it had gone still. Most of the world was asleep, save for you, a few stray cargo flights, and the quiet static of Flight 447 holding steady somewhere over the ocean. And him. Always him.

You were back on private frequency. What began, as it always did, with talk of altitudes and airspeed, soon shifted to stories of cities and people he’d met in Dublin and that little bakery he’d found in Budapest, that he’s sure of you’d love.

And then he told you about his ex-girlfriend who’d left him because she couldn’t handle the distance, the loneliness of hotel rooms. He spoke of his parents, who’d always expected him to run the family’s company, and how they still didn’t understand why he’d chosen to spend his life in the sky.

You found yourself sharing more than you probably should, as you always did in these hushed moments—your failed engagement to a man who’d wanted you to quit air traffic control because it was ‘too stressful’, your complicated relationship with your mother, and how sometimes, even now, it still felt like your worth came with conditions.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” you said softly after confessing how you’d chosen this career partly to prove you could handle something your ex-fiancé thought was too difficult for you.

“I'm glad you told me,” Satoru’s voice was soft through the headset. And despite the exhaustion, your chest gave that familiar, traitorous flutter. “I love listening to your voice, especially when you’re being honest about things that matter.”

“Satoru…” you said, without thinking—his name slipping out in a whisper that carried more weight than it should have.

“Say that again.”

“Your name?”

“Yes,” he breathed, the single word aching. “Please.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to—but because speaking it aloud meant acknowledging the weight it carried.

“Satoru,” you said again, slower this time. His name felt warm on your tongue, like something meant to be spoken softly, like a confession wrapped in a name.

On the other end of the line, silence stretched long enough to make your heart stutter.

“Satoru?” you asked. “Are you there?”

“I’m here. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

A beat.

“About how much I want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath caught so fast it hurt. Heat flooded your face and you pulled your headset off for a moment, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.

You stood for a second, pacing a few slow steps behind your chair, trying to shake it off, to convince yourself you hadn’t heard what you just heard. But your heart wouldn’t stop racing, a wild bird trapped in your ribs, like your body was reacting to something your mind hadn’t even begun to process, let alone given permission for.

Because part of you had desperately wanted to hear those words. And part of you didn’t know what the hell to do with them now that they were real. You stared at the headset in your lap, hesitating. Wanting. Dreading.

After a few seconds, you slipped the headset back on.

“Did I scare you with that?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s… it’s fine.”

“I mean it, you know. I really do want to kiss you.”

“This is insane. We’ve never even met.”

“It doesn’t feel that way to me. Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

His words settled deep, heavier than the silence that followed. Something about them felt like a confession hanging between earth and sky, between personal and professional, between safe and what if.

“Satoru…”

“I know how you take your coffee. I know how you sound when you’re tired, and what makes you laugh when you’re trying not to. I know you bite your lip when you’re concentrating—because I can hear it in your voice. And I know you put everyone else ahead of yourself even when you shouldn’t. I know enough to care. And enough to want more.” A pause. “What else do I need to know?”

“What I look like, for starters.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“No, because it’s your voice I think about at night. That’s what drew me in. The rest… it never mattered.”

You sat there, heartbeat loud in your ears, not sure how to breathe, let alone how to respond.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll have coffee with me. Say you’ll give me a chance to see the woman I’ve fallen for.”

Your breath caught again. “Fallen for?” you repeated, like maybe saying it aloud would help you believe it.

“Yes. Completely, hopelessly fallen for.”

Your hands lifted—without thinking, almost desperate—and pressed against the headset like you could pull his voice closer—pull him closer. Part of you wanted him to say it again. Needed to hear it, to make sure it was real. And another part wished he hadn’t said it at all. Because now it was alive between you. Irrevocable.

“I…” You stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I have to—” You panicked and switched back to the main frequency. “Ijichi? Can you take over Flight 447 for me? I need to step out for a second.”

“Everything okay?” Ijichi’s voice sounded concerned.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just need a bathroom break.”

You yanked the headset off and fled to the small restroom down the hall, slammed the lock shut, and leaned back against the door as if afraid his words might follow you in.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face. Droplets clung to your lashes and slid down your neck. Still, the heat in your skin wouldn’t go away, chest rising and falling too fast.

What is happening? 

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t just… fall for your voice. That wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t how any of this worked. You hadn’t even met him. You didn’t know what his laugh looked like when it reached his eyes. He didn’t know how you looked when you weren’t exhausted. And yet—

Yet here you were, breathless in a dim airport bathroom in the middle of the night, heart racing like you were the one who’d made the confession.

This is insane. He is a pilot. Probably talks like this to every other control tower from Berlin to Bangkok. But why—God, why—did you want to kiss him back so badly?

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You took a week off without telling him.

It was cruel—you knew that. But you needed time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to stop feeling like you were going to fly apart every time you heard his voice. But distance didn’t feel like space. It felt like ache.

You spent most of that week alone in your apartment, curled into corners of yourself you hadn’t visited in years. You rearranged your bookshelves. Watered your plants twice in one day. Cleaned your windows until they gleamed like they haven’t in years. 

And still, none of it helped. You ended up lying on your back in your bed, just… thinking. Wondering if he was worried. If he noticed the silence. If he regretted saying what he did.

You replayed the conversation endlessly, like a scratched record stuck on the moment his voice had dropped, tender and fragile with something like a confession. 

Completely, hopelessly fallen for. 

You could still hear it. Still feel the way your lungs had stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But you had.

Maybe it started the moment he told you that your voice felt like coming home to him. Or maybe it was the first time he opened up about his sister, the way his voice caught halfway through the sentence, like he was still learning how to hold that grief in his mouth. Or maybe it was even before that, when he brought you chocolate from Zurich and called you special to customs agents he’d never meet again.

You wanted to kiss him then. You want to kiss him now. And that terrified you more than anything. Not because it wasn’t real, but because you’d wanted it to be real for so long without even realizing. But wanting and admitting were two different things. 

So instead, you wrapped yourself in quiet and waited for the ache to fade. It didn’t. You thought it would. You thought time would create space, and space would give you clarity. But it didn’t, and the ache only grew stronger.

By day three, you caught yourself checking the flight tracking apps, wondering if he was flying the skies above you, if his voice was somewhere out there asking another controller for vectors. If he’d call them ‘beautiful’ too.

By day four, you were questioning whether radio silence was mature or just cowardly, and by day five, you were actively pacing your apartment, cursing yourself for disappearing and cursing him for making you feel this way in equal measures.

You heard the familiar drone of an aircraft passing overhead through your open window and stopped your pacing instantly, tilting your head toward the sound as it grew louder, then began to fade.

Was that him? His flight cutting through the darkness with some other controller guiding him home? Someone else’s voice in his headset? The thought made you sick.

Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. A text from Maki. “Your pilot boyfriend keeps asking where you are.”

You stared at the message for a long time. Not because you didn’t care, but because you didn’t know what to say. Because how could you possibly say I miss him without it sounding like you were already halfway in love. And maybe you were.

****

You returned on day six. Not because you were ready, or because the questions had answers, or your chest had stopped aching when his name passed through your thoughts, but because Tokyo’s sky was falling apart and there was no more time left to hide.

The call came at 3:42 AM—all available controllers needed immediately. Level four emergency.

You barely had time to pull on your uniform, hair still damp from the shower, as you rushed past stranded passengers sleeping on benches and gate agents with phones pressed to both ears, while overhead an urgent announcement looped in four languages. 

A massive weather front had swept across the Pacific, turning Tokyo’s airspace into chaos. Delayed flights, emergency diversions, aircraft running low on fuel circling in holding patterns, waiting for safe corridors to open. But when you reached your workstation, you stopped.

Flowers. 

A small, beautiful arrangement of white roses and baby’s breath in a clear glass vase.

“He sends them every day,” Maki said, appearing beside you with a stack of weather reports. “Asks if someone can place them on your desk. In case you come back.”

You couldn’t speak, only stared at the petals, watching one tremble in the air conditioning draft. Something fragile inside your chest pulled taut. 

Six days. 

He’d been sending flowers to an empty chair for six days.

“You okay?” Maki asked.

“I’m good,” you managed, swallowing hard. “I need to—” But there was no time. 

“Tower, this is Flight 892, requesting immediate vectors around weather cell bearing 270.”

For the next three hours, there was no room left for feelings. You were too busy handling all the alternate airport requests, fuel emergencies, and missed approaches that required immediate rerouting.

“Flight 315, turn right heading 180, descend to 8,000. Moderate turbulence ahead, advise caution.”

“Flight 726, negative climb, maintain 12,000. Traffic conflict. Standby for alternate routing.”

Every call you answered felt like a life being tossed into your hands. You held on tight. You didn’t shake. At least, not on the outside. 

A sudden, blinding flash from outside momentarily bleached the room, then plunged it back into deeper shadow as rain lashed heavily against the tower’s windows.

And then, between the tangle of signals and storm interference, a call sign you knew like your own name lit up your screen. 

Flight 447.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors through weather, and—” He paused—like he’d caught the shaky breath you hadn’t meant to let slip through. “Control, is that you?”

It shouldn’t have undone you like that. But it did. Your knees went weak under your console. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, alive and safe. Your throat tightened around a dozen things you wanted to say, but there was no time.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to 6,000. There’s a gap in the storm cell at your two o’clock.”

“Roger, left 090, down to 6,000.” A beat. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

You wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize for disappearing like a coward, but four other aircraft were calling for attention at the same time and the storm was intensifying still.

“Flight 447, be advised, severe turbulence ahead. Recommend immediate deviation right, heading 130.”

“Negative, we’re already committed to this approach. We’ll ride it—”

Then nothing. The radio snapped to static, then went silent.

You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and bumped into the console behind you. One hand clutched the headset tighter to your ear, the other braced against your desk.

“Flight 447, come in.”

No response.

“Satoru, do you copy?”

Still nothing. Only white noise.

Lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deep, rattling roar of thunder that vibrated through the control room. But all you could hear was the terrifying silence where his voice should’ve been.

Your hand trembled as you keyed the mic. “Flight 447, please respond.”

Then, finally, cutting through the noise, “Control. I’m here. Lost comms for a moment there.”

You sank back into your chair like your legs had stopped working, the adrenaline suddenly too much to hold. You rested your forearms on the edge of the console, hands trembling slightly as you leaned in, pressing your forehead against them, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs. 

“What’s with the silence now,” he whispered softly. “Were you worried about me, love?”

Love.

He’d never said that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, honey—but never this. Not like that. Not so soft and tender, like you’d been his love for so long that saying it was simply acknowledging what already existed, what had been waiting patiently in his chest for the right moment to slip free. And never had you been so stupidly, helplessly happy to hear a single word.

He is alive. He is safe. And he’d called you love.

“Flight 447, confirm you’re okay.” 

“We’re fine. Bumpy ride, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

“I’ve missed you.”

Your throat tightened. Six days of silence. Six days of waiting, wondering, and avoiding the thing you were most afraid to admit. Six days of white roses waiting for your return, and here he was, relieved to hear your voide again like you were something precious he’d thought he’d lost. 

As if your absence had mattered. 

As if he’d missed you the way you’d missed him.

“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just… don’t go quiet on me again, okay? It’s hard to feel like I’m coming home when you’re not the one guiding me there.”

You closed your eyes, the ache blooming hot behind your ribs. Coming home. How could he say things like that so easily? How could he make you feel like you were drowning and flying at the same time with just a handful of words spoken through radio static?

And the worst part was how easily he said it—like you really were his home, his anchor point in all that vast sky. Like this thing between you wasn’t just something imagined, but something real enough to miss, something worth coming back to.

“I won’t,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

And you meant it. Whatever had made you run, whatever fear had driven you to take that week off—it felt so stupidly irrelevant compared to the relief of knowing he was safe. Of knowing somewhere above the clouds, he’d been looking for your voice.

“See you on the ground, beautiful.”

And then the line went silent.

Your eyes stayed locked on his radar symbol, unwilling to look away, tracking his descent as if your gaze alone could guide him safely down. Your eyes drifted to the flowers beside your console, your chest tight with guilt because you’d been too much of a coward to face what you felt for him. 

What was holding you back when he was right there? Wanting you, missing you enough to notice your absence, calling you love so tenderly. What was so terrifying about someone who made you feel like the most important voice in his sky?

He missed you. Wanted you. And you missed him like the sky misses his stars in daylight. Now he was descending through storm clouds, almost within reach, and you still didn’t know how to say any of it.

You watched his altitude drop.

8,000 feet. 

6,000.

4,000.

Each number bringing him closer to solid ground—closer to you.

Then another violent gust tore across the runway. A sharp gasp cut through the tower, everyone suddenly stood and looked out the windows as Flight 447 broke through the storm clouds, lurching violently sideways. The plane’s wings tilted at a sickening angle, fighting against the crosswind as it dropped like a stone before catching itself.

Your heart flatlined.

“Maki, can you cover for me?” you asked, voice tight, already moving.

She looked away from the window. “What? Yeah, but—” 

You were gone. Down the tower stairs, past security who barely glanced at your badge, through the restricted access door and straight into the teeth of the storm. Didn’t matter that you were soaking wet or that this was completely against protocol. All you knew was you had to see him.

Rain hit you immediately like ice, instantly soaking through your uniform, but you didn’t slow. Across the runway, Flight 447 was coming in hard. You watched it slam onto the wet asphalt—one heavy bounce, then another, the aircraft struggling to find purchase on the waterlogged asphalt before finally coming to a halt with a loud screech of brakes.

Not a crash. But rough enough to stop your breathing.

You ran faster, shoes splashing through puddles as emergency crews rushed past you toward the plane. The aircraft had stopped crooked on the runway, passenger stairs already being rolled into position as ground crew in bright orange vests hurried around the scene.

 It was stupid, so stupid. You didn’t even know what he looked like. But then—

You saw him. For the first time in your life.

He stepped out of the cockpit door, tall and undeniably handsome even amidst the chaos. His hair was drenched form the rain, plastered back from his forehead, his pilot’s uniform soaked and wrinkled. He was looking around slowly, searching through the crowd with a furrowed brow and eyes the exact impossible blue you’d somehow always known they’d be. And then—

And then his gaze found yours. And everything stopped. No thunder. No wind. No roar of engines or shouts from the crew.

Your eyes met across the storm, and the world fell away. You had never seen this man before, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like remembering. There was no question, no doubt, no moment of uncertainty—you knew it was him the same way you knew your own heartbeat.

The voice you’d fallen for belonged to this man, this beautiful and insufferable pilot who was staring at you like he’d just found something he’d been searching for his entire life. 

And now he’d found you.

You ran toward him through the chaos, feet splashing through more puddles, rain streaming down your face. He moved toward you too, taking the metal steps down from the plane two at a time, his hand sliding along the wet railing. 

You met in the middle of the runway, both out of breath, both drenched to the bone. Rain clung to his white lashes as he stared at you—those impossible blue eyes you’d imagined a hundred times now real, locked on your face like you were the only thing in the world. And yes, they were just as blue as a winter sky. Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful than you’d let yourself believe.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly at a complete loss for words. “Would you like to go out with me?” you finally managed, having to raise your voice over the wind and rain.

Satoru blinked, his hair plastered against his forehead. A slow, handsome smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

And then he was moving, one hand sliding around your waist while the other came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away raindrops—or maybe tears, you couldn’t tell anymore. He pulled you closer, bridging the last inches like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

When he kissed you, it was like coming home after being lost for years. Desperate and tender, months of longing finally given form. His lips were impossibly soft against yours, warm despite the cold rain, and you could taste the storm on his mouth, feel the way his breath caught when you kissed him back.

Rain poured around you as you finally, finally kissed the voice that had become your everything.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring months of missed chances and sleepless nights into the space between your lips. His grip tightened on your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted from the ground and spun once, twice, in the pouring rain like you weighed nothing at all.

Storm clouds churned overhead and emergency crews moved around you, but it felt like you were the only two people in the world—suspended in this perfect moment between earth and sky and the the feeling of finally being found.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

A few weeks later.

“Careful with that,” Satoru warned as you briefly touched a panel of switches, his hand catching your wrist gently. “Unless you want to explain to the airline why we accidentally activated the emergency slides in the hangar.”

You were perched in the captain’s seat of his Boeing 777, legs tucked beneath you as you took in the array of countless instruments, screens, and controls that made up his office thirty thousand feet above the ground. The cockpit was smaller than you’d imagined, more intimate, every surface covered with buttons and displays that somehow made sense to him.

“You actually understand all of this?”

“Each and every switch, gauge, and warning light.” He leaned over you from where he stood beside the captain’s seat, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed to different instruments. “See this? It’s the primary flight display—shows our altitude, airspeed, heading. That’s the navigation display, weather radar here…”

You could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to point out the next display. You loved watching him like this—the way he lit up when talking about his aircraft, completely absorbed in every detail with that endearing kinda nerdy side of his. But being this close to him made it hard to focus on anything he was saying when all you could think about was the way his voice rumbled low near your ear.

“And this,” he continued, reaching around you to tap a small screen, his arm caging you in against the seat, “shows exactly how beautiful my air traffic controller looks in my chair.”

You turned to find his face inches from yours. His sky blue eyes caught the gentle light like glass, impossibly clear, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“That’s not what that screen shows.”

“No? Then why can’t I look away from it?”

“You’re stupid.” But you were smiling, tilting your head back against the headrest to maintain eye contact. “Show me something else.”

“Demanding little controller.” His fingers trailed along the overhead panel, flipping switches as he spoke. “These control cabin pressure, air conditioning, electrical systems…”

You sank deeper into the chair, letting his soothing voice wash over you.

“These are the autopilot controls.” His hand moved again. “This button engages the system—basically tells the plane to fly itself according to the flight plan we’ve programmed.” His finger moved to another switch. “This one controls altitude hold, and this manages our heading.”

“But here’s the most important thing.” Satoru reached toward a small compartment near the instrument panel and pulled out a photo of the two of you from that stormy night—completely drenched, kissing in the rain. It was blurry as hell and underexposed, and absolutely perfect.

“I still can’t believe Hana managed to get this shot,” you said, taking it from him. “She really thought ‘Oh, what a perfect time for a picture’ while there was literally an emergency evacuation going on.”

Satoru laughed. “But aren’t you gald she took it?”

“We look absolutely stupid.” 

Your hair was plastered to your face, his uniform wrinkled and soaked, but you both looked happy. Really happy.

“You look perfect,” he said, leaning closer. “And you were so cute when you had that total meltdown thinking something happened to me.”

“I did not have a meltdown—”

“You ran across an active runway. In a storm.” He traced the edge of the photo with his finger, smiling. “My professional, composed controller lost her cool because she was worried about her pilot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m just saying—” He leaned back against the instrument panel, clearly enjoying this. “For someone who spent months pretending to hate my guts, you certainly changed your mind when you thought I might be hurt.”

“I was worried about you.”

His smile softened. “You didn’t have to.” He paused, then reached out, gently cupping your face. “No matter how rough the storm or the landing, I’m never really lost—not when I know you’re there. You always guide me home safely.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Stupidly in love, yeah,” he murmured—and then he kissed you.

What started soft and slow quickly turned heated. You pulled him closer by his tie, and he braced his hand against the seat beside your head, his tongue sliding against yours as his mouth pressed hungrily to yours.

“Controller,” Satoru said between kisses, his voice already rough. “What exactly are you starting here?”

“I’m not starting anything,” you said, even though your fingers were already working his tie loose.

“Clearly.”

You rose from the chair and tugged gently at his loosened tie and he followed without resistance. With a gentle push to his chest, you guided him down into the captain’s seat. He let himself fall back into it, eyes locked on yours. Without a word, you climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you close as his mouth met yours again like he couldn’t stand another second apart.

“My break’s over in fifteen,” you murmured against his lips. “And the plane’s grounded for another hour. No one should be around.”

He pulled back just enough to give you a look. “Wait… did you check the maintenance schedule before coming here?”

“Maybe.”

“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands gliding up your back. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

“I’m just making efficient use of our time, Captain,” you whispered, rolling your hips slightly and feeling him tense beneath you. “Isn’t that what good air traffic control is about? Proper scheduling and all that?”

His laugh came out breathless, strained. “Pretty sure this isn’t in any manual I’ve read.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to improvise.” You threaded your fingers through his white hair and pulled him closer. “You’re good at handling unexpected situations, aren’t you?”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved as he caught your lips again, urgency building in the small space between your bodies. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your lower back, while the other gripped your thigh possessively.

You started undoing the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, impatience bleeding into every movement. Fabric slipped from his shoulders as you pushed it off. You pressed your hands against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms and traced slowly down over his abs, earning a rough groan of his against your lips.

“Why do I get the feeling this was your plan all along?” 

Satoru tugged at your shirt, easing it off your shoulders as his lips trailed along your collarbone, then down to the strap of your bra, pushing it aside to press kisses to the skin beneath.

“Says the man undressing me in his cockpit,” you managed, though your voice caught when his mouth found your neck and sucked lightly.

“I can’t believe you let me ramble about navigation systems for ten minutes straight when this was your plan.”

“You’re cute when you’re being all professional and nerdy.”

“You’re terrible.” 

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him hard and pressing through his uniform. A soft sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, and his mouth crashed back onto yours, like he was trying to steal every moan before it left your lips.

“Careful. Don’t want us getting caught, right?”

You barely heard him. Your hands dropped to his belt, leather unfastening fast. It didn’t take long to push aside everything that wasn’t necessary. You were both nothing if not efficient, after all. And the last threads of restraint snapped as Satoru’s hands slid up your bare thighs, fingers hooking beneath your underwear and pulling it aside.

His head tipped back against the seat, breath catching as you moved against him. “Fuck,” he whispered, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer as you found your rhythm together. His mouth on yours again, swallowing the soft sounds neither of you could hold back.

Surrounded by the controls and countless displays, the cockpit windows slowly fogging from your heated breathing, you couldn’t help but think about how it all started. This was where it began—thirty thousand feet above the world, suspended between earth and sky in the place where his voice had first found yours. From that very first radio call, from the moment he’d called you beautiful, it had always been leading here. 

As if inevitable.

Now, with your hands mapping his skin and your name falling from his lips in soft moans, it felt like coming full circle. From air traffic control to this. From ‘Flight 447’ to ‘Satoru.’ From guiding him home to finally being home.

And that felt pretty damn good.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

Six months later.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land and take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner tonight,” came the voice you loved through your headset, smooth as always despite the late hour.

You rolled your eyes, though you smiled. “Flight 447, you do realize the entire tower can hear you, right?”

“Even better. Let them all know how lucky I am.”

Around the control tower, your colleagues had long since stopped pretending to be annoyed by Satoru’s radio flirtations. Maki still teased you about how cute you both sounded over the frequency, and even Ijichi had gotten used to the intimate banter without blushing like a teenage boy who’d accidentally walked into a lingerie store.

The gifts never stopped coming. From Vilnius, he’d brought a handwritten pierogi recipe from an elderly woman he’d chatted with during his layover—and it was surprisingly good when he made it for you on the weekend. He did not lie when he told you he’s a good cook. 

From Faro came a hand painted pot for the basil plant you’d surely kill again, but it didn’t matter as he’d secretly replace it in the middle of the night so you’d think you’d finally managed to keep a plant alive and see your happy smile. Seville brought oranges he’d handpicked from the city gardens, and Barcelona brought a gorgeous Picasso art book.

And, of course, every trip came with two postcards. One for you, and one for his sister. You’d started framing the ones meant for her and hanging them throughout his apartment for him.

“You know you don’t have to bring me something from every city,” you’d told him after he’d brought more expensive chocolate from Zurich.

“Let me spoil my girl,” he’d replied simply, watching you take a bite. “Besides, all you see is that boring tower all day. You deserve a little treat.”

The radio banter had only gotten worse—or better, depending on your perspective.

“Tower, Flight 447 requesting vectors to your heart.”

“Flight 447 keep it professional or I’m diverting you to Osaka.”

“Oof. Brutal. But if you send me to Osaka, you’ll never see what I brought you from Rome.”

Your colleagues had started keeping a list of his most ridiculous radio calls. ‘Flight 447 requesting visual on the prettiest controller in the hemisphere’ was Maki’s current favorite, while Ijichi still cringed about the time Satoru had asked for ‘Requesting altitude adjustment because I just fell for you—again.’

Yeah. It was absolutely cheesy.

Moving in together happened gradually, then all at once. Your clothes moved to his closet, your coffee mugs replaced all of his ugly ones in the kitchen, and suddenly your shift schedule was magnetted to his refrigerator beside his flight rotations. One day, you realized you were planning your lives around each other without ever having had the conversation.

“Your apartment’s bigger,” you’d pointed out, when you finally made it official.

“Yours has the better balcony. But mine’s closer to the airport.”

“So, your place then. But I’m bringing my good coffee maker.”

“And won’t let me see that adorable little wince you do at my terrible coffee in the morning? You’re heartless.”

But the real adjustment wasn’t space or schedules. It was learning each other’s bodies with the same intensity you’d spent months learning each other’s voices. After all, with falling in love through radio static, there was a lot of missed physical intimacy to make up for.

Some weekends you didn’t even make it out of your shared apartment, too consumed with discovering each other all over again. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets warm beneath you as he settled over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide where to focus first.

“I used to fantazise about this,” he murmured between kisses.

“About what?”

“This.” His voice dropped lower, lips bruising your throat. “What you’d sound like when you weren’t trying so hard to be professional… imagining the sounds you’re making now, how you’d moan my name with that pretty voice of yours.”

You pulled him closer, lips finding his again, his tongue hot against yours.

 “Yeah?”

He smiled against your mouth. “You have no idea how many nights I imagined the taste of your skin. How many times I lay awake wondering if your thighs would shake when I fucked you hard enough.”

Your breath stuttered, hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only steady thing left. “Good thing we’ve got time now to find out.”

“Yeah. And I plan on making up for all of it,” he whispered—just before his fingers slipped between your thighs, and you forgot how to speak altogether.

And you did make up for lost time. Learning that he was somehow even more affectionate and thorough in person than over the radio. 

In the quiet of your bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the world hushed beyond the walls, you discovered each other slowly.  

How he always shivered when you traced patterns across his abs. How you had a small scar just below your ribcage from a childhood fall that he found with his lips, kissing along your skin until you arched beneath him. How your body tensed and then melted completely when his mouth worked between your legs, drawing sounds from you that made him groan against your skin.

You learned the weight of his arm draped over you, holding you close when he was moving from behind, and how soothing it felt when his fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder until sleep claimed you both. Discovered that lazy morning sex, followed by his surprisingly good scrambled eggs, was the perfect way to start any day.

You spent hours like this, days even, learning the language of each other’s bodies with a thoroughness that left no inch unexplored and no fantasy unfulfilled.

“You know,” he said one evening, pulling you into his lap while you tried to review approach procedures on the couch, “I spent so many nights wondering what it would be like to touch you while you worked.”

“And now?”

“Now I get to find out what happens when I do this—” His lips found that sensitive spot on your neck, making you gasp and completely forget what you’d been reading. “While you’re trying to be all professional.”

“That’s unfair.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

The night everything changed started like any other. Weather delays had backed up traffic for hours, leaving Satoru circling above the Pacific in a holding pattern while you worked through the endless stream of aircraft. It was past midnight, the tower hushed and dim, when you finally switched to private frequency.

“Bored up there, Captain?”

“Never bored when I’m talking to you. Though I was thinking…”

“Dangerous pastime for you.”

“We’re both stuck here for the next few hours. You, managing this beautiful chaos from your tower. Me, alone with the stars at thirty thousand feet.” His voice carried that familiar warmth that always made something flutter in your chest. “Feels like the perfect date to me.”

You ended up talking for three hours, switching between official vectors and private topics, guiding other aircraft while Satoru described the city lights below and the way clouds shimmered like winter frost in the moonlight.

“Strange how this all started, don’t you think?” you mused during a quiet moment. “Two voices falling for each other over radio frequency.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. It’s just… kind of crazy, isn’t it? All of this.”

He was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was different—nervous, almost fragile.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Will you marry me?”

Your heart stopped.

“I know it’s not how this is supposed to go. I know it’s not normal. But then again, nothing about us has been. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, you’re down there keeping the world together, and all I can think about is how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Time stretched thin in the control room as you struggled to process what he’d just asked, your heart thundering so loud you were sure he could hear it through the frequency.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely more than a breath as you leaned forward, elbows braced against the console. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, overwhelmed by the rush of joy and disbelief.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

He let out a heavy breath. “God, I love you. You just made me the happiest man alive. I swear, if I could pull down every star from up here and give them to you, I would.”

You blinked back tears, smiling. “Just come home safe, you idiot.”

“Always,” he said, and his voice had never sounded more sure. “Your voice guides me home, remember? It always has.”

You thought you’d mapped every corner of him after six months of living together—every habit, every sleepy morning routine, every sound he makes when he cums.

But then came the private jet revelation over scrambled eggs on a random Friday morning.

You’d known he came from money—the expensive gifts, the way he never seemed to stress about finances and had this really fancy apartment—but you hadn’t grasped the scale until he casually mentioned his father’s company owned a fleet of corporate aircraft.

“I was thinking we should take some time off and explore the world a little,” he said, like offering to fly you around the world was the same as suggesting takeout for dinner. “We could take one of the jets.”

“Wait wait wait… you have access to a private jet?”

“Technically, I have access to several.”

Your spoon slipped out of your hand and landed in your eggs.

The first time he took you somewhere—a long weekend in Kyoto for cherry blossom season—you finally understood why he’d fallen in love with flying. 

Up there, suspended between heaven and earth, everything felt different. The world spread out below like a map, cities reduced to scattered lights and rivers threading silver through green landscapes. You watched his hands move over the controls, the same hands that traced gentle patterns on your skin at night, now guiding you both through layers of cloud and sky.

“So this is what you see every day?” you asked, staring out at clouds that looked close enough to touch.

“This is what I used to see.” He glanced over at you. “Now I only see you.”

It started with short weekend trips, then longer stays overseas when both your schedules allowed it. He took you everywhere you wanted to go.

Venice, he bought you both gelato and told you stories about the Murano glass blowers. Barcelona, where you got lost in Gaudi’s wild architecture and found tiny tapas bars nestled in medieval alleyways. And Iceland, where the Northern Lights painted the sky green and purple while you kissed in a natural hot spring—finally experiencing all the places he’d described to you over radio waves. But now you experienced them together.

“Your sister would have loved this,” you said Reykjavik, wrapped in his arms under the dancing aurora.

“She would have loved you,” he replied, pulling you closer in the warm water. “She always said the best adventures were the ones you shared with someone who made you feel at home.”

“Remember when you used to tell me about this place?” you asked one evening in Prague, watching him order those cinnamon sugar spirals from the same bakery he’d told you about months ago over the radio.

He handed you the warm pastry with a smile. “I remember wishing you were here when I first tried it. I used to imagine what you’d say about the cobblestones, or if you’d laugh at my terrible pronunciation when I tried to order something local.”

You took a bite, sugar melting on your tongue. “And now?”

“Now I get to see your face when you taste it for the first time.” He pulled you close, the golden hour painting everything warm around you. “Now I get to hold your hand instead of describing how the sunset looks over the Charles Bridge. I don’t have to imagine anymore.”

Each trip revealed new layers of him—and new ways to make up for all those months of being just voices to each other. 

Somewhere over the Atlantic, you learned just how good he was at multitasking—okay, autopilot might have helped—his hands tangled in your hair, mouth on yours, while the stars streaked past the windows. Long afternoons in Parisian hotel rooms, rain drumming against the windows while you learned exactly how sensitive he gets when overstimulated. Sunset on private beaches in Thailand, where he discovered the sweet sounds you make when he uses three fingers instead of two. 

“I used to get hard just from hearing your voice,” he admitted one night in Santorini, pushing in deep while the Aegean sparkled below your terrace.

“Just from my voice?”

“Especially when you’d get that stern controller tone. ‘Flight 447, maintain current heading.’” His breath caught as you clenched around him, fingers finding yours and intertwining where he pressed them into the mattress. “You have no idea what that did to me.”

“Show me what it did to you.”

He did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you understood exactly how much he’d wanted you during all those professional exchanges.

The wedding happened a year later, simple and perfect in a garden overlooking Tokyo Bay. Satoru insisted on writing his own vows, and when the moment came, he pulled out a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a flight plan. 

He promised to pull down the stars for you if you ever wanted them, and you vowed to always be his voice guiding him home.

Years passed like this.

At some point, your story was known by everyone at the airport. Everyone was swooning over the perfect love story of two people who fell in love over their voices alone.

But the best parts were always the quiet moments. Morning coffee in your shared kitchen while he planned routes and you reviewed approach procedures. Afternoons when he’d surprise you at the tower with flowers and terrible jokes that made you ground and your colleagues laugh. Evenings curled up together planning the next adventure, his pilot charts spread across the coffee table next to approach manuals and takeout containers.

“Where to next?”

“Anywhere you want,” was always his answer. “As long as we’re flying together.”

And through it all, some things remained beautifully constant—the flutter in your  stomach when his call sign appeared on your screen, his voice calling from the sky, yours answering from the tower, and the way he still brought you something from every city.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to kiss my beautiful wife once I land. And yes, I know this is a public frequency, and yes—I want everyone to hear it.”

“Flight 447, you’re the worst.”

His laugh crackled through the radio. “I love you,” he said, still completely, hopelessly in love.

And every time he landed, every time you watched his plane touch down safely on the runway, that same warmth bloomed in your chest, just like it had from the very first day. Because no matter how many flights he took, how many cities he visited, how many years passed—he always came back to you.

After all, your voice had been the one calling him home from the very beginning.

The End

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology (if you haven't already) <3

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

thank you for flying with insufferable pilot gojo airlines ! please make sure your heart is in the upright position before disembarking. hope this brought you as much joy to read as it brought me to write hehe. somehow i love this idea so much of pilot gojo being completely smitten over a voice alone :')) <3

and sorry that this got unexpectedly horny at the end, my apologies lol. until next time, this is your author signing off. safe travels !

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga  

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@bloopsstuff @snowsilver2000 @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu  

@90s-belladonna @fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy  

@wiserion @moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss  

@raendarkfaerie @yeiena @rainthensun @yvesdoee @amayaaaxx  

@cristy-101 @bnbaochauuu @markliving @strawberryswtchblaxe @whytfisgojosohot  

@bloodandnix @zanayaswrld @noble-17 @soapyaya @ethereal-moonlit  

@beaniesayshi @etsuniiru @candyluvsboba @iglb12 @doobybopbop  

@kamuihz @katsukiseyebrows @ezrazra @kalulakunundrum @torusbbg  

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

[mymoonisgrey]

black cat! reader and mark grayson have such a fun dynamic. equivelant to a certian web slinger and his love interest. you two are different, at least you think so from what Mark has told you about this hero he's met.

like every black cat, you meet your future little fling by being caught red handed where you don't belong, by Invincible. At a museum at night, after hours and dangling upside down to steal the supposed " Jewel of the Sea'. You look like a delicate thing to mark, pretty and suspended with greedy claws reaching for glistening jewel through the spaces of red lasers. you blend in with pretty art pieces and glistening chandeliers. you should be framed on the wall and admired for all to see.

course, like all black cats, you get hauled to jail that night when invincible breaks his trance of staring long enough to aprehend you far too easily. you give in, give up. you don't like fighting against pretty men or people like him. that boyish grin and dimples that are apparent when you purred against his chest, trapped wrists encircling around his neck while you bat pretty eyes. you try to convince him poorly to let you go, and not give you up. you'd rather spend a night in his bed and arrested by his hands, than by locked up behind bars.

red and blue police lights catch the red of your lipstick on the corner of his lips, the smear of makeup never comes off quite right as much as he rubs at it with his fist. invincible is glowing, a red hue covers his cheeks when you give him a wink behind the glossy cop car window.

a few days later, you'll be out. no bail gives you freedom, but your keen cat like intelligence and your stupid minions that managed to bust you out. it gives you enough time to plot your next encounter with your colorful superhero, and how you can get revenge for him ruining your museum heist.

[mymoonisgrey]

mr. steal your girl

❤︎ ໋𓈒 in which satoru’s plans to steal you away from your girlfriend work, after a while.

warnings. 18+, smut, cunnilingus, p in v, satoru’s a smart manipulator, ooc, reader is bi and had a girlfriend, polygamy. based on this ask.

wc. 4.3k

A throuple. A polyamorous relationship. Not once in your life had you ever imagined yourself in one.

You’ve been with your girlfriend for a while now, and she’s wonderful—steady, kind, patient. You’ll admit that.

But a part of you has always yearned for something else. The kind of love that feels all-consuming. A man’s presence—protective, overwhelming, the low timbre of his voice settling deep in your bones, large, calloused hands engulfing yours, that brand of devotion you only ever see in movies.

Then Gojo Satoru waltzes into your life and tilts your world off its axis.

He’s thrilling, all spark and adrenaline. Just being near him sends a rush through your veins. Those striking blue eyes pull you in, make your head spin before you can even think.

It starts as a friendship.

You meet him at a bar, introduced through a mutual friend—Shoko Ieiri, who, for the record, is the human embodiment of lesbian energy. At first, you hang out in a group, once or twice. Then, somehow, it becomes a daily thing. Eventually, you’re comfortable enough to start meeting up with him alone.

“Trust me, you should really try the taro-flavored one,” he says, sliding the boba ice cream toward you with an easy smile. “I’m a sugar expert. And sugar varies, y’know?”

You hug your torso, lips quirking. “I know it tastes good. My girlfriend likes it.”

Satoru stills. The word hangs between you, and for a fraction of a second, his smile falters—so subtly you almost miss it.

Then, his expression smooths out, his interest sharpening into something even keener.

“Girlfriend?” he repeats, slow, as if tasting the word.

You nod, oblivious to the calculations running through his mind. “Mhm! I’ll bring her next time. You can meet her.”

A million possibilities unfold in his head, different ways this could go, all of them leading to the same outcome. Because he wants you—pronto.

His fingers graze the ends of your hair, his smile going languid, lazy.

“That,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “would be interesting.”

You didn’t think much about that interaction with Satoru at the time.

When you finally brought your girlfriend out to meet your friend, the connection between the three of you was instant—undeniable. Before you knew it, you had become a trio.

Satoru was always around, whether at your place or taking you both out. He spoiled you endlessly, never hesitating to drop money on gifts, meals, or spontaneous trips. He was the perfect masculine presence—charming, dependable, larger than life. Neither of you questioned it. Not at first.

You had no idea there was a motive behind it. Neither did she.

Then, one night, he brought it up.

“You know,” he starts, casual, almost offhanded. “We could just—make this a thing.”

You blink.

“Huh?” you mutter, sitting cross-legged, leaning back on your arms. Beside you, your girlfriend’s brows knit together.

Satoru swallows—an act, you realize later. He stares at both of you with a glassy, hopeful gaze, playing it up just enough to seem sincere but not too eager.

“I like you both,” he says. “So, if you’d like… I mean, I won’t take it personally if you say no—”

“Yes.”

The word leaves your lips before you can think, your back straightening as you nod.

Your girlfriend turns to you, eyes wide. But when you meet her gaze—soft, certain—she understands.

“…Yes,” she echoes.

Satoru smiles, slow and knowing. Then he stands smoothly, gathering you both into his arms—his grip just a little tighter around you.

It was a slow burn—he did think your girlfriend was cute, but you? You were everything. He could already picture it: kids, a settled life with you, lounging together in his clan’s estate. You, as his madam.

But he was patient. He took his sweet time, gradually pulling you further away from her without making it too obvious. It started small—sitting with you more often than she did, attending to every little need you had, hanging on to your every word. Then, the gifts.

“What’s all this?” you laugh softly, staring at the orange boxes with their fancy ribbons, the velvet-lined cases. You’d never been gifted something so luxurious before.

“They’re yours, honey.” He smiles, genuine, his heart pounding beneath his chest. “I picked everything based on… what you like.”

Your heart soars, your lips curling into a smile as you hug him tightly. “I love you. Thank you.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, his eyes fluttering shut in a rare moment of vulnerability. “Mmm, I love you more,” he murmurs, his voice thick with devotion. He feels your eyes drift around, searching for something else.

His brow furrows. “I got her something too, don’t worry. It’s in her bedroom. When she’s back, I’ll give it to her.”

You nod, your smile warm, though your gaze lingers on the gifts in your lap. Part of you wonders—does she get the same? You assume she does. After all, Satoru’s generous.

He is, but only because he knows exactly what he’s doing. The gift for her? A simple diamond tennis necklace—barely a dent in his pocket. Not that it matters. This is all part of the plan.

It’s been going on for months—slowly, almost imperceptibly, Satoru has worked his way into your life, taking more of your attention, making you feel more at home with him than with your girlfriend. At first, it was subtle—the way he’d help you with everything, anticipate your needs before you even voiced them. But now, you’re beginning to notice the gap widening, the emotional distance growing between you and her.

Your girlfriend is becoming… strange.

She picks fights over the smallest things now—dirty dishes left in the sink, the couch cushion being out of place, your clothes tossed on the floor. It’s like every moment is an argument waiting to happen. Her moods shift at the drop of a hat. “I’m not in the mood,” she sighs. “I don’t feel like it today.” Even her complaints about Satoru—small, unimportant things—start to irritate you.

Satoru, on the other hand, never complains. He’s there when you need him, always helpful, always attentive. He’s not the one causing problems, and he never starts a fight. Everything he does seems to smooth over the tension.

But today… Today something shifts. Satoru’s patience snaps.

You’re out running errands, leaving Satoru and your girlfriend alone in the house. When you return, you find Satoru cornering her in the hallway. His face is expressionless, but there’s an undeniable hardness in his eyes.

“Honey,” Satoru says, his voice smooth, but with an edge that cuts through the air. His gaze never wavers from hers. “We need to talk.”

Your girlfriend glares at him, exhausted. “What now?” Her tone is laced with resentment.

“You’ve been really fucking hard on her lately,” Satoru continues, his voice deceptively gentle. He crosses his arms over his chest, his posture almost predatory. “What’s going on with you?”

“Hard on her?” she scoffs, her eyes flashing with anger. “Oh, so now you’re playing the ‘knight in shining armor,’ huh? Tell me, why does everything have to revolve around you two, huh?”

Satoru’s lips curl into a tight, almost amused smile. He leans in, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

She laughs bitterly, shaking her head. “You’re always together. It’s like I’m invisible! It’s like I wasn’t even your girlfriend too— she was my girlfriend first! why are you just… swooping in like im not here?!” Her voice cracks with frustration, but her hands ball into fists at her sides.

Satoru tilts his head, his expression cool and controlled. “You’re being irrational,” he says, his tone deceptively soft. “Maybe if you treated her better, she wouldn’t feel like she has to pull away from you.”

Her eyes widen, disbelief flashing across her face. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Satoru doesn’t flinch. His gaze hardens. “I said maybe you should stop acting like a bitch towards her,” he states with calm finality.

Her face pales, and for a moment, she looks like she might explode. “Excuse me?” she whispers, barely holding back her fury. “You think you can talk to me like that? You think you can just come in here, into our relationship, and tell me how I should act?”

Satoru’s smile remains unchanged. “I’m not telling you what to do, but you’re making things difficult for her. You’re pushing her away, and it’s your fault.”

“You have an ulterior motive, don’t you?” she spits, glaring at him. “You’ve been plotting this from the start. You want her all to yourself.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Is that what you think? Really?” He takes a step closer to her, his presence overwhelming. “You’re the one who’s been making it hard for her, not me. But if you’re too blind to see that, then that’s your problem.”

She shakes her head, muttering under her breath. “I think you’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

Satoru’s smile widens. “Maybe I have.” His eyes flick to the door, a silent invitation for her to leave, to walk away. “But you know what? That’s your choice.” He doesn’t wait for her to respond before he turns, walking away like he’s won.

Your girlfriend stands there, her body trembling with anger and frustration. She breathes heavily, looking at the door, before storming out without another word.

You return home, bags in hand, and freeze at the sight of your girlfriend standing outside. Her expression is clouded, her shoulders hunched, and she looks as though she’s just been torn apart.

“Hey… Are you okay?” you ask softly, approaching her, your voice filled with concern.

Her eyes flash with irritation. “Are you seriously asking me that?” she spits, shaking her head in disbelief. “You really don’t see it, do you? You’ve been so wrapped up in him, in Satoru, that you haven’t even noticed me. I’m right here, but you don’t care. You don’t even fucking care anymore.”

Your heart sinks, confusion and frustration rising. “That’s not true. I’ve been trying—”

“No! Don’t give me that!” she snaps, her voice raw with emotion. “You’ve been all about him. He’s always there, always helping, always doing for you. What about me? What the fuck do I get?”

Your eyes widen as the weight of her words settles in. “That’s not fair. You know how much I care about you.”

“Do I? Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it,” she sneers, taking a step back. “It’s like you’ve forgotten everything. Like I’m just the other option, the one who gets pushed aside because you want him. You think I don’t see that?”

“Don’t talk like that,” you say, your voice wavering, emotions thick in your throat. “I’m not choosing anyone. I never wanted this to happen.”

“No, you didn’t,” she mocks. “But it’s happening anyway. Because you don’t see it. You don’t see me anymore.”

Tears spring to your eyes, but you blink them away, fighting back the lump in your throat. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Well, you are.” Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. “You’ve already hurt me.”

Before you can respond, she spins on her heel and storms away, leaving you standing there, feeling the weight of her words settle heavily on your chest.

Inside, Satoru watches from the window, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he watches the scene unfold.

You rush inside, groceries in your arms, your mind a whirlwind of confusion and emotion. The door slams shut behind you with a soft thud, but the weight in your chest feels heavier than anything you’ve ever carried. You fight to keep the tears at bay, but they burn at the edges of your vision.

Before you even reach the kitchen, Satoru is there—appearing as though he was waiting just for you. His hands are quick, steady, and gentle as he takes the groceries from your hands, setting them down on the foyer table with a careful precision. His eyes meet yours, searching for the storm brewing in them.

You don’t even have a chance to respond before his arms are around you, pulling you into his warmth.

“My heart, come here.” His voice is a soothing whisper, an easy contrast to the fury that still bubbles beneath your skin.

You crumble against him, the dam breaking, and sobs rack your body uncontrollably. It’s as if all the frustration, all the pain, all the love you’ve been withholding explodes at once. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, a steady presence, even as your body trembles with the weight of everything that’s happened.

“She’s being fucking unfair!” you choke out between ragged breaths, the words barely making it past the tightness in your throat.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. His hand brushes through your hair, slow and gentle, as though each stroke is meant to calm the storm inside you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his own breath steady and warm against your skin.

“I know.” His voice is soft, tender in a way that makes your heart twist. “She’s not seeing it, baby. She doesn’t see how much you’re doing, how much you care.” He holds you tighter, his grip firm yet comforting. “But I do.”

You pull back just slightly, enough to look up at him. His eyes are sharp, a mixture of understanding and something darker, something protective. He wipes away the remnants of your tears with his thumb, his gaze never leaving your face.

“She’s pushing me away, Satoru. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to make her understand,” you whisper, voice raw, the weight of it all crashing down on you again.

His smile is small, but it holds a certain promise in it—a promise that makes your chest tighten and your heart race. “Don’t worry about that. Let me handle it.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words get stuck. There’s something in the way he says it, something confident and unwavering. His hand moves down your back, his fingers brushing against your spine in a way that sends a ripple of warmth through your body.

“I’ll fix this, okay?” he murmurs, eyes darkening just slightly. “She’s not going to ruin what we’ve built. Not when we’re this close. You and me… we’re untouchable.”

You want to say something, to question him, but the sincerity in his voice and the way he holds you makes it hard to think of anything but him, anything but this—the safety, the comfort, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, everything could be okay again.

The thought makes you dizzy. And in the quiet of his embrace, you let yourself be swept away by the weight of his devotion.

The three of you sit on the bed, the TV playing in the background, but the quiet tension in the room thickens with every passing second. Satoru’s arm is wrapped around you, pulling you closer, while your girlfriend watches, her hand inching toward his thigh.

Satoru notices first, his eyes flicking to her before he shifts slightly, pulling you into him even more. “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding. His touch is steady, reassuring, as if to say it’s always been you, not her.

Your girlfriend hesitates, her fingers brushing his chest, but Satoru doesn’t react. Instead, his lips find your neck, kissing you softly, purposefully ignoring her advances. Her frustration is palpable, but she pushes forward, her fingers finding their way to his lap. She leans in to kiss him.

Satoru pulls away slightly, the edge in his voice sharp as he grabs her wrist. “Not yet,” he warns, his gaze unwavering. His attention shifts back to you, his lips capturing yours in a possessive kiss. Your hands tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, to drown in him.

Your girlfriend, still sitting beside you, looks lost. She reaches again, trying to touch him, but Satoru doesn’t let her. With one hand still on you, his other gently pushes her back. “I said no,” he repeats, his voice dark with an authority that leaves no room for doubt.

You moan as Satoru’s hand slides between your legs, slipping under your clothes to find you already wet for him. He takes his time, teasing you, while your girlfriend stares, her breath catching in frustration.

The more Satoru touches you, the more your body responds. His fingers slide inside, slow at first, but he picks up the pace, bringing you to the edge. You can barely keep your composure, his lips never leaving your skin, his movements relentless.

And then, without warning, your girlfriend’s gaze shifts—no longer hungry with desire, but with a mixture of confusion and jealousy. Satoru’s full attention is on you, and he isn’t even looking at her. She’s no longer part of this equation.

As Satoru picks up speed, his breath ragged in your ear, you come apart under his touch, body trembling, desperate for more. He pushes deeper, claiming you fully, making it clear that you belong to him.

The room falls silent except for the sound of your breathless moans and Satoru’s steady pace. Your girlfriend sits motionless, helplessly watching as the last pieces of her place in this dynamic crumble.

Satoru wastes no time, maneuvering you onto your back on the bed. His hands are rough, skilled, as he strips you of your clothes with an urgency that matches the fire in his eyes. He kisses his way down your body, his lips burning trails on your skin as he works his way lower, lower, lower.

“Look at these fuckin’ tits,” he growls, his voice low and thick with desire as he takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking greedily. The sensation makes you gasp, your body arching up involuntarily. You can feel his knee pressing against your cunt, the heat of him seeping into you, sending electric shocks of anticipation through your veins.

Your girlfriend, watching from the edge of the bed, stays silent, her eyes narrowed, hands clenched into fists. She’s hot and bothered, her body reacting despite the anger twisting in her chest. She’s fed up with the whole situation—tired of being the afterthought. She hates the way Satoru devours you, but she can’t tear her eyes away.

“Ng—Satoru…” you moan softly, your breath hitching as his mouth works its magic, sucking your nipple until it’s slick and swollen. His lips leave your skin with a soft, wet pop as he shifts his attention lower, his knee pressing harder against you, reminding you of how he owns every inch of your body.

He lifts your legs, spreading them wide as he moves between them, his eyes dark with intent. “Fuck,” you yelp as he finally lowers his mouth to your cunt, his lips and tongue finding your clit with practiced ease. His tongue flicks at your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking it into his mouth as he hums with approval, the vibrations sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

“Pussy’s all mine,” he mutters into your heat, his voice muffled as his tongue works relentlessly. You can barely process the words as your hips begin to squirm under the relentless pressure, his grip locking you in place. Your feet flail, trying to gain some sort of control, but Satoru has you right where he wants you—completely at his mercy.

“Sat—Satoru—” you pant, your body trembling, feeling the tension coil tighter in your stomach. His tongue is relentless, his mouth working you down to the bone, and you’re losing yourself to him.

“Down, kitty,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing despite the intensity of his actions. “Let me eat.” His words send a shiver down your spine, the commanding tone making your heart race even faster.

Your hands dig into the sheets, fingers curling tightly as his mouth continues to devour you. Every flick of his tongue, every gentle suck of his lips, drives you closer to the edge, and all you can do is surrender to the pleasure. His grip on your hips tightens, ensuring you stay locked in place, and you feel your body trembling, the first waves of your orgasm crashing over you.

As you’re lost in the pleasure, you catch a glimpse of your girlfriend—her expression a mixture of frustration and arousal, her eyes dark with something you can’t quite place. The tension in the room shifts, the air thick with everything unspoken. But Satoru’s focus is entirely on you, making it clear who truly holds his attention.

You’re pulled back from the edge, gasping for breath as Satoru pulls away, his lips glistening, his eyes wild with hunger. He looks up at you, his face smug but tender, a twisted combination of possessiveness and affection. “Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

Your girlfriend, still sitting on the edge of the bed, watches, her chest heaving with a mix of frustration and desire. But she says nothing, the distance between the three of you growing ever wider.

Satoru’s movements slow for a moment as he looks down at you, his dark eyes gleaming with possessiveness and hunger. His thumb traces your bottom lip, tugging it gently as a lazy smile spreads across his face.

“You look so fuckin’ beautiful when you’re helpless like this,” he mutters, his voice dark and gravelly. “Can’t get enough of that sweet little pussy of yours.” He groans, his hips rolling slightly, teasing you just enough to make your body twitch. “You’re all mine, baby. No one else gets to feel this.”

You whimper beneath him, your hands fisting the sheets as his words make your core tighten with need. Satoru lowers himself, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks again, his voice dripping with desire.

“Say it,” he commands, his breath hot against your skin. “Say you’re mine. Tell me you love how I fuck you like this.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe out, your voice a mix of desperation and pleasure. “I love it, Satoru—fuck, I love how you make me feel.”

He chuckles low in his throat, a wicked grin curling on his lips. “Good girl,” he purrs. “So fucking perfect for me. No one’s ever gonna make you feel like I do, not even your girlfriend. You’re mine, and you know it, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, feeling him fill you completely. His words sink deep into your mind, pushing you further into the haze of pleasure. “Yes, Satoru… only you…”

“Damn right,” he growls, his thrusts growing faster, more brutal. “I’m the one who makes you come apart, not her. Every single inch of you belongs to me now. You’ll never be able to leave me after this, baby.”

His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging in as he pulls you against him with each powerful thrust. He watches you with rapt attention, his eyes devouring you as you squirm beneath him, your body moving in rhythm with his. He groans, the sound deep and throaty as he leans down to kiss you again, hungry and demanding.

“You wanna come again, huh?” Satoru whispers, his lips brushing against yours. “You can’t get enough of me, can you? I know you’re close… you’re so fucking tight around me. You love how deep I fuck you, don’t you?”

“Y-yes!” you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please, Satoru, I need you… need more.”

His eyes flash with satisfaction. “I’ll give you more, baby. I’ll make you come so hard, you’ll forget your own name.”

He picks up the pace, slamming into you relentlessly, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. “Tell me how badly you want it. Tell me you want me to fuck you raw.”

“I want it so bad,” you moan, your body trembling as you feel your orgasm build. “I want you to make me yours, Satoru. I want everything.”

With that, he groans, his thrusts growing even more intense as he drives into you harder, faster, pushing you into a state of pure bliss. “That’s it, baby,” he growls, “Come for me. Let me feel how fucking tight you are around me.”

The wave of pleasure crashes over you, your body spasming as you scream his name. Satoru follows close behind, his grip on you tightening as he fucks you through your orgasm, his own release flooding you as he grits his teeth in satisfaction.

You feel yourself being gently lifted, your body weightless in his strong, warm arms, and you’re dizzy from the overwhelming sensations of pleasure. Satoru moves you up the bed effortlessly, his chest pressed to yours as he cradles you in his embrace. His lips brush your temple, soft and tender, as he whispers, “Let’s stay like this for a while. I’ll clean you up and feed you in a bit, my love.”

You nod, feeling a wave of contentment wash over you, your body still humming from the intensity of everything. The soft comfort of his touch is like a balm for your overstimulated body, and you lean into him, closing your eyes for a brief moment.

But then, your gaze shifts, and you look around the room, your mind catching up with the reality of the situation.

“Where’s—”

“Gone.” Satoru whispers, his voice low and soothing as his lips press against your neck. His arms tighten around you, drawing you closer. You can feel his steady breath against your skin, and for a moment, everything feels impossibly right.

Your heart flutters in your chest, and you hug him tighter, the full weight of his words sinking in. Gone. It’s just you and him now.

“Finally,” he breathes, his voice soft but full of satisfaction.

for the anon that requested this, i hope its up to your liking and expectations. :) tried my best. pls let me know what you think through the inbox 🤍

© All Rights Reserved mymoonisgrey

[mymoonisgrey]

Ok since you’re accepting requests, i saw this ask somewhere and it’s kinda a crazy and interesting idea. Reader is bi and has a girlfriend then Satoru suddenly comes into yours and your girlfriend’s lives and suggested getting into a polygamous relationship. You became a throuple but eventually you started to notice that whenever Satoru plans a date it’s always only the two of you and everytime he makes excuses about why your girlfriend can’t come. When you three eventually hangout together he’s focused only on you and he even forgets that your girlfriend is there. Also during sex he gets irritated when your girlfriend tries to touch him or you so your girlfriend eventually just watches the two of you have a go at it while she’s left touching herself. Eventually you found out that becoming a throuple is his plan of being Mr. Steal Your Girl and stealing you from your girlfriend.

i fucking love this, give me an hour, two hours tops.

[mymoonisgrey]

hi lovies, accepting requests or asks. dont be shy, im bored☺️

[mymoonisgrey]

B2B

❤︎ ໋𓈒 back to back, love to hate, hate to love— your relationship with gojo satoru was a mess, but, you can’t really leave, can you?

warnings. 18+, smut, satoru is a munch, yearning, brief cameo of yandere!satoru, breeding kink if you squint, borderline obsession and possessiveness, toxicity, masturbation (m)

wc. 7,43k

You were reminiscing on decisions you made in high-school that got you to this point.

You were never the type to generally date. It wasn’t your thing, never was—you once said your perdition would come as a man trying to ruin your life, or ruin you generally, body and soul.

However, the 19-year-old theory hit you hard, because Gojo Satoru weaved himself into your life like a cobweb you can't seem to dust. You didn’t give in so easily, no. You took your sweet time to finally get in the scene, without ever seeking advice from friends because somehow situationships always disappear when you tell a friend about them.

But Gojo? He was persistent. He had his hands in your pockets before you even realized he was slipping his fingers between yours. His charm was something built into his DNA, impossible to resist, even when you swore you would. He knew how to make you laugh when you were furious, knew how to touch you like he was mapping out constellations on your skin. And maybe that’s why, even when it hurt, even when you knew better, you always came back.

The fights were cinematic—shouting matches in rain-soaked streets, doors slamming, voices breaking on words too sharp to take back. But the reunions? They were something biblical. You’d fold into him like he was home, let him press his apologies into your skin, your lips, your throat. And just like that, you’d start again. Back-to-back, love to hate, hate to love. A cycle neither of you wanted to break.

Because both of you had flaws neither of you could fix, but only learn to love. There’s constantly something to worry about—whether it was Utahime’s closeness to him and how it managed to get on every nerve of yours—or how men swarmed around you like ants on glucose, it was fucked up. He once had to verbally warn his ex-best friend to leave you alone.

❤︎ ໋𓈒

OCTOBER

You walk in with a sense of dread—you ‘broke’ up with Gojo two months ago, and it has been like... the longest you two have been separated since high school. Jujutsu Tech was lively and it made you nostalgic for the days you ran around as a student rather than a sorceress-to-be, life was much easier back then anyway, wasn’t it?

You know you’ll see him as usual, he runs this place, walks like he owns it because hell—if someone had the power he did, they’d be a lot cockier and haughty than he is. Satoru is considered humble compared to the rest of the power-hungry geezers you put your neck out there for.

The memories flood in before you can stop them. The late-night missions where exhaustion blurred the lines between camaraderie and something deeper. The way he’d lean into you, mask slipping—only for a second—before the world called him back. The stolen moments in between duty and destiny, the whispered confessions between bruises and battle scars. You remember the way he looked at you then, like you were something sacred, something he wasn’t quite allowed to have but couldn’t help but claim anyway.

And then, the downfall. The slow unraveling, the fights that started small but snowballed into something monstrous. The jealousy, the frustration, the push and pull of two people who loved too hard and hurt even harder. You remember walking away that night, the weight of his gaze heavy on your back, the ache in your chest that felt like a wound that would never close.

You shake the thought away, forcing yourself back into the present. You weren’t here for him, not really. You had a job to do. And yet, as you step further into the familiar halls, you can’t help but feel it—the pull, the inevitability of it all. Because no matter how far you run, how long you stay away, it always leads back to him.

Back-to-back. Love to hate. Hate to love.

Your line of sight drifts to the bright green fields stretching out, where a couple of students train one-on-one—blades clashing, curses forming, sweat glistening under the afternoon sun. Your gaze flickers, unintentional, to those three students: pink hair, black hair, and brown hair with a voice loud enough to carry over the clash of sparring.

Then, your eyes find him.

That white, silvery hair you know the soft texture of like your own name. He’s dressed simply—a white tee, his usual slacks, hands tucked into his pockets. A pair of God-knows-how-expensive sunglasses shields his eyes, but you know what’s behind them. That easy smile graces his lips, effortlessly relaxed as he watches his students, his posture all confidence, all control.

Your stomach churns with something familiar, a tangled mess of longing, resentment, and something you won’t dare name. And then—your heart plummets, crashing straight to the pit of your stomach when his head snaps with surgical precision, turning directly toward you. Of course, he felt it. He always does.

His gaze pins you in place, a tether snapping taut between you, even from across the field. There’s no mistaking it, the way recognition flickers behind those ridiculous shades.

You almost want to disappear, but it’s too late. How the hell—scratch that. Of course, he’d know. Him and those freak-show eyes you love so fucking much.

Your face remains neutral, betraying none of the storm beneath, despite the way your fingers dig into your palms, nails carving crescents into your skin. He doesn’t look away. Instead, he smiles, slow and easy, like he has all the time in the world. His eyes flicker downward, just for a second, shameless and languid, before locking with yours again. And in that moment, through the tinted lenses, you catch it—a glimmer of iridescent blue, a ghost of something unspoken.

His lips part, and you swear you see the tip of his tongue dart out to wet them. His head tilts, the corner of his mouth quirking like he’s thinking something inappropriate—no, scratch that, he definitely is.

Then he raises a hand in a lazy wave, and you can hear it in your head before he even says it. Miss me, baby?

God, you hate him. And even worse? He knows you don’t.

You spare him a nod, offering a brief, almost nonexistent smile, before turning away and heading toward the administration building.

Your pulse is erratic, but you keep your steps measured. Controlled. Like he didn’t just unravel something inside you with a single look.

This is why you never did love—because how the hell are you supposed to just... forget someone and move on? Like flipping a switch? Like love is something that fades if you just give it enough time? That wasn’t you. You weren’t built for that kind of indifference.

And as for him...

You don’t know.

You tell yourself you don’t care. That his life—his thoughts, his wants—are no longer yours to consider. But there’s an itch in the back of your mind, a whisper of doubt crawling up your spine.

Would he ever get over you?

Would he even try?

❤︎ ໋𓈒

Gojo had never moved toward his office as quickly as he did now, his long strides purposeful, nearly frantic, his heart hammering in his chest. Seeing you—hell, even just feeling your presence—had turned his entire world on its axis, and no amount of cocky bravado could hide it. Who the fuck was he kidding? He needed you back. Pronto.

The moment he shut the door behind him, his back hit the wood with a heavy thud, his head tilting upward as he stared at the ceiling. His breath was uneven, hands twitching at his sides.

And then there was the other problem.

The one currently straining against the fabric of his pants.

"Fuck," he muttered, his brows knitting together as the ache in his chest twisted into something darker, heavier. His body felt like it was fighting itself, caught in the crossfire between want and restraint.

He had no idea what the hell he was even horny for—you hadn’t been wearing anything particularly revealing, hadn’t even done anything except stand there looking at him like a deer caught in headlights. And yet, his entire body reacted like it had been starved for you. Because it had.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before unbuckling his belt, frustration coiling hot and tight in his stomach. He palmed himself through his slacks first, the friction barely enough to ease the throbbing pulse of his cock, already leaking against the fabric.

His sunglasses were thrown somewhere across the room as he pulled himself free, hissing at the rush of cool air against burning-hot skin. His cock was hard, thick, an angry red at the tip, drooling precum like it was begging for relief.

The only cure was you.

He spat into his palm, a filthy, wet sound breaking the silence, and wrapped his fingers around himself, squeezing at the base before giving a slow, torturous stroke upward. "Shit," he groaned, his voice husky, dripping with need. His shirt bunched between his teeth as his free hand gripped his desk, knuckles going white.

His pace picked up, faster, rougher, as images of you flooded his mind. You, with your legs spread wide for him, your lips swollen from his kisses, your body arching, gasping his name like a prayer.

"Fuck, baby..." he panted, hips jerking into his fist, his strokes messy, erratic. "Miss this fuckin' pussy... goddamn, you made for me. Shit—gonna fuckin'—"

The orgasm ripped through him, his whole body shuddering as thick ropes of cum spilled over his fingers, his stomach, his mind blanking out in white-hot pleasure. His breath was ragged, uneven, body twitching as the aftershocks coursed through him.

And then...

The silence hit. Hard.

Post-nut clarity slammed into him like a freight train.

What the fuck was he doing?

This wasn’t enough. Not even close.

He needed you. Bad. Toxicity be damned.

Because no matter how fucked up the cycle was, no matter how many times you tore each other apart, he knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t letting you go. Not again.

❤︎ ໋𓈒

The only time Yaga ever felt generous enough to take his hardworking sorcerers out to dinner—some looked forward to it, others did not. It was just simple barbecue, nothing extravagant, but the company always managed to make it lively—especially Shoko, who was an absolute menace when she got drunk.

The air was thick with the smell of sizzling meat, sweet and smoky, mingling with the distant scent of cigarette smoke. The usual bustling sounds of downtown Tokyo surrounded you—laughter spilling from izakayas, the occasional honk of a car, the chatter of normies oblivious to the weight the people at this particular table carried.

Nanami, naturally, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, his displeased grunts audible every time someone—usually Gojo—spoke too loudly. His arms were crossed, his beer barely touched, his patience thinning with every passing second.

Shoko was already a drink in, lazily leaning against the table with a lopsided smirk. Her brown eyes were hazy under the dim lighting, and the way she swirled the ice in her glass told everyone she was only just getting started.

You sat beside her, one hand propping up your cheek, the other absentmindedly pushing around the meat sizzling on the grill in front of you. There was something about the atmosphere tonight—lively, warm, yet… off. Maybe it was the way you felt his eyes on you, heavy and unrelenting, even as he pretended to be fully engrossed in whatever ridiculous conversation he was having with Nanami.

Or maybe it was the way your stomach twisted, knowing he wasn’t just looking.

He was remembering.

His posture was lazy, his usual grin in place, but his fingers drummed against the table with slow, rhythmic taps. You knew him too well—his restless energy, his smug amusement—but this? This was different. His legs were spread wide, arms slung over the back of his seat, and beneath the cover of his dark lenses, his gaze flickered, tracing the curve of your cheek, your lips, your throat.

He looked calm. Completely at ease.

And yet, beneath the table, his fingers curled slightly, the ghost of a grip.

Fuck.

The thought hit him like a truck.

He hadn’t been able to get you out of his head since this afternoon. Since the moment he saw you standing in front of Jujutsu Tech, looking like something he wasn’t sure he deserved but wanted anyway. The way you had looked at him—stiff, hesitant, like you were trying so hard to act unbothered—had sent a wildfire through his veins.

He had barely made it to his office before undoing his belt, his mind already painting too-clear images of you, the way your lips parted, the way your legs felt wrapped around his waist. He had gritted his teeth, hissing your name under his breath, fisting his cock like a starved man—fast, desperate, chasing something that didn’t exist outside his head.

And now, here you were. Sitting just a few feet away, oblivious—or maybe not—to the fact that earlier today, he had been thinking about nothing but you while spilling all over his own hand.

His jaw flexed.

You shifted slightly in your seat, rolling your shoulders as if shaking off the weight of his gaze. The movement made the hem of your top ride up just the tiniest bit, exposing a sliver of skin, and Gojo—despite his reputation, despite his control—felt something snap inside him.

His fingers stopped drumming.

The air between you grew thick, unbearably so, like a taut rope ready to snap.

You still didn’t look at him.

And he didn’t look away.

This was bad.

He needed you back.

Toxic or not.

The weight of his gaze was suffocating. It pressed against your skin, coiled around your throat, settled in the pit of your stomach like something dangerous. You swallowed against it, forcing yourself to stay still, to not react—but your fingers twitched, and your heart pounded, and you knew if you sat there a second longer, your composure would snap.

You leaned toward Shoko, murmuring a quick excuse before pushing back your chair, slipping away before your legs could betray just how unsteady you felt. You barely registered the bustle of the restaurant, the warmth of the air thick with the scent of grilled meat and soju. All you could focus on was the pounding in your chest, the way the tension clung to you like a second skin.

The bathroom door shut behind you with a quiet click. You exhaled sharply, pressing your back against it, your pulse loud in your ears.

What the fuck was this?

Two months. Two fucking months. You should’ve been over it by now. Should’ve built an iron wall around your heart, should’ve let time do its thing and dull the edges of what you felt for him.

And yet, it took nothing. Just a look. Just the ghost of a smirk. Just the knowledge that, beneath that cocky mask, there was something else—something darker, something desperate.

A muscle in your jaw ticked. You refused to be the one to break.

But you should’ve known better than to assume Gojo Satoru would let you leave first.

Out at the table, he was still staring at the closed door.

He knew you weren’t running from the conversation at the table. He knew you weren’t going to throw up from too much soju. He knew exactly why you left. And fuck, if that didn’t send a sick thrill down his spine.

With an exaggerated sigh, he pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen blank—but that didn’t matter. His movements were smooth, calculated. He glanced up, feigning distraction, catching Shoko’s gaze. She squinted at him, trying to focus through her haze of alcohol, but before she could voice the question forming in her mind, he was already standing.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, he stepped away from the table, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost.

Shoko blinked slowly, then exhaled, swirling the ice in her drink.

“…This is gonna be a mess,” she mumbled to herself.

❤︎ ໋𓈒

The bathroom door slammed open so hard it rattled against the hinges.

Your breath caught.

Satoru stood in the doorway, tall, imposing, his presence swallowing the small space whole. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing you both in, the air turning suffocating in an instant.

You straightened, fingers twitching at your sides, but you didn’t move back. You held your ground, even as your pulse roared, even as something electric crawled down your spine.

His hands were still in his pockets, his stance deceptively casual, but you weren’t fooled. His broad chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths, his jaw tense. Those sunglasses of his—arrogant, infuriating—were gone, stuffed somewhere in his pocket, and that meant his eyes were on you.

Unfiltered. Unhidden.

And you felt them.

The weight of them. The hunger in them. The sharp edge of something between obsession and anger.

Seconds passed.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched, taut and fragile, like something was about to snap.

And then, finally—

“…Why are you here?” Your voice was steady, but there was venom beneath it.

His lips curled, slow, deliberate. His head tilted just slightly, like he was amused, like he wasn’t the one who had cornered you in a fucking bathroom like a desperate man.

“You tell me,” he said smoothly. “You ran first.”

Your fingers twitched. “And you followed.”

His eyes dragged over your face, slow, taking his time, like he was savoring something.

“You left me with a problem,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped, but you didn’t let it show. “Not my issue.”

Gojo clicked his tongue, taking a single step closer. Just one. Just enough to make the space between you feel nonexistent.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he mused, voice dipping lower, dangerous now. “You’ve always been my issue. Even when you don’t wanna be.”

His scent curled around you—clean, sharp, tinged with the faintest trace of the cologne you still remembered, the one you once pressed your face into his neck to breathe in.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs.

This was dangerous.

You knew it.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop him.

He leaned in, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmured, voice dripping with something dark. “You have any idea what you did to me earlier?”

Your breath hitched.

Shit.

You knew exactly what he meant.

But you refused to acknowledge it.

Instead, you exhaled sharply, planting a firm hand against his chest, shoving him back—just enough to put space between you. Just enough to make it clear you weren’t playing his game.

“Don’t start,” you bit out, your voice cutting, but the effect was ruined by the way your breath was still uneven.

Satoru barely moved, barely reacted. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched, like he found it cute.

That pissed you off more than it should have.

“Start what?” he asked lazily, tilting his head. “You’re the one running, sweetheart. And for what? You really think you’re over me?”

Your jaw clenched. “I don’t think—I know.”

He snorted. “Sure. That’s why you’re shaking right now, right?”

Your nostrils flared. “Fuck off, Satoru.”

“Or what?” His voice dropped, teasing but sharp. “You’ll run again? You’ll pretend like none of this ever happened?”

You hated how easily he got under your skin. Hated how he knew exactly where to poke, exactly which wounds to press his fingers into.

“I don’t have to pretend,” you shot back. “It already ended. Two months ago.”

His expression darkened, his smile slipping just slightly. “Yeah? And you’ve been real happy since then, huh?”

You crossed your arms, refusing to let him see how your fingers trembled slightly where they dug into your skin.

“Actually?” You forced a smirk. “I’ve never been better.”

It was a lie, and you both knew it.

And for the first time tonight, something flickered in Gojo’s expression.

Something ugly.

Something that twisted and burned behind his eyes.

His lips curled���not in amusement, but in something bitter, something close to anger.

“You really wanna play that game?” he murmured, stepping forward. “Fine. Let’s play.”

He reached up, his fingers gripping your chin—not harshly, but firm, tilting your face up to his.

“Tell me,” he continued, his voice lower now, something dangerous coiled beneath it. “When you’re lying in bed at night, when it’s quiet, when there’s no one else around—do you still touch yourself thinking about me?”

Your stomach clenched, heat flashing through your veins, but you didn’t let it show. Didn’t let him see how that single sentence knocked the breath out of your lungs.

You scoffed instead, eyes narrowing. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

Gojo grinned. “Yeah? But you like it.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why aren’t you stopping me?”

Your mouth opened—but no words came out.

And Satoru saw it.

His grip on your chin tightened, just barely, his thumb brushing over the corner of your lip, his eyes dipping down—watching, waiting.

You hated him.

Hated how easily he broke past your walls.

Hated how, even now, even after everything, your body still reacted to him like this.

Hated how much you fucking wanted him.

And he knew.

Of course he knew.

A slow exhale left him, his breath fanning over your lips, and you felt it—the shift in the air, the way the tension between you snapped from hostility to something darker, something that burned.

“I jacked off to you today,” he murmured, his tone almost conversational, but there was a roughness to it. A rawness. “Couldn’t even fucking help it.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I was pissed, you know?” His thumb dragged down, tracing the curve of your jaw. “Seeing you. Watching you act like I don’t fucking exist. Like you weren’t mine.”

“I’m not yours,” you bit out.

Satoru smiled.

And then he laughed.

Low. Mocking.

Like you just said the funniest shit in the world.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, and your breath caught at the way his voice dipped into something dark, something possessive. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your fingers twitched.

And then you did what your body screamed at you to do.

You grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth clashing, hands grasping, months of tension snapping like a rubber band pulled too tight. It was resentment, and love, and lust, and every unsaid word swallowed into the heat of the moment.

Satoru groaned against your mouth, his hands snapping to your hips, yanking you flush against him.

And fuck—he was already hard.

You felt it, pressing against you, his body burning hot, his grip rough as he spun you, backing you against the sink.

“You always do this,” you panted against his lips. “You always—”

“Always what?” he murmured, dragging his teeth along your jaw, his hands slipping under your shirt, burning against your skin. “Make you want me?”

You shuddered, fingers tangling into his hair, tugging harshly—and he groaned, low and wrecked.

“You fucking love it,” he said against your throat.

You hated that he was right.

But you weren’t about to let him win that easily.

Your hand slid down, palming him through his slacks, and his breath hitched, his hips jerking into your touch.

“Fuck,” he bit out.

You smirked. “What was that?”

His grip on you tightened, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You’re gonna pay for that.”

And then he was yanking your head back, capturing your lips in another kiss, and you knew—this wasn’t ending anytime soon.

Your fingers curled tighter into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, and the sharp hiss that left his lips sent heat flashing straight down your spine.

But just as fast as it started, you wrenched yourself back.

Breathless.

Satoru’s grip on your waist tightened for a fraction of a second—like he didn’t want to let go. Like he physically couldn’t. But you pushed against his chest, and he let you slip through his fingers, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as you put space between you.

A smirk curled your lips as you leaned back against the sink, crossing your arms. “What happened to all that confidence, Satoru?”

His chest rose and fell with each breath, his jaw ticking.

“Don’t fucking start,” he muttered.

“Or what?” You tilted your head, faux innocence dripping from your tone. “You’ll break?”

The muscle in his jaw clenched harder. His hands twitched. His eyes—fuck, those fucking eyes—burned into yours with something wild, something unrestrained.

And then, just when you thought he was going to snap—he laughed.

Not his usual laugh. Not the carefree, cocky one he tossed around like spare change.

This was different.

Low. Dark. Wrecked.

Like he already knew he was losing.

Satoru took a slow step forward, closing the distance you put between you, his fingers dragging along the edge of the sink counter, his gaze never leaving yours.

“You wanna play, baby?” His voice was soft. Dangerous. “Fine. Let’s play.”

You didn’t move when he caged you in, his hands bracketing your hips, his breath fanning against your cheek.

“But we both know how this ends,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Enlighten me.”

His lips brushed against your jaw—so close, but not touching. Just there. Just teasing.

“It ends with you on your knees,” he said, voice thick with something sinful. “Or maybe I’ll be on mine. You know I never minded.”

Heat pooled in your stomach, but you didn’t let it show.

Instead, you let your lips curl into a slow, deliberate smirk. “I think you need me more than I need you.”

That got him.

His nostrils flared. His fingers flexed against the counter. His whole body tensed like a live wire about to snap.

And you had him.

For a split second, he looked like he was going to crack, to give in—

But then—

He stepped back.

The loss of his warmth, the absence of his presence, sent something hollow through your chest.

Satoru exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, his head tilting back toward the ceiling. “You drive me fucking insane,” he muttered.

And then he looked at you—really looked at you.

Like you were something unattainable. Like he could reach for you, but you’d slip through his fingers.

Like he was already mourning the loss of you, even though you were right there.

Something inside you clenched.

Because Satoru never looked at you like that.

Not like he was breaking.

Not like he was crumbling under the weight of you.

And that—that scared you more than anything.

You turned, grabbing the door handle.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was sharp.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

And that second was all he needed.

In one swift movement, he was there again—right behind you, his chest pressing flush against your back, his fingers gripping your hips with bruising force.

“Go ahead,” he murmured into your ear. “Walk out that door.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against the handle.

His hands slid down, slow, deliberate, fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs.

“But we both know you won’t.”

Your breath hitched when he rocked against you, his erection pressing firm against the curve of your ass.

Your fingers clenched around the handle.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “I’m going insane.”

You closed your eyes. “Then let me go.”

His laugh was soft. Bitter.

“Never,” he whispered.

And then his fingers dug in, and he spun you—slamming you back against the door.

His hands were everywhere, mapping out the body he had memorized, relearning every curve and dip like he was starving.

“You think I don’t miss you?” he rasped.

Your heart pounded.

He kissed you before you could answer.

Desperate.

Teeth and tongue and months of loneliness crashing into you all at once.

His hands slid under your thighs, hoisting you up, pinning you between him and the door.

“I can still taste you,” he murmured against your lips.

Your breath stuttered.

His grip on you was bruising, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking, biting, marking.

“You think you can just leave me?” His voice was rough. “Think you can just walk away?”

Your head tilted back, breathless, overwhelmed.

“You’re mine,” he muttered against your skin, his hands slipping under your shirt, fingers tracing the edge of your waistband.

You gasped when his hand dipped lower.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t. You never could.

Because even now, even after everything— You still wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, yanking them down with a sharp tug, and your breath hitched as the cool air kissed your heated skin.

“Satoru—”

“Shh,” he hushed, lips dragging along the column of your throat. “S’okay, jus’ me, baby.”

His voice was low, raspy, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest as he palmed between your legs, fingers running over the damp fabric of your panties.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned. “What, you missed me that much?”

You bit your lip, refusing to answer.

He didn’t like that.

Without warning, he pressed the heel of his palm against your clit, and your hips jerked involuntarily.

“There’s my answer,” he murmured, lips ghosting against your ear.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he pushed your panties aside, two fingers sliding through your slick folds, teasing.

“Y’know,” he mused, voice like velvet, “I thought jerking off earlier would take the edge off. But look at me.”

You felt him grind against your thigh, the thick outline of his cock straining against his slacks, hot and heavy.

“Didn’t work,” he continued, dragging his fingers through your slickness, circling your clit with lazy, taunting strokes. “Still fuckin’ starving for you.”

Your breath hitched when he pushed a finger inside, slow, teasing, curling it just enough to make you gasp.

“Missed this pretty pussy,” he murmured, adding another finger, stretching you out. “my pretty pussy.”

Your head tilted back against the door, a sharp moan slipping from your lips.

His pace quickened, fingers thrusting in and out, his thumb rubbing circles against your clit, every motion calculated, precise, like he was pulling you apart piece by piece. “Feel good, baby?”

You nodded frantically, hips bucking into his hand.

“voice, honey, use it.”

“Y-yeah,” you choked out. “Feels so fucking good.”

A wicked smile tugged at his lips.

“Good,” he murmured, his fingers suddenly disappearing—making you whine at the loss—before he spun you around, pressing your chest against the door. “Hands up,” he ordered.

You obeyed instantly, pressing your palms against the doorframe, your breath coming in quick, shallow pants. The anticipation burned through you, every nerve in your body attuned to him.

A loud thud echoed behind you, and when you glanced over your shoulder, you found Satoru on his knees, his striking blue eyes locked onto you with a dark, ravenous hunger. His fingers hooked into the band of your flimsy panties, tugging them aside with ease before his nose brushed against the sensitive heat of your core.

“Ah, fuck,” he exhaled, his voice thick with desire. “Yum.”

The warmth of his breath sent a shiver coursing through you, and then—oh god—his lips parted, his tongue swiping through your folds in a slow, deliberate stroke that made your knees tremble. A deep groan rumbled from his chest as he pulled you closer, his grip firm on your thighs.

“You smell so good,” he muttered against your slick skin, his words vibrating against your core. “Fuck—been thinking about this for the past two months— why’re you depriving me of this, wifey?”

Your face twists from anticipation, and moreover, irritation at how he seemed to always think he owned you. news flash, he does.

“you’re acting like—“ you gasp out breathlessly before—His mouth latched onto you, devouring like a man starved. The wet heat of his tongue worked expertly, tracing and teasing, alternating between languid strokes and eager, desperate sucks. Every movement sent shocks of pleasure crackling up your spine, your fingers clenching uselessly against the doorframe as your body melted into his touch.

“Satoru—” you gasped, hips jerking instinctively toward his mouth, craving more. He chuckled against you, the vibration making you whimper.

“So needy,” he murmured, his tongue flicking wickedly before he sucked your clit into his mouth. His grip on your thighs tightened as he buried himself deeper, his own groans mingling with the wet, obscene sounds filling the room.

Your legs shook, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach. He could feel it—he always knew. With one hand, he slipped two fingers inside you with ease, curling them just right, pressing into that spot that had you biting down on your lip to keep from crying out.

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed, voice thick with arrogance and lust. “Let me hear you.”

Your hands trembled against the doorframe, fingers pressing uselessly into the wood as a whimper slipped from your lips. Satoru’s pace was relentless—his tongue dragging through your folds, his fingers curling inside you with devastating precision. The tension in your stomach coiled tighter, heat pooling low as he worked you over like he had all the time in the world.

“Look at you,” he murmured between strokes of his tongue. “Dripping all over me—fuck.”

You gasped as he pressed his palm flat against your lower stomach, holding you in place while he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking against the swollen nub. The pleasure hit you like a wave, rolling through you in sharp, dizzying bursts.

“Satoru—I’m—”

“I know, baby,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Go ahead. Come for me.”

And you did.

Your body seized, pleasure snapping through your core as your orgasm crashed over you, hard and unrelenting. Your knees buckled, and Satoru caught you effortlessly, keeping you steady as you trembled beneath his touch. He groaned as he licked you through it, his fingers stroking you lazily, coaxing out every last aftershock.

When you finally slumped against the doorframe, boneless and breathless, he pulled back, licking his lips like he was savoring the taste of you. His eyes, darkened with lust, raked over your trembling form.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, rising to his feet. He cupped your face, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “You good?”

You nodded weakly, still floating in the haze of pleasure.

His lips curled into a smirk. “Think you can take more?”

Before you could answer, his hands were on your waist, spinning you around to face him. He kissed you—deep, filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hands wandered, fingers tracing the curve of your ass before giving it a firm squeeze and letting out a loooowww whistle.

The moment your silence stretched too long, Satoru knew he had you.

A slow, cocky smirk curled on his lips as he rolled his hips forward, pressing his hardness against your core, just to hear the way your breath caught in your throat.

"That's what I thought," he murmured, voice low, rough—wrecked.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter as he lifted you, pinning you between the door and his body, the heat of him searing straight through your clothes. You barely had a moment to gasp before his lips crashed against yours, desperate and bruising.

It was messy. Uncoordinated. More need than finesse.

Teeth clashed. Tongues tangled.

You wanted to hate him for how easily he unraveled you, how quickly he made you forget why you were supposed to be angry, but the way he groaned into your mouth, like he was starving for you, made it impossible.

"Fuck," he muttered, breaking away just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide. "I've been thinking about this all day."

His fingers found the waistband of your pants, yanking them down in a single, impatient motion, his breath hitching at the sight of your bare skin.

"God, baby," he groaned, voice shaking. "You have no fucking idea."

You swallowed hard, gripping at his shirt as he reached down, palming himself through his slacks. The outline of his cock was thick and heavy, and when he popped open the button and shoved his pants down, your mouth watered at the sight of it—hard, flushed red at the tip, pre-cum already leaking.

He gave himself a few strokes, his eyes locked onto your soaked cunt, before he pressed the blunt tip against your entrance.

"You’re already dripping," he murmured, smug. "Missed me that much, huh?"

You wanted to argue, to shove him back and wipe that cocky smirk off his face, but the second he pushed in, stretching you open inch by inch, your brain short-circuited.

"Shit," you gasped, head tipping back against the door.

Satoru grunted, his hands gripping your hips, keeping you in place as he bottomed out, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.

"Tight as ever," he hissed. "Like this pussy was fucking made for me."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, your walls clenching around him as he gave a sharp thrust.

"Shit—" His head dropped to your shoulder, his breath ragged. "You’re gonna kill me."

And then he started moving.

There was no build-up, no easing into it—just raw, desperate thrusts, his hips snapping against yours, his cock driving into you so deep it had you seeing stars.

Your moans filled the small bathroom, drowned out only by the muffled sounds of the restaurant beyond the door. The thrill of it—the risk, the absolute filth of being fucked up against a public bathroom door—only made it worse.

Satoru must have felt the same, because his grip on you turned bruising, his pace brutal.

"This what you wanted, huh?" he growled, lips brushing against your ear. "Wanted me to ruin you like this?"

You could only whimper in response, your legs tightening around his waist.

"You love it," he groaned. "Love letting me fuck you like this, even when you hate me."

His teeth found your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark before soothing it with his tongue.

"Fuck, baby," he panted, "I should keep you like this forever. Stuck on my cock, whining like a bitch in heat."

The filthiness of it sent heat rushing straight to your core, your walls fluttering around him, making him curse under his breath.

"That's it," he muttered. "Come on, baby, give it to me."

His thumb found your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and your body jerked at the sensation.

"Fuck—Satoru—"

"I know, baby," he gritted out. "Come for me. Come on my fucking cock."

The coil in your stomach snapped, and you came with a sharp cry, your walls clenching down so hard on him he nearly collapsed against you.

"Shit, shit, shit—"

His thrusts turned erratic, sloppy, his breath ragged against your skin as he chased his own release.

"Fuck, I'm gonna—"

And then, with one last thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could go, spilling inside you with a low, wrecked groan, his body shuddering against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just panting, clinging to each other, the aftershocks still rippling through your bodies.

And then—

Reality crashed down.

His head dropped against your shoulder, his arms tightening around you.

"Fuck," he murmured, voice hoarse.

You didn’t respond, still coming down from your high, your mind too fogged to process anything else.

But then he spoke again.

"You’re never leaving me."

Your breath hitched.

"You hear me?" He pulled back just enough to look at you, his iridescent blue eyes burning.

"This—" He gestured vaguely, his chest still heaving. "Us. It’s never gonna stop."

You swallowed hard. "Satoru—"

"I don’t care how fucked up it is," he interrupted, voice cracking. "I don’t care if we tear each other apart." He sniffled, You swallowed, your throat tight. His words pressed against your skin, heavier than his body pinning you to the door.

"You can’t say that," you whispered, voice barely there.

Satoru’s gaze didn’t waver. He just looked at you, eyes burning with something you weren’t ready to name.

"I can," he murmured. "Because it’s true."

His fingers ghosted over your cheek, sliding down the column of your throat, pressing lightly—just enough for you to feel his touch, like he was mapping you all over again.

You closed your eyes, trying to ignore the way your body still ached for him, how every inch of you still burned from the way he took you.

"You don’t own me."

He exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I know," he admitted, his voice a broken rasp. "But you still belong to me."

Your breath stuttered. "That’s not the same thing."

"Isn’t it?" he asked, his hands slipping down to your waist, holding you like you were something fragile. "Tell me, then. Tell me you don’t feel it, too."

You didn’t answer.

Because you did.

You felt it in the way his body curled over yours, in the way his breaths mingled with yours, in the way he held you—not with possession, but with something deeper. Something unshakable.

He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, then another on your cheek, then lower, down to your jaw. He was shaking. His lips trembled against your skin.

"I thought about you every fucking day."

His confession poured into you like warm honey, thick and golden, coating every inch of your chest.

"I know you think this is just obsession," he continued, his nose brushing the shell of your ear. "That I’m selfish and I only want you because I can’t stand the idea of someone else having you. Maybe that’s true."

His hands slid up, wrapping around your wrists, pulling them down from where they’d been pressed defensively to his chest.

"But it’s more than that," he said, kissing your palm. "It always has been."

Your fingers curled slightly against his cheek, as if testing the weight of his words. "Then why do we keep ruining each other?"

He let out a breath, slow and quiet, like it hurt to say the truth out loud.

"Because I don't know how to love you without ruining myself, too."

Your heart clenched.

Satoru lifted his head, his gaze searching yours, his lips parting slightly before he said it.

"And you can’t leave me anyway."

You blinked. "What?"

His hands flexed at your sides, gripping tighter like he was afraid you’d disappear.

"Something’s already taken root inside you," he whispered, almost reverently. "You know it, don’t you?"

Your stomach flipped, your breath catching as something deep inside you—something instinctual, something unspoken—stirred at his words.

Because you did know.

It wasn’t just the way your body still felt like it belonged to him. It wasn’t just the way your heart raced whenever he was near.

It was something more. Something permanent.

Satoru swallowed, his thumb brushing over your lips, his voice raw, like he was barely holding himself together.

"Tell me I’m wrong."

You couldn’t.

His eyes darkened, something deep and knowing settling in them.

"That’s what I thought."

His hands found your hips, gripping them, his thumbs tracing slow circles.

"You’re never leaving," he murmured, softer this time, like a promise. "Not now. Not ever."

You shivered, your head dropping against his chest, your breath unsteady.

Because for the first time in all the years of back-and-forth, of fights and reconciliations, of leaving and coming back—

You believed him.

And maybe… maybe you didn’t want to leave anyway.

Satoru’s arms wound around you, holding you against him like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers.

His lips pressed against your temple, slow and lingering, and then—

"Marry me."

The words were quiet, barely louder than the sound of your own heartbeat.

Your body froze, rigid, like glass refusing to budge. Satoru only pulled you closer.

"We both know this is forever."

His hands skimmed your sides, like he was memorizing you all over again.

"So let’s stop pretending otherwise."

Your throat went dry.

Because as crazy as it sounded, as reckless and fucked-up as this love was—

Maybe, just maybe—

He was right.

Back to him, you guess. Forever this time.

FIN.

❤︎ ໋𓈒 a/n. hello loves, i was feeling very uninspired towards my long fic “All I Need” so im posting this. I’ll hopefully be back on track once i jot down my ideas for chapter five. I hope you enjoy this one-shot, based on B2b by charlixcx.

© All Rights Reserved mymoonisgrey

[mymoonisgrey]

hi friends! chapter 5 of all i need is almost done. sorry for the delay, i had an aerospace engineering project where i had to build a prototype thing 😭.

[mymoonisgrey]

you’re an aerospace engineering major? are you smart. is your dad rich. pls adopt me sy. (and keep writing.)

heheh, im ngl i fought hard to get into an ivy league. visa, exams, allat. all thanks to my dadddyyyyyy :3

thank you for the compliments though, honestly it really lifts up my spirits since the major is MALE DOMINATED and i feel fucking stepped on as a girl. kisses.

im already working on chapter 5, will be out shoon! 🥹

[mymoonisgrey]

you, my love, are All I Need.

synopsis: After the tragedy of the Star Plasma Vessel incident, Satoru Gojo loses more than just his closest friend, Suguru Geto—he loses the one person who made the chaos of his world feel bearable. She was his light, his tether to something more human, and just when he dared to imagine a future with her, fate cruelly severed their bond. With her sudden disappearance in his third year at Jujutsu High, Satoru is left reeling, torn between his duties as the strongest sorcerer and the ache of searching for someone he may never find.

pairings: gojo satoru x reader. (og jujutsu au.)

chapter warnings: profanities, mild violence, brief jealousy.

wc : 9k+

all i need's playlist!

series masterlist.

a/n: how’s everyone’s monday been? 😊

previously.

December 2007 

“You’re doing exceptionally well.” 

Sato’s voice is a low rumble that sends shivers crawling up your spine—ones you’d like to scrape off with a wire brush. He watches you with a strange intensity, his smile oily and unreadable. “Makes me wonder if we should start recruiting grade one sorcerers or higher for this program.” 

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Yeah, good luck with that. Everyone I’ve worked with so far fits your usual category: foreign, low cursed energy, expendable in your eyes.” 

His smile widens, smug and patronizing. “You’ve been paying attention. I like that. It means you’re learning.” He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “And I assume you’ve been keeping your profile low? No slip-ups about your affiliation, why you’re really here, or your... connections?” 

Your jaw tightens, but you nod. “Captain Shepherd’s the only one who knows the truth. He figured out I’m a special grade. He also knows I was pulled out of Jujutsu High too early.” 

Sato’s expression falters for just a moment, his eye twitching with irritation. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your goddamn mouth shut?” 

“He’s not an idiot!” you snap, unable to hold back your frustration. “He’s a thirty-five-year veteran! He’s seen enough soldiers to tell the difference between someone like me and your usual recruits.” 

Sato slams a hand on the table, making you flinch. “And what’s next? Are you going to tell me he knows the whole damn story? That the reason the higher-ups handed you over to me was because of him?” 

Your anger fizzles as his presence looms over you. His scarred face, hardened from years of battle, and his piercing gaze bore into your resolve. 

You manage to steady your voice, quiet but firm. “He’ll find me.” Your hands clench into fists under the table. “And when he does, I’ll tell him everything—what you did, what the higher-ups did. He’ll kill all of you.” 

Sato stares at you for a long moment before chuckling darkly. “Oh, is that what you think? Go ahead, tell him. Let him come. He’s as good as dead.” 

You recoil slightly, your confidence wavering under his mocking tone. 

“Don’t hit me with the ‘he’s the strongest’ crap,” Sato sneers. “We can kill him, and you damn well know it.” 

Silence stretches between you, heavy and oppressive. 

Then you shake your head, defiance sparking in your eyes. “The higher-ups would never let that happen. Gojo’s their golden child. Their prodigy.” 

“Not the higher-ups, sweet thing.” Sato’s voice drops, his tone condescending and venomous. He leans forward, his face mere inches from yours. “Us.” 

Your breath catches. 

“And the higher-ups would let you do that?” you ask, your voice edged with disbelief. 

“They need us more than they need him,” Sato spits, slamming his palm against the table again. “We clean up their messes. We do the dirty work. Without us, the whole system falls apart. So, if you love him, you’ll shut your goddamn mouth. Or things will get ugly.” 

It isn’t the threat to your life that makes your blood run cold. 

It’s the threat to his. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You don’t exactly acknowledge him trailing behind you, his presence hot and unyielding, because your focus is on the bodies of your fallen comrades—laid out in neat rows on stretchers, or worse, on tarps. Some were intact, but others... dismembered, unidentifiable. You swallow thickly, the bile rising in your throat. 

Satoru is silent. His usual easy charm is buried beneath the weight of what he’s seeing. This wasn’t the jujutsu world he knew—pristine, organized, full of promise. No, this was raw and ugly, guns and missiles replacing talismans and hand signs. The air was thick with the sharp smell of gunpowder and blood. He glances around, his blue eyes scanning the navy camo uniforms, the weary faces of foreign sorcerers—low-grade curse users drafted from all corners of the globe. They didn’t sign up for glory; they were cannon fodder, drafted to protect a system that didn’t want them. 

You stumble forward, weaving through the chaotic hangar. Aircraft sit proud and powerful—some parked, others taxiing, and a few roaring to life as they prepare for takeoff. Around you, the injured are escorted to the med bay, their groans and cries blending with the hum of engines. 

“Watcher!” Shepherd’s gruff voice cuts through the noise. You turn your head, dazed, your severed hand clutched protectively to your chest. Leslie walks toward you, her sharp eyes softened by relief, a tablet cradled in her hands. Shepherd claps a heavy hand on your shoulder, halting your shaky steps. 

The sudden stop makes Satoru bump into you from behind. His chest brushes your back, and he mutters a quick, “Sorry,” before stepping to the side, his eyes flickering to your hand. 

“Good to see you all alive,” Leslie says, tapping on her tablet. Her professional demeanor doesn’t hide the relief in her tone. “Team 2-11 was just sent off to China. A group of curse users unleashed a significant number of spirits—grades unknown.” 

Shepherd frowns, his jaw tightening. “They need backup?” 

Your head snaps toward him, disbelief etched on your face. Your exhaustion screams louder than your words ever could. Not now. Not again. 

“I recommend you stay on standby,” Leslie replies, her voice even. “You never know when things get ugly, Shep.” 

He laughs, shaking his head. “Appreciate it, Les. Yer free to go.” 

Leslie nods, casting you a brief, knowing glance before retreating. 

“Shep—my hand—” you start, but he interrupts with a pointed nod toward your chest. “Ye’ gotta get that checked out,” he says firmly. 

“No shit,” you mutter, glaring at your mangled hand as if it had betrayed you. 

Satoru’s gaze lingers on your injury. His sharp intake of breath doesn’t escape Shepherd’s notice. The older man steps between you two, his weathered hand reaching out to stop Satoru from following you further. 

His fingers meet resistance. 

Shepherd flinches slightly, his hand repelled by an invisible force—the faint shimmer of Satoru’s infinity. 

“What the hell was that?” Shepherd grunts, pulling his hand back. 

Satoru turns slowly, his expression calm but his eyes hard. “Need something, General?” His voice is polite, but the disdain is unmistakable. 

“It’s Captain,” Shepherd corrects, his tone measured and steady. “And you’re not supposed to be here.” 

The words hang heavy in the air, a quiet warning. This wasn’t a place for outsiders. No students, no high-grade sorcerers—no one who might challenge the facade of order and control. 

Satoru feels it too. The weight of trespass. But he’s not leaving. Not yet. 

“I understand,” he replies smoothly. “I won’t overstay.” 

“Y’know, kid,” Shepherd begins, his sharp gaze assessing. “We can arrange a helo to take ye back to Tokyo or Kyoto—whichever school yer from.” 

Satoru tilts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Appreciate the offer, but I can teleport.” 

He doesn’t wait for Shepherd’s response, slipping past the man and continuing after you. His eyes take in everything—the chaos, the desperation, the quiet resignation of those around him. This wasn’t a battlefield; it was a meat grinder. 

But his gaze always comes back to you. 

You haven’t stopped moving, your steps unsteady but purposeful. He quickens his pace to catch up, falling in step beside you, his voice soft. “Let me see your hand.” 

“Stay out of it,” you snap, your tone sharper than intended. 

Satoru doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. His voice drops to a whisper, carrying an edge of quiet intensity. “Not happening.” 

You don’t understand why you’re being mean, why your tone is sharp and your words laced with coldness. Your love—your Satoru—was standing right in front of you. 

Maybe it was Sato’s threats echoing in your mind. His warnings of what would happen if you let Satoru get too close. Wasn’t it better to push him away, to pretend you didn’t care, than to sign his name on a death sentence? 

Your combat boots strike against the metal flooring as you continue walking, and Satoru, undeterred, stays on your trail. 

“Why are you still here?” you ask, glancing back at him with a hint of malice in your voice. 

“I came with you on the plane?” he replies, like it’s obvious. 

“Teleport away.” 

“No.” 

“Stop following me, then.” 

“You’re the only one I know here.” 

“Do you?” you snap, your voice low and biting as you push open the door to a sterile room. The sharp chemical scent reminds him of the infirmary back at Jujutsu High, a place he’d visited far too often. 

“The fuck does that mean?” Satoru frowns, stepping into the room after you as the automatic door slides shut with a quiet hiss. 

You ignore him and start unbuttoning your uniform, struggling with the motion since your injured hand makes the task painstakingly slow. You need to check your body for bruises, the aftermath of your fall from the crashing plane still fresh in your mind and aching in your muscles. 

Satoru watches in silence, his throat tightening as his six eyes take in the sight of you. The struggle in your movements, the injury you cradled protectively, the exhaustion etched into your expression—it all unsettles him. 

Without thinking, he steps forward, his hands lifting instinctively to help. 

“Let me—” 

“Don’t,” you snap, flinching back at his sudden closeness. The recoil stings him more than he expects, but he doesn’t retreat. 

“You’re hurt. Let me help,” he insists, his voice softer but still firm. 

“I don’t need your help,” you bite back, gripping the fabric of your uniform and turning away from him, willing your fingers to cooperate despite the tremor of pain. 

“You do,” Satoru counters, his tone growing more intense, a desperation laced beneath the words. “You can’t even unbutton a damn shirt right now, and you’re acting like I’m the enemy.” 

Your breath hitches as his words strike a nerve. 

“You don’t get it!” you snap, finally turning to face him, your eyes blazing with frustration. “You don’t understand what this place is, what it does to people! You shouldn’t even be here!” 

“I don’t care about this place,” he says firmly, stepping closer. “I care about you.” 

You flinch again, your resolve wavering under the weight of his words. Satoru notices, but he doesn’t stop. 

“I’ve been looking for you for two years,” he continues, his voice quieter now, raw with emotion. “Years, and I never stopped. Don’t tell me to walk away now that I’ve found you.” 

You want to argue, to push him away again, but the sincerity in his eyes holds you captive. 

Still, you turn your back to him, resuming your struggle with the uniform. “You should have left me lost,” you mutter under your breath. 

Satoru doesn’t let the comment slide. “Lost? Is that what you think? That I could just give up on you?” 

He steps closer again, his breath catching as his six eyes absorb the details he hadn’t fully seen before—the changes in you. The soft curve of your waist, the toned strength in your arms, the way your figure had grown more feminine, more breathtaking. Despite the exhaustion that clung to you, despite the pain you clearly felt, you were beautiful in a way that made his chest ache. 

“Stop staring,” you mutter, your tone defensive, but there’s a tremble beneath it. 

“I can’t,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You freeze at the confession, your hands stilling. 

“I can’t because I’m trying to figure out how to keep you from slipping away again,” he says. “How to make sure you don’t shut me out.” 

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, silence fills the room, heavy and suffocating. 

“Let me help,” he pleads again, softer this time, almost a whisper. “Please.” 

This time, you don’t flinch when his hand hovers near yours, offering without demanding. His gaze is steady, unyielding, but so full of care that it makes your walls crack. 

Satoru doesn’t let go, even when your hand jerks in his hold, the motion sharp and defensive. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s firm enough to stop you from walking away again. 

“Let go,” you mutter through clenched teeth, your voice low and dangerous. 

He shakes his head, the stubborn tilt of his jaw igniting something volatile in you. “No. Not until you let me help.” 

“You don’t need to help,” you snap, yanking your hand free. “I’ve got this. I don’t need—” 

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice cuts through yours, sharp and unrelenting. “Because it’s not true, and we both know it.” 

You glare at him, the heat of his gaze locking with yours, but it only fuels the fire building in your chest. “You think you know me? You don’t know a damn thing.” 

“I know enough,” he replies, his tone steady but charged. “I know you’re hurting. I know you’re trying to carry this on your own. And I know that’s not you.” 

You scoff, shaking your head as you turn away from him. “You don’t know me anymore, Satoru. Things are different. I’m different.” 

He steps closer, and you hear the faint rustle of his uniform as he moves, his presence looming behind you like a shadow you can’t outrun. “You think I can’t see that? You think I can’t see how much you’ve been through?” 

“Then stop trying to fix it!” you snap, spinning to face him, your chest tight with frustration. “Stop acting like you can waltz in here and make it all better. You don’t belong in this world, Satoru. You don’t know what it’s like.” 

“And whose fault is that?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “You left. You disappeared, and I—I spent two years trying to find you. I’m here now, and you’re telling me to just walk away? That’s not happening.” 

His words hit harder than you want to admit, but you shove the feeling down, burying it beneath the ice you’ve built around yourself. 

“You don’t get it,” you say, quieter this time, but no less sharp. “You don’t belong here. You’re a sorcerer. You’re the strongest. You’re—” 

“Human,” he interrupts, his tone softer but no less determined. “I’m human, too, and I’m standing right here, trying to be here for you. You can hate me for that all you want, but I’m not going anywhere.” 

The silence that follows is heavy, your breath caught in your chest as you struggle to form words. 

“Fine,” you bite out finally, your voice low and controlled. “Stay. But don’t get in my way.” 

Satoru watches you, his jaw tightening, his gaze searching yours for something—anything—that might give him a clue to what you’re really thinking. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You turn away, focusing on the task at hand, pretending he’s not standing there, his presence a constant weight on your already strained nerves. 

He doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he lingers, his eyes following your every move as you peel back the layers of your uniform with stiff, precise movements. When you struggle with a button, his hands twitch at his sides, itching to help, but he knows better than to reach out again. 

The fabric slides from your shoulders, revealing smooth, unmarred skin. Your cursed technique’s regenerative properties have left your body untouched by scars or bruises, a stark contrast to the destruction you’ve endured. But to him, it’s proof of your strength, a reminder of how untouchable you once seemed—and maybe still are. 

His breath catches, the sight of you momentarily stealing the air from his lungs. You’ve changed, matured. The lines of your body are more defined, your movements fluid yet restrained. You’re... breathtaking, and it’s not just the way you look. It’s the presence you command, even when you’re at your most vulnerable. 

You catch his gaze in the reflection of a nearby steel cabinet, and your eyes narrow. “What?” 

He swallows hard, his usual charm faltering as he scrambles for something to say. “Nothing,” he mutters, turning his head to give you some semblance of privacy. But the image of you, raw and unguarded, is seared into his mind. 

“Get used to it,” you say flatly, misinterpreting his silence. “This is the world you walked into. It’s ugly, it’s brutal, and it doesn’t have room for people like you.” 

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable. “Then I’ll make room,” he says simply. 

You scoff, grabbing a roll of bandages from a nearby tray. “Good luck with that.” 

As you wrap your hand with practiced efficiency, the faint glow of your cursed technique flickers around the wound, sealing it slowly but effectively. You feel his gaze on you again, unwavering and intense. His persistence grates on your nerves, but there’s a small, traitorous part of you that wants to believe him. 

But you don’t. You can’t. 

“You’ll leave,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “Eventually, you’ll realize you don’t belong here. And when you do, don’t come back.” 

His reply is immediate, his voice low and firm. “Not a chance.” 

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll crumble. 

And you can’t afford that. Not now. Not ever. 

You're quiet as you strip down, staying in your underwear—and he’s usually quiet, watching you like he’s been starved of sight, but this is different. He’s not seeing you with lust, not right now. His gaze isn’t hungry, it's desperate—yearning. There’s a raw intensity in the way he takes in your body, as though trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with the one from two years ago. He’s struggling, quietly, because you seem to deflect his attempts to reconnect, to bridge the gap between you two. 

But why? 

You know he can feel it. Both his heart and soul scream that something is wrong. He just doesn’t understand why. 

You feel shy under his gaze, the weight of it pressing into your skin like a brand, even though he has every inch of your body memorized. Every curve, every scar, every freckle. You know he does. Even two years apart, even with the pain of that time, you glance at him. Blink. The question hangs in your eyes—why are you looking at me? It’s the unspoken plea in your stare, but he doesn't look away. 

His voice breaks the silence, awkward and too loud. “You’ve grown.” 

“Excuse me?” you mutter, turning to face him, not fully aware of the way your breasts strain against that flimsy bra provided by the task force. It barely covers anything—half of it, at best. 

He gulps, his hands flexing at his sides before he rubs the back of his neck, his expression flustered and unsure. He doesn’t want to sound like a creep, but damn it, he’s just noticing what’s right in front of him. “Y-you’ve... grown?” he repeats, his voice cracking slightly, trying to sound casual. 

You almost want to laugh, but it comes out like a breath, empty. “Um... Thanks? You're... buffer?” You don't quite meet his eyes as you mumble the words, keeping your gaze fixed anywhere but on him. 

He blinks at you, taking in your awkward attempt at deflecting the situation. He looks down at himself—his uniform tight around his chest and arms, muscles straining at the seams from the training they’ve been putting him through. “Thank you—training.” 

“Must be vigorous,” you respond, distracted, but the words are clipped, your voice trailing off as your mind races with the real reason for your discomfort. 

“Yeah... well, they make it vigorous for me,” he chuckles darkly. It’s humorless, a low sound that hangs in the air between you two. You get the hint. They’re exploiting him, just like they did to you—taking away everything that made you both feel human. 

You want to tell him. You want to scream it all out, spill every secret. But the thought of him getting hurt, of the higher-ups turning their eyes on him, keeps your lips sealed. Sato’s words—those damn words—still echo in your mind, cutting deep. 

“And you accept?” you murmur, your voice quiet, strained, as you crack your fingers back in place and pour disinfectant over the raw wound in your hand. The sting is sharp, but not as sharp as the words you wish you could say. 

Satoru is quiet, taking a few slow steps toward you. He stands right behind you, his presence overwhelming. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the familiar warmth you once sought. His body language is tense, his eyes unwilling to leave the sight of you, but he tries to stay focused, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. But you know it’s no use. His eyes linger, and for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. 

“I needed a distraction,” he says finally, his voice low as he takes the disinfectant from your hands, his touch soft but firm as he begins tending to your injury. 

“From what?” you whisper, your voice faltering slightly as you fight the tightness in your chest. 

He’s quiet for a moment, the words seemingly stuck in his throat. But then they come, gruff, low, raw. “You,” he mutters, his hand stilling over your wound for a second. He’s not even looking at it. He’s looking at you. “Your sudden disappearance... Thought you fucking died on that godforsaken mission you were sent to. Turns out they lied.” 

Your breath hitches, a quiet sting of guilt piercing you. You didn’t mean to hurt him like this. “I came here,” you say, your voice betraying you with its sharp edge. 

“Willingly?” he presses, his eyes piercing you with that intensity, like they always did when he was seeking the truth, seeking to understand you. 

“Yes,” you lie, barely believing the words as they leave your mouth. 

“Why?” he presses again, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s a quiet desperation behind the question, a longing for something—anything—that would make sense of this fractured puzzle you’ve become. 

“...I needed more money,” you say, and the words feel like ash on your tongue. 

He scoffs, disbelief flooding his face. “Girl, c’mon, I had money.” 

“The fuck does that have to do with anything?” you hiss, the frustration bubbling up, the walls closing in. 

“I’m sayin’ you didn’t need money. I took care of you, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, well, I needed money, and—” You trail off, not wanting to finish the thought. Not wanting to voice the lies that have kept you alive all this time. 

Satoru stitches your hand up carefully, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so strong. He could use reverse cursed technique on you, but he’s not Shoko, and she never trained him for this. Besides, he knows your cursed technique will regenerate in no time. The wound will heal, and there won’t be a trace of it. 

“You know your eyes twitch when you lie, sweetheart?” he mutters under his breath, his tone teasing, but his focus never wavers from the task at hand. 

Your heart skips a beat. “I’m not lying—” 

“I already know the specific way people get drafted here,” he continues, his voice low and knowing. “Foreign, low cursed energy, and it’s not voluntary. The higher-ups throw them here with no backtalk.” His eyes stay focused, but you feel the weight of his words like a crushing wave. “You’ve been through this before. You’re not stupid. You know how it works.” 

You wince when he pinches your skin to get the needle through. “How did you know I was in the fucking task force?” you snap, your voice trembling with the sudden wave of frustration. 

“Shoko and I saw some woman I thought was you—she had the necklace I fucking gave you—and she asked for her name, and we did some research on the old cranky computer.” He’s still working, his words flowing with ease, like he’s not talking about the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened to you. 

You stay quiet, your mind racing. “Hana,” you breathe out, her name tasting like hope on your lips. 

She made it out. 

“Atta girl. Told you you were smart.” Satoru bites his lip, continuing to stitch up the wound. His movements are practiced, steady, but you can see the storm in his eyes. “So, if my calculations are correct—you’re just foreign. That’s one box ticked in their list of preferences for sorcerers who get thrown here,” he murmurs, his voice soft, but there’s a sharpness to it now. “But what about the rest? You’re special grade. You have high cursed energy. So why?” 

Your heart stops. The question hovers in the air between you, thick and suffocating. You can’t say the truth. Not when it could cost him everything. Not when it could mean his life. 

“Money. They pay a lot here,” you breathe, the words stilted as you try to force yourself to believe them. 

Satoru scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah, okay—whatever. I believe you.” His voice softens slightly, a tired edge to it. “But I don’t care anymore. I fucking found you. That’s what matters. You’re not dead.” His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t let it show. Not fully. 

And it hits you harder than you want to admit. You feel something twist deep in your chest, but you don’t let it show. Not to him. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The shooting range seemed like the perfect place to blow off some steam—at least it did when you first walked in. You hoped, maybe, Satoru wouldn’t follow you here, but of course, he did. You pity him in a way; you’re the only familiar face for him in this cold, strange place. 

“You can always just... teleport back home and then come back if you want. You know where I'm based now,” you mutter, wiping the sweat from your forehead with your black tank top. 

Satoru’s eyes briefly flick to your midsection, but he quickly drags them back to your face, a subtle shift in his gaze that doesn’t go unnoticed. His jacket is tossed on a nearby table while he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, his white button-up shirt loosely unbuttoned, likely for air—or for dramatic effect. You can't really tell. 

"I could," he replies, his voice smooth, but there's an edge of something more lurking underneath. "But I haven’t seen you in two years." 

You don’t respond right away, trying to ignore the unsettling way his presence feels like it’s suffocating you. Were you still soft inside there? Would you still sing him to sleep, play with his hair while he pawed at your body like it was the most natural thing in the world? That’s how it used to be, wasn’t it? 

You bite your lip, a little too hard. He notices. He always notices. 

“Why?” you ask quietly, trying to keep your voice steady despite the storm inside you. The pressure from his gaze is too much, but you won't break. Not here, not now. 

"You know why, don’t play coy. You’re my girlfriend," he replies, and it sounds too natural, too casual. Like it’s obvious, like it hasn’t been two years of separation, pain, and complications. 

“I think... we haven’t seen each other for two years. I don’t think we’re still dating,” you say softly, your tone almost as indifferent as you can manage. You cock your gun and focus on aiming at the targets in front of you. Anything to distract yourself. 

Satoru doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “We didn’t have a verbal breakup, and I still don’t believe you’d leave me willingly.” 

You scoff, trying to maintain a facade of indifference, but deep down, his words sting in a way you hate to admit. “You think that highly of yourself?” you retort, avoiding his eyes as you keep your focus on the target. 

But in your chest, there’s a hole. You want to hug him, go home with him, return to the life you once had. But you can’t. You know the cost. Sato’s warning echoes in your mind. 

"I think highly of our love for each other," Satoru says, sitting up straighter, his gaze sharpening, a bit of vulnerability creeping through the cracks in his confidence. "You still love me, right?" 

The question hits you harder than it should. You freeze for a moment, unsure of what to say. If you tell him yes, things could get messy. If you say no... you’d be lying to both of you. 

You’re saved by a cheerful voice breaking through the tension. 

“Hola! Hola!” Alec greets as he enters, a wave of lightness following him. You smile at him politely, grateful for the interruption. 

But Satoru, he doesn’t hide his displeasure. The shift in his cursed energy is immediate, a sharp spike of possessiveness and frustration. His brows furrow, a crease appearing between them as he watches Alec move towards you. 

"You look fresh," you smile at Alec, who grabs a heavy-looking rifle, clearly eager to blow off some steam himself. "Dios mio, tough day today—but we made it out. Of course, I'd cheer up!" He laughs, his energy infectious, but his eyes catch Satoru’s for a second, and the tension thickens. 

“Don’t like the gun?” Alec asks, glancing at Satoru as he loads it with ease, an almost theatrical nonchalance to his movements. 

Satoru raises a brow, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “I think guns are cool, just barbaric for sorcerers to use.” 

Alec laughs sheepishly, his energy still bubbling with excitement. “Well, we’re barely considered sorcerers, that’s why we’re here—" 

He cuts himself off when he notices what he was spewing. “I shouldn’t be saying this to a jujutsu student, right?” 

You smile, trying to keep things light. “Yeah, you shouldn’t. But he already knows everything,” you say, glancing at Satoru, whose calm demeanor doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The smile on his lips is polite but cold. 

Alec stares at you in disbelief for a second, then back at Satoru. "The hell! Did you tell him? You'll get into trouble!” 

You shake your head, barely containing the laughter that wants to escape. “No, Alec. I didn’t.” But the look in your eyes says more than words could. 

"Whatever, chica," Alec shrugs. "If you get hurt, please leave me out of it. I still love you, though." He gestures to Satoru with his gun, an easy smile on his face. “Introduce him to me.” 

Satoru raises an eyebrow, sensing Alec’s teasing nature. He decides to play along, though something about the situation makes him feel oddly... free. Here, no one knows him. He’s not the feared Satoru Gojo. He's just a guy, and in this moment, that feels kind of nice. 

“I can speak for myself," Satoru says, his tone light and unbothered. 

Alec shoots him a look, clearly eager to get the conversation rolling. “Come on, man. Don’t be shy. Tell me who you are.” 

“My name’s Satoru,” he says with a grin, relaxed. "I’m a student at Jujutsu High, twenty, graduating this year in my fifth year. Came here because she’s my girlfri—" 

“We used to be in the same class, we’re friends,” you interject quickly, shooting Satoru a warning look—one that says to keep some things quiet. 

Alec’s eyes widen. “What the—you were at Jujutsu High? So, you’re twenty too? Why the hell are you here?” 

“Low cursed energy, like the rest of you guys,” you fake a smile, trying to keep things light despite the pang in your chest. 

Satoru’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.

Liar.

Alec lets out a low whistle. "So you came here for her? Damn, that’s some real friendship, man! My friends would sell me for a bag of taquitos," he laughs, shaking his head. 

Satoru laughs too, and there’s a genuine warmth to it this time. He’s enjoying this, this weird, ordinary little moment in the chaos of everything. “Tell me more about yourself,” he says, surprising Alec with his interest. 

Alec’s eyes light up, the excitement clear in his voice. “Well, Alec. twenty-six, I’m from Mexico, but I was born in Tunisia. One of my parents was a jujutsu sorcerer— my mother. Lived my life there—so many Japanese people live there, and tons of jujutsu sorcerers. There’s even a district, like in every country. So when I came to Japan to study jujutsu and get stronger, hoping to join that district, my cursed energy was... low. So they threw me here,” Alec says with a shrug, then adds with a grin, “But I’m happy! I’ve got friends, and a cool captain.” 

You raise an eyebrow at his last statement, a sarcastic edge in your voice. “Shepherd is cool?” 

Alec nods vigorously, smiling wide. “Hell yeah!” 

You roll your eyes and grin. “Alec, if he hears you say that—ten reps of push-ups,” you mutter under your breath. 

Alec laughs nervously, knowing you’re probably right. "Yeah, yeah, chica. But still, I love the old guy, even with the push-ups." 

Satoru examines the rifle in his hands, his fingers tracing the cold metal. He’s silent, focused, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his gaze as he inspects the weapon. His cursed energy vibrates around him, filling the room with an almost tangible hum. 

“Can I try it?” Satoru’s voice is smooth, measured—his tone more a statement than a question. There's a quiet challenge to it, but it's undercut by the calmness that only he can manage. 

Alec, still recovering from the earlier explosion, nods and grins, his eyes glinting. "Sure, Saturn," he says, completely unfazed, as though it's the most natural thing in the world. He fumbles with his words a little, clearly struggling to pronounce "Satoru," and just goes with it. 

Satoru doesn’t correct him, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays the annoyance flickering beneath his cool exterior. "Saturn," he repeats quietly under his breath, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing how far Alec's teasing might go. 

You suppress a smirk. Alec’s obliviousness to Satoru’s irritation is a running joke, and you can’t help but find it mildly amusing. 

Alec’s grin only widens as he watches Satoru adjust the rifle. “I like it. Saturn suits you. You know, big, powerful—kind of like the planet, right?” 

Satoru’s hand tightens around the rifle. “Saturn’s a planet, Alec,” he mutters, his voice dry. “Not my name.” 

But Alec’s too distracted to notice. “Whatever, man. It’s catchy. And you’ve got that, you know, planetary vibe. Makes sense to me.” 

You can see the subtle annoyance creeping into Satoru’s face, but he bites his tongue. “Can we just... do this?” he asks, his patience thinning. 

Alec shrugs, seemingly unphased by Satoru’s subtle irritation. “You’re the one asking to try my gun, Saturn.” He laughs, as if this is some kind of inside joke that only he finds hilarious. 

You give Satoru an apologetic look, but there’s a part of you that finds this exchange amusing—if only because you know Satoru’s patience only stretches so far, and Alec doesn’t seem to be letting up. 

Satoru takes the rifle from Alec’s hands and steadies himself. “Let’s get this over with.” 

You step in, guiding his hands lightly. His cursed energy surges subtly beneath his skin, wrapping around the weapon as he tries to infuse it. The rifle hums with power, vibrating under his control—but then, a flicker of his immense energy causes it to backfire, an explosion of cursed energy erupting from the weapon, sending shards of metal in all directions. 

You instinctively duck behind Satoru, who is already lifting his Infinity. The world slows as his barrier expands, and you’re shielded from the flying debris by the familiar, invisible force surrounding you both. 

Alec stumbles back, eyes wide. “Dios mío! Saturn!” he exclaims, more out of shock than fear. His hands are raised, as if he expects the next explosion to be any second. “I didn’t know you were that strong!” 

Satoru lowers his hand, his Infinity flickering back to its neutral state. His expression is cool, but there’s a small twitch in his brow. “It was an accident,” he says, almost in a deadpan tone. He glances at Alec, who’s still frozen in place. “I... got carried away.” 

Alec laughs nervously, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Holy shit, man. I thought I was gonna die.” 

Satoru turns his gaze back to the rifle in his hands, the metal now slightly dented from the explosion. He shakes his head, clearly frustrated but trying to mask it. “I need more control.” 

“Guess Saturn’s a bit too much for this little thing,” Alec says, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe try something smaller. This gun can’t handle that much energy.” He holds out a pistol instead, his tone light but with a touch of genuine concern. “Try this.” 

Satoru takes the pistol, his fingers curling around it with a practiced ease. He holds it up to his face, inspecting it for a moment before glancing at you. The air between you both feels thick—an unspoken understanding lingering in the space. 

You step in close to him, your breath catching as you guide his hands once more, feeling his energy surge under your fingertips. The proximity is almost unbearable, the tension between you two sharp enough to cut through the air. 

“Remember, just a little at a time,” you remind him quietly, your voice steady but laced with something else you can’t quite place. 

Satoru’s gaze shifts to you, his eyes locking onto yours for a brief, lingering moment. “I know,” he says, voice soft, but there's something charged in the way he looks at you. 

You focus, but there's no denying the tension building between you both. The familiarity of his presence stirs up old feelings, things you try to keep buried under layers of steel and resolve. 

Slowly, Satoru pours his cursed energy into the pistol. This time, it's controlled. The weapon hums with power, but the energy is focused, directed. The shot rings out, precise—an almost unnatural accuracy as the bullet hits the target dead center. 

Satoru lowers the gun, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “That’s better,” he murmurs, his tone satisfied but still, there’s that underlying irritation in the way Alec continues to tease him. 

Alec, not noticing the subtle shift in the air, claps his hands. “Nice! Now that’s what I’m talking about, Saturn! You’re a natural!” 

Satoru raises a brow, his patience finally wearing thin. “Please stop calling me Saturn.” 

But Alec, ever the oblivious one, just laughs. “What? It’s a good name! You’re strong as hell, Saturn, deal with it!” 

Satoru glances at you, and for a moment, the two of you share a quiet, charged look. The air between you both crackles, the weight of the past two years hanging heavy in the space. You can feel the old connection, the tension—it’s still there, undeniable. 

You let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. “You’re lucky he’s not serious,” you mutter, giving Satoru a half-smile. 

Satoru smirks, but it’s tinged with something more—something deeper, something he isn’t ready to voice. “I’ll let him have his fun for now,” he says, voice laced with dry humor. 

Alec cheers in the background, unaware of the silent exchange between you and Satoru. “Damn, Saturn, you’re gonna make a great addition to the team!” “Addition?—no, he’s not a part of us,” you say, and Alec frowns. 

“Well, I get that, but he’s pretty far from the hocus pocus school right now. Unless he can teleport to Tokyo, he’s sticking around here for a while, right?” 

“He can tele—” 

“I can’t teleport,” Satoru shrugs, lying. Alec gives you a ‘see?’ look, clearly amused. 

You gape, turning to Satoru. “What? You don’t think I’m capable?” 

“You’re more than capable.” 

“Then I’ll help y’all out until Shepherd sends me home,” Satoru shrugs casually. 

“Where would you sleep, huh?” you retort. 

“You guys don’t have extra rooms or something?” he asks, feigning innocence. 

“Yes, we do,” Alec interjects, “but those are for prisoners—criminals we take hostage.” He smirks. “But she’s got a pretty big room since she’s Shepherd’s favorite, apparently. You can stay there!” 

“Why’re you making the decision, Alec?” you sigh, exasperated, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“C’mon, doll, I like him!” Alec whines playfully. 

Satoru’s brow twitches at the nickname, irritation flashing briefly in his eyes. He doesn’t like Alec calling you doll. He’s aware it’s probably just a nickname here, but hearing it still grates on him. It makes him feel... something. A slight twinge of jealousy. He doesn’t show it, though. He knows Alec doesn’t mean it the way he interprets it. 

“See? He likes me, doll,” Satoru says, dragging out the word as he looks at you with a look you identify as his jealousy. You’ve seen that look way too much for you to forget it. 

You want to blush, but the irony is too thick. Instead, you just groan in annoyance. “Whatever, we’ll see with Shepherd,” you mumble, reaching for your gun again. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You somehow managed to sneak an extra plate from the kitchens. Shepherd’s strict orders allowed one serving per soldier—ensuring everyone got their share. But you had a guest. A guest who, you knew, ate a lot. You even sacrificed some of your portion, piling more onto his plate. 

More rice, more miso soup, more seaweed, more seared tofu. It wasn’t fancy—just sustenance. Basic proteins and fiber meant to keep everyone functional, not satisfied. The higher-ups didn’t care about soldiers here any more than they cared about anyone outside their elite circles. The realization stung: sorcerers at Jujutsu High were glorified, while the rest of you were discarded when no longer useful. 

Balancing the plates, you pushed open the door to your room to find Satoru sitting on the edge of the bed. The sight caught you off guard for a second. The bed was big enough for two, but the thought of sharing it with him—after all this time—felt too... intimate. 

“Um... I’ve got food here,” you said softly, shyness creeping into your voice as you approached him, holding out the bigger plate. 

Satoru looked up at you, his lips quirking into a faint smile. The scene felt almost domestic, like you were... his wife. 

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking the plate from your hands. 

“I’m sorry it’s not much,” you added quickly, almost apologetic. “This is all they serve here—what they’re allowed to serve.” 

He glanced down at the plate before his gaze returned to you, something tender lurking in his eyes. “Good thing I can teleport then,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar playful lilt. 

Before you could respond, he reached under the bed and pulled out a crinkling plastic bag—a 7/11 logo emblazoned across it. 

Your jaw dropped. “You didn’t.” 

“I did,” he said, grinning smugly. 

“You didn’t just teleport to get yourself food,” you accused, crossing your arms. 

He tilted his head, correcting you with a casual, “Got us food, sweetheart.” 

“You’ll burn your eyes out,” you muttered, trying not to smile. 

“For you and my belly? Worth it.” 

You gave up, rolling your eyes as he pushed the bag toward you. Inside, you spotted greasy onigiri, a couple of bento boxes, and a can of your favorite drink. You hadn’t had anything like this in what felt like years. 

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unable to hide your gratitude. 

As you both ate, Satoru glanced at your plates, noting the uneven portions. His own was piled so high it looked like the plate might crack under the weight. “You didn’t have to give me half your tofu,” he said, pushing a few big pieces back toward you. 

“They’re for you,” you mumbled. 

“Thanks, baby, but I came prepared,” he teased, gesturing toward the 7/11 haul. 

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too much. It was small, but it felt like old times—before everything fell apart. 

“So, you always sleep here?” he asked through a mouthful of rice, his cheeks puffed like a squirrel. 

The sight nearly made you giggle. “No. Just after missions like these. This is a moving base. There’s a little house by the coast I stay in with Shepherd.” 

“Shepherd? The old gruff buff guy?” he asked, raising a brow. 

You nodded. “He kind of... took me under his wing. Said something like me was too precious to waste here.” 

“I agree with him,” Satoru said, his voice softening. 

For a moment, silence settled between you, filled only by the sound of eating. Then, he broke it. “Come home with me,” he said, the vulnerability in his voice catching you off guard. “God knows Shoko misses you—Yaga-sensei too. I miss you.” 

You hesitated, your grip tightening on your plate. “I can’t,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve gotten too used to this life.” 

“Liar,” he said, his tone sharper now. “I’m not leaving until you come home with me.” 

“This is my home,” you replied, setting your plate aside as your chest tightened. 

“I’m your home,” Satoru said, his voice quiet but firm, his jaw tightening as his eyes bore into yours.  

The words hung in the air like a challenge, daring you to deny them. 

You looked away, focusing on the empty plate in your hands. “That’s not fair,” you murmured, your voice trembling ever so slightly. 

“It’s the truth,” Satoru countered, setting his plate down beside him. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his crystalline eyes piercing through you. “You don’t belong here. You know that.” 

Your throat tightened, and you clenched your fists. “You think I chose this?” 

“I think someone made you believe you didn’t have a choice,” he said, his voice softening. “But you always have a choice. You had one when we first met, and you have one now.” 

You swallowed hard, the familiar ache in your chest rising. “It’s not that simple, Satoru.” 

“Isn’t it?” he asked, standing up. His height, his presence—it was overwhelming, and it reminded you of how small you felt in his orbit. “What’s stopping you, really? Is it fear? Guilt? Or is it because someone here convinced you you’re only useful if you stay?” 

You flinched, and he caught it. He always did. 

“It’s complicated,” you said, stepping back as he stepped closer. 

“Then uncomplicate it,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. 

Your back hit the wall, and suddenly, there was nowhere else to go. He stood in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, but not close enough to touch. His hands clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back. 

“Satoru,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please don’t do this.” 

“I have to,” he said, his voice breaking ever so slightly. “Because if I don’t, I’ll lose you. And I can’t... I won’t let that happen.” 

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. The raw vulnerability in his words, in his eyes—it was too much. 

“You think I haven’t missed you?” you asked, your voice cracking as tears welled up. “Every day, I think about what I left behind. About what we had. But I can’t go back. Not yet.” 

“Why?” he asked, his voice trembling with frustration and hurt. 

“Because I’m not the same person anymore,” you said, your tears finally spilling over. “And I don’t know if I can be her again.” 

He reached out then, his fingers brushing against your cheek, wiping away a tear. “You don’t have to be her,” he said softly. “Just be with me. That’s all I need.” 

For a moment, you let yourself lean into his touch, let yourself imagine a world where things were simple again. Where you weren’t bound by duty, by fear, by the chains you’d willingly wrapped around yourself. 

But then reality crashed back in. 

You tried to move away, but the sound of his fist slamming into the wall froze you. The reverberation rang in your ears, the dent just inches from your head. You stared at the deformed metal, then back at him, your chest tight with fear—or something far more complicated. 

His breaths came sharp, his hand still pressed against the wall as if steadying himself. But his eyes—his eyes locked onto yours with a desperation that made you want to cry and scream all at once. 

“Goddamn it, talk to me—tell me the truth.” His voice cracked, raw and unrelenting. 

“This is the truth!” you snapped back, your voice trembling despite the sharpness of your words. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but this is my life now! So just—just leave. Or we can sit down, eat whatever junk you teleported for, and pretend this didn’t happen.” 

You didn’t mean it. Not really. But the words flew out, your defenses building faster than you could think. 

“I’m not fuckin’ leaving,” he bit out, his voice low, gravelly, and trembling with anger. “I’ll figure you out—I’ll break through this. I’m so damn tired of everyone lying to me. Leaving me.” 

The last words hit you like a punch to the gut. You opened your mouth to speak, to tell him something—anything—but all you managed was a quiet, choked, “Please.” 

Something in your voice stopped him. His arm dropped, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He stepped back, giving you space, though the tension between you remained, thick and suffocating. 

You didn’t move at first. Your legs felt like jelly, and your heart thundered so loud you swore he could hear it. But when he finally sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, you willed yourself to follow, each step feeling heavier than the last. 

He exhaled sharply, breaking the silence. “It’s fine,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “I found you. That’s all that matters.” 

You hesitated before sitting beside him, close enough to feel his warmth but far enough to keep the invisible line between you intact. The food sat between you, untouched for a moment, until you quietly picked up your portion. 

You ate in silence, the tension slowly ebbing, though the ache in your chest remained. Every now and then, you’d glance at him, at his furrowed brows and clenched jaw. And as much as you wanted to stay angry, to cling to the walls you’d built, a part of you wanted to reach out—to touch him, to soothe the storm raging inside him. 

But you didn’t. 

Instead, you focused on the meal he’d risked so much to get, the quiet words he hadn’t spoken but had been etched into every action, every look. 

For now, this was enough. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Sleeping next to Satoru felt strangely natural, even after everything. The rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from him—it all felt like coming home. You hadn’t felt this kind of peace in two years, and before you knew it, you were slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

But Satoru didn’t share the luxury of rest, not fully. His body craved it, sure, but his heart and mind couldn’t stop racing. He was right here, next to you, after two agonizing years of chasing ghosts and dead ends. He didn’t want to waste a second. 

He studied your face like it was a map back to better days, tracing the curves and lines with his eyes, then with his fingertips. Carefully, reverently, as if you’d vanish if he pressed too hard. Your lashes fluttered slightly, but you stayed asleep, your lips parted in soft, even breaths. 

His chest tightened as he leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours. Just one kiss, he thought. You wouldn’t wake up. You wouldn’t mind. Right? 

The kiss was featherlight, a gentle press of lips that tasted like a bittersweet promise. Satoru stayed close for a moment longer, letting his forehead rest against yours, breathing you in. 

Finally, he pulled back and exhaled slowly, threading his fingers with yours. It wasn’t just to hold you close. It was to anchor himself, to remind him that this wasn’t a dream. You were here, and for the first time in a long while, the crushing weight on his chest began to lift. 

If you woke up and tried to leave, he’d know. 

But more than that, he just needed to feel connected to you, even if it was only through the quiet strength of your intertwined hands. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“I don’t understand why I’m here,” his voice echoed quietly, the calmness in his tone like it always had been, barely betraying the weight of his past decisions. “I’m... a criminal under your records.” 

The room was thick with tension, the air almost vibrating with the intensity of what was at stake. The elderly voice of the higher-up rumbled through the shadows, commanding authority with its gravelly resonance. 

“Yes, you are—" the voice boomed, thick with years of experience and frustration, "but in the end, you hate the Zen’in, don’t you? They want to overthrow our system, impose their own ideals—Naoya had us fooled. We thought we were making progress with him, but... no.” There was a pause, an exhale heavy with regret. “We need your help. We can’t do this without you.” 

A small silence followed, like a crack in the conversation, as the man stood still, his face a mask of indifference. He didn’t move, didn’t twitch a muscle as his mind ran through all the motives, all the options laid before him. 

“And why the hell would I care?” he finally spoke, his voice still flat, yet there was a deeper edge to his words now, cutting through the tension. “I have my own reasons, my own motives. Your visions, your politics—don’t concern me. And neither does the Zen'in family.” 

The elderly figure in the shadows could feel the defiance in his words, the weight of years of pain and betrayal weighing heavily in his heart. But this wasn’t about politics anymore—it was personal. 

“You’re different,” the voice rumbled again, with a certain conviction. “Naoya wants to eliminate sorcerers. You know he’s after Gojo, specifically. You care about him, don’t you? After all, everyone does. Isn’t that right?” 

A slight shift in his expression betrayed the fact that the mention of Gojo had struck a chord. 

“Sure,” he muttered, his voice softening ever so slightly as memories of his old friend flickered through his mind. “You can say that. But why do you need my help?” 

“Because," the elder’s voice dropped to a more sinister level, "you were once labeled the strongest. The one who could end it all. If you help us, we won’t detain you. You won’t be a prisoner after this is over. We’ll let you vanish, disappear. Go into hiding again. No one will come after you.” 

His lips twitched, a humorless chuckle escaping his throat. He turned slightly, his gaze steady as he let out a low sigh. 

“You all lie,” he said, eyes narrowing, a ghost of disbelief and bitterness lurking in his voice. “Why should I believe you?” 

“Because Naoya Zenin is a threat,” the elder responded with chilling finality. “He cannot—he will not—be allowed to control the jujutsu society. And neither will anyone like him. We need you to ensure that doesn’t happen. Help us, and we’ll keep our word.” 

The man stood there for what seemed like an eternity, contemplating the offer. His mind was a battleground of pros and cons, the weight of the past and the present crashing together in a maelstrom. There were risks, of course. But he couldn’t stand by and watch as the world he once knew spiraled into chaos. Not without doing something. 

And, if he was being honest, a small part of him still cared about the ones who had cared for him—Gojo... and you. You had been kind to him when no one else had. And perhaps... just perhaps, there was a chance to make things right. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, his voice broke the stillness. “I accept.” 

The elder chuckled, a satisfied grin creeping across his face. “Good. You’re a smart man. Welcome back—Suguru Geto.” 

next

© All Rights Reserved mymoonisgrey

Taglist is open!

@lavnder311

[mymoonisgrey]

welcome to sy’s daydreams 🫧

hi im sy :) 20. aerospace engineering major— and when im not, i write fanfics.

blog established 10.01.25. 𐙚

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the stash >ᴗ<

gojo satoru series :

𐙚 All I Need [updated 12.01.25.] on hiatus.

• gojo satoru x f!reader

— original AU | angst, smut, fluff, dark and sensitive themes.

𐙚 masterlist

gojo satoru one shots :

𐙚 B2b

𐙚 mr. steal your girl.

© All Rights Reserved mymoonisgrey

[mymoonisgrey]

HIII, OH MY GOD I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ALL I NEED ITS AMAZING. I have so many questions rn i hope its not like too fucking much.

1.) how’d you think of the plot? what inspired it?

2.) i can already tell this is a slowburn but what exactly are we going at here? how many chapters?

3.) is your name actually dollie because that is so cute.

4.) love the playlist. sets the mood for the story synopsis— do you take song recommendations to add in there?

Hi!!!!! my first ever anon and ask, hello, hi, how do you do :)

thank you so much for the support, I love you stranger. honestly, didn't think anyone would be interested to read my shit. lol.

Alrighty, so:

1), my dad used to be in the army, he had countless stories and him and his friends always talk in army slang-- and he's a MAJOR Call of Duty fan, we have all the games shelved on our gaming room's wall. Naturally, I fucking love the franchise, and I love jujutsu kaisen and Gojo-- so mesh this shit together, I made up some shit, and this was my daydream. lol.

2) it is a slowburn. YAAAAAAAAAAAR im sorry, i love slowburns--- and i know i popped off with quite some smut in the start, but I swear Satoru and reader's relationship gets worse before it gets better.

and idk how many chaps yet, im going with the flow of my brain.

3) my name is Symone!!!!! my daddy calls me doll, hehe, so I used that :3

4) yes. absolutely. send it over.

[mymoonisgrey]

you, my love, are All I Need.

synopsis: After the tragedy of the Star Plasma Vessel incident, Satoru Gojo loses more than just his closest friend, Suguru Geto—he loses the one person who made the chaos of his world feel bearable. She was his light, his tether to something more human, and just when he dared to imagine a future with her, fate cruelly severed their bond. With her sudden disappearance in his third year at Jujutsu High, Satoru is left reeling, torn between his duties as the strongest sorcerer and the ache of searching for someone he may never find.

pairings: gojo satoru x reader. (og jujutsu au.)

chapter warnings: 18+, blood, mentions of war atmospheres, profanities, smut (flashback— sorry), body horror description.

wc : 7k+

all i need's playlist!

series masterlist.

a/n : and chapter 3 is out, im on a roll here. Do you guys like the plot so far? 😢

previously.

2006.

His dorm was always a mess, a clash of luxury and chaos that only Satoru could pull off. Designer jackets draped carelessly over his desk chair, empty sweet wrappers scattered across the floor, and the faint scent of his cologne—clean, crisp, and achingly familiar—lingering in the air. You were used to it, though. It was his space, and somehow, it always felt like yours, too. 

He stood by the edge of the bed, looking at you like he was starving. His half-unbuttoned shirt hung loosely off his broad shoulders, teasing glimpses of the defined muscle underneath, and his silver hair was tousled in a way that made him look both untouchable and utterly yours. 

Those impossibly blue eyes locked onto you with a heat that made your stomach flip. “C’mere.” he said, his voice low and commanding, yet so soft, and it was all you could do to obey. You were so drawn to him. Was this a red string theory? be believed in them— should you?

You took a hesitant step closer, but that wasn’t enough for him. He reached out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against him. His hands slid to your waist, his thumbs brushing bare skin beneath your shirt, and the way he looked at you made your knees weak. 

“God, you’re so fucking pretty,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “Every time I see you, I wanna rip this shit off and make you mine all over again.” 

“Satoru—” 

But your protest was cut off when he captured your lips in a kiss that stole the air from your lungs. It was all tongue and teeth, messy and desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. His hands roamed your body, squeezing and kneading as he pressed you closer. 

He broke the kiss just long enough to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His gaze roved over you, dark and hungry, and he let out a low whistle. 

“Look at these,” he said, his hands coming up to cup your breasts. His thumbs brushed over your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra, and he groaned. “Perfect fucking tits. I should bury my face in them and never come up for air, hm? Suck ‘em raw.” he emphasized with a firm and sharp pinch to your hardened— oh so perfect nipples under the flimsy fabric.

You blushed furiously, but he didn’t give you time to respond. His hands slid behind you, unhooking your bra with ease before tossing it aside. The cool air against your skin made you shiver, but the way he stared at you made heat pool low in your belly. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, leaning down to capture a nipple in his mouth. His tongue swirled over the sensitive bud before he grazed it lightly with his teeth, and you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips. 

“That’s it,” he said, pulling back to admire the way your chest heaved. “Let me hear you, baby. I wanna hear every little sound you make.” 

His hands moved to your shorts, tugging them down along with your underwear in one smooth motion. He groaned as he took you in, his eyes dark with lust. 

“Pretty pussy,” he muttered, his fingers brushing over your folds. “So wet already. All for me, huh?” 

You could barely think, let alone respond, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He pushed you back onto the bed, spreading your legs wide and kneeling between them. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as he stared at you like you were his favorite meal. 

“God, you’re perfect,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your inner thigh. “And you taste so fucking good, too. Can’t get enough of you.” 

The first swipe of his tongue against you made your back arch off the bed. He groaned at the taste, his hands tightening on your thighs as he dove back in. 

“Satoru—” you whimpered, your hands fisting the sheets. 

“Mm,” he hummed against you, pulling back just enough to smirk. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Too much?” 

You nodded, your chest heaving, but he just chuckled. “You can take it,” he said, his voice dripping with confidence. “This is just the warm-up, baby. Gotta get you nice and ready for me, don’t I? How else am I supposed to fuck this pretty little pussy without making sure she’s good and prepped?” 

The filthy words sent a shiver down your spine, and the way he looked at you—like he was ready to devour you whole—left you breathless. 

He went back to work, his tongue and lips driving you closer and closer to the edge. The pleasure was overwhelming, and you felt tears prick your eyes as you gasped and whimpered beneath him. 

“Too much,” you cried, your hands reaching for him, trying to push him away. 

“Not yet,” he growled, his grip on your thighs tightening. “You’re gonna give me one more. Just one more, baby. You can do that for me, can’t you?” 

You couldn’t find the words to respond, but the way your body trembled beneath him was answer enough. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to push you over the edge again. 

When you finally shattered, your cries echoing through the room, he pulled back, his lips glistening as he grinned down at you. “Good girl,” he said, his voice full of pride. 

You were still catching your breath when he stood, shrugging off his shirt and undoing his belt with deliberate slowness. “That was just the appetizer,” he said, his grin turning wicked. “Now, let’s see how much you can really take.” 

And as he climbed back over you, his body pressing against yours, you realized that he wasn’t going to stop until he’d completely unraveled you. 

He spread your legs impossibly wide, his strong hands roaming over the soft, milky expanse of your thighs, his touch deliberate and possessive. His fingers slid up, caressing your calf before reaching your ankle, where he leaned in and placed a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on the arch of your foot. His thumb pressed into the sole, sending a faint tingle up your leg, while his other fingers traced over your polished toenails, lingering on the glossy finish of your French pedicure—the one he insisted you get. His treat, his card, his instructions: “Have a field day, baby.” 

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction as his other hand ventured lower, slipping between your thighs. His fingers danced over your pussy, teasing and spreading your slick folds apart. The wet, obscene sounds of your arousal filled the air, making his grin widen. His thumb found your clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles, drawing a needy gasp from you. “Pretty pussy,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he was admiring art he’d sculpted with his own two hands. 

A flush spread across your chest and cheeks, and you instinctively hid your face with your arm. He clicked his tongue in disapproval, his tone playful yet firm. “C’mon now, don’t be shy. Lemme see your face, baby.” His fingers didn’t stop their sinful work, and when you peeked at him, he rewarded you by plunging two long digits inside, curling them just right as he began scissoring you open. “Fuck,” he groaned, feeling the way your walls gripped him. “So tight. Gonna need to stretch you real good for me, aren’t I?” 

Your head tipped back, and a mewl escaped your lips as his pace quickened. He smirked at the sound, his blue eyes gleaming with pride and lust. “Atta girl,” he purred. “Sing for me.” And you did. You cried out, your voice breaking as he coaxed you into release after release, your body trembling under his skilled hands. Every shudder, every whimper made his cock throb with anticipation. 

When you finally caught your breath, you felt the wet, heavy slap of his cock against your sensitive folds, the thick, mushroom-shaped tip dragging across your entrance and bumping against your swollen clit. You whimpered, your thighs instinctively clenching, but he was quick to pry them apart again. “Where you goin’, huh?” he teased, a boyish laugh spilling from his lips as he dragged you closer, his grip on your thigh firm and unyielding. 

“Satoru, it’s too much,” you whined, squirming beneath him, your body still pulsing with the aftershocks of your previous highs. 

He chuckled, his voice a mix of amusement and hunger. “You’ll take it,” he murmured, leaning down to capture your lips in a wet, heated kiss. His hands slid to the backs of your thighs, his grip tightening as he folded your legs, pressing your knees to your chest. He manhandled you effortlessly into a mean, filthy mating press, and the sheer strength of him—his dominance—drew a shameless, needy grunt from you. 

“I love you,” he whispered between kisses, his words punctuated with breathless moans and sloppy affection. “Love you so much—mwah—fuck, you’re perfect. If it’s too much, just say the word.” 

“Red,” you nodded, your voice trembling, reassuring him of your boundaries. 

“Good,” he growled, positioning himself at your entrance. The first thrust was slow, deliberate, his cock stretching you in a way that made you cry out. “Fucking perfect,” he groaned, pulling out just enough before slamming back in, even deeper this time. The friction was overwhelming, your slick heat gripping him like a vice. “Girl, you feel so fucking good,” he panted, his hips finding a relentless rhythm, every snap of his pelvis driving you closer to the edge. 

You were lost in him, in the filthy, desperate way he claimed you, his words and actions consuming every thought until all that remained was him. 

It seemed like forever, but he brought you back to life with a splash of water on your face, and you jerked awake, groggy, confused. “Eh?” 

He sighed, a laugh escaping his lips before kissing your forehead. “You tapped out on me,” he murmured, biting his lip, eyes twinkling with both amusement and concern. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

His gaze softened, almost guilty, like a puppy caught in the act. 

“Hurt? No,” you said, your voice still a little shaky, “but you definitely blew me away.” You gave him a small, teasing smile. 

He chuckled sweetly, sliding your legs open, only for you to snap them shut, gasping, “Again?” 

“No, baby,” he grinned, shaking his head, “I’m cleaning you up.” He lifted the small white towel in his hand, waving it like a white flag. 

Relieved, you let out a sigh. “God knows my stamina isn’t as high as yours. You’re a walking... sex addict.” The words slipped out before you could stop them. 

He laughed, undeterred, as he began his work. “If it’s any consolation, I love my work.” He gave you a wink. 

You nodded, genuinely grateful. “Thank you.” 

“For what? This is my job, sweetheart,” he replied, looking at you as though you were the most precious thing in the world. 

You raised an eyebrow, your hand fisting the sheets, playing with the soft fabric as you tilted your head. “Is everything concerning me your job?” 

He gave you a confused look, mimicking your raised brow as he wiped you gently. Your eyes flickered to the flex of his biceps, the veins—his dedication to being the strongest jujutsu sorcerer ever. And you were still in second year. 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be? You’re my lady.” 

“Usually, married men think that way,” you teased. 

“In my head, I’m already married to you.” He spoke softly, eyes not meeting yours as he carefully slid the fresh panties on you. “I daydream of us, somewhere far away, with a rock on your finger.” 

Your heart stuttered, your breath catching. What did you do to deserve him? A man so devoted, who loved you more than anyone else ever had. 

“Was that too much?” He blushed, the hint of pink on his cheeks as his six eyes flickered with uncertainty. 

“No way,” you said, your voice tender. You reached up to cradle his face, feeling the weight of his breath, the softness of his lips as they quivered beneath your touch. “You’re not the only one who yearns, Satoru. I daydream too.” 

His smile bloomed, and he let out a relieved breath. “That’s... yes, I like that.” 

“I like you,” you muttered, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 

“Like only?” He teased with a smirk, but his eyes held a deeper meaning. 

“My god, you're impossible...” You gave a dramatic sigh before playfully nudging him. 

He laughed boyishly and, before you knew it, flipped you both over. His long legs tangled with yours as he settled you atop his chest, pulling the sheets over the two of you. You let him hold you close, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. 

“I’m joking, shh,” he whispered. “I love you too.” 

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his sternum. “I’m relieved you’re okay now... you seem like your old self again.” 

He sighed deeply, his fingers gently twirling a lock of your hair. “It still bothers me... I feel like I could’ve done something.” 

You placed a hand over his chest, right above his heart, where you could feel the steady rhythm. “You can’t change everything, Satoru.” 

“I’m the—” 

“Tsk tsk tsk. No, you’re not the only one who tried,” you interrupted, looking up at him. “There was me, Shoko, Yaga... we all tried talking to him, but Suguru made up his mind long before he let himself go like that.” 

Satoru’s brows furrowed. “You talked to Suguru?” 

“Yeah.” You nodded; voice soft. “I didn’t think you’d wanna know... It might’ve hurt you.” 

“No, no,” Satoru interrupted, his grip tightening around your waist, his face etched with concern. “That’s not what this is about. I just don’t trust him with you. He could’ve hurt you to get back at me.” 

“Why would he do that?” you frowned, confused. “It’s Suguru. He wouldn’t. We were friends too.” 

Satoru bit his lip, his gaze distant. “I said some... provoking things to him. I was pissed and hurt. But that’s no excuse. I wasn’t thinking straight.” 

Silence hung in the air for a moment, the weight of unspoken words settling between you both. 

“Oh,” you whispered, your heart aching. 

“Yeah, oh,” he muttered, breathing out a long sigh, his face softening with regret. 

The silence between you both lingered, heavy with the weight of unspoken words. You could feel Satoru’s heart beating steadily under your cheek, but there was a subtle tension in the air that still hadn’t quite dissipated. 

He sighed, shifting slightly as if to pull you even closer, his breath warm against your hair. “I don’t want to feel like I’ve failed him... but at the same time, I can’t change what happened. I can’t change what I said.” 

You shifted, pulling yourself up enough to meet his eyes. His gaze was raw, vulnerable, and you could see the inner conflict playing out in the flicker of his six eyes. You reached up, gently brushing a lock of hair from his face, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. 

“Satoru,” you whispered, your voice steady, “you didn’t fail him. You’re not the reason he made those choices. You’re... you’re only human, Satoru.” 

He scoffed lightly, the humor in his voice strained. “I know I’m human, but it doesn’t make me feel any less responsible.” 

“Then don’t,” you said, the conviction in your voice unwavering. “You’re allowed to feel what you feel, but don’t carry that burden alone. You have me. You always will.” 

Satoru’s eyes softened, and for a brief moment, the boyish grin that usually danced on his lips returned. But this time, it was different—more tender, more real. “Yeah? I’ll always have you?” 

“Always,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly as you reached for him again, threading your fingers through his. 

His hand found yours, squeezing it tightly. The weight of everything between you seemed to shift, and as you lay there, tangled in the sheets and in each other, you felt a fleeting sense of peace settle over both of you. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere, as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Same here,” you whispered back. “But I’m not going anywhere.” 

He let out a deep breath, the tension easing as he pulled you closer once more. “I don’t deserve you.” 

You smiled softly, pressing your lips to his chest again. “Stop saying that. You’re exactly what I need.” 

His hand trailed from your back down to your side, his touch light and tender as it ghosted over your skin. He paused at the curve of your pelvis, his fingers tracing a small, delicate beauty mark shaped like a heart. The sensation was soft, deliberate, and when you looked up to meet his eyes, you saw them soften even further, filled with a warmth that made your heart flutter. 

“You know, I’ve always loved this,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like a little piece of you that’s just... perfect.” 

Your breath caught in your throat at the sincerity in his words, his fingertips continuing to trace the small mark, as if committing it to memory. 

“You always find a way to make me feel special,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. 

“Because you are special,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss the top of your head, his lips lingering in your hair. “I love you, you know that?” 

You smiled, the tenderness in his touch making your chest tighten with affection. “I love you too, Satoru. Always.” 

His hand stayed there, resting gently over the heart-shaped mark, as he held you close, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. You simply lay there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, knowing that in this shared quiet, everything was okay. 

“I’m never letting you go,” he whispered into your hair. 

And you smiled, knowing without a doubt that, for better or worse, you were both exactly where you needed to be. 

Until you weren’t.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You were scared, hiding behind a rock while a lifeless body of one of your comrades lay next to you—his arm severed brutally, torn from his body and laid a few inches away from him. He was just a kid, sixteen. The higher-ups had drafted him to join the J.S.T.F. because of his minimal cursed energy—and because he was foreign. Thailand, wasn’t it? You could hardly remember. You were too terrified to think, too overwhelmed by the sight of the mangled body and the violent chaos unfolding around you. 

The way his youthful face was so ripped apart— looking at you, taunting you— reminding you that instead of him, it could’ve been you.

In your head, a small voice says maybe it should’ve. You’re sick of these nightmarish nights when you could be studying in the labs with Shoko— how is she doing these days anyway?

You couldn’t stop the sickening wave of guilt that crashed over you. Why the hell were you even here? A special grade, trained for greater responsibilities. This wasn’t your job. You weren’t supposed to be risking your life like this. They hated you. They had always hated you. Was it because of your cursed technique? Or was it because you loved someone who could never belong to them—the prodigy of the Gojo clan? 

A cold, bitter laugh slipped from your lips. Of course they hated you for loving Satoru. They never understood. 

Speaking of —where the hell was Shepherd? 

You hadn’t heard a word over comms, no bark of orders, no dumb dad jokes to break the tension. Was he hurt? 

The air around you was thick with smoke and gunpowder, blood staining the ground beneath your hands. You could smell the metallic tang of it, could hear the wail of distant curses. The last transmission you heard over comms was a frantic voice from one of your friendlies, talking about exfiltrating—until your jet was shot down by a missile from a curse user group. You grabbed a radio, jumped out of the plane, and prayed that your cursed energy would keep you alive when you hit the ground. 

Your hand instinctively moved to your side, tracing the heart-shaped beauty mark on your pelvis, trying to ground yourself. You focused on the slow, rhythmic circles of your fingers, breathing deeply, trying not to look at the blood, the bodies, the cursed things moving in the distance. 

Suddenly, a shout cut through the chaos. 

“Doll!” 

Your body tensed as you spun around, the smoke swirling like a cruel veil, and then—his face. Shepherd. Thank god. 

“Shepherd!” you gasped, reaching for him as he approached, his eyes scanning the area. 

“We gotta go! Jet’s ready—missiles locked and loaded. Ground team’s north-east—let’s move!” His voice was sharp, commanding, and with no time to spare, you grasped his hand. For a moment, you glanced back at the body of the kid. Rest in peace, soldier. 

Shepherd shielded you with his body as you both ran, darting between rocks and trees, trying to avoid the curses and the inferno of fighting. You could feel the bile rise in your throat, your stomach twisting with every step, but you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t waste a second. The crunch of rubble under your feet— was it rubble or dismembered body parts? you’d like to assume the former.

“GO, GO, GO!” Shepherd’s voice rang out when the jet came into view, and you scrambled to get inside. As soon as you hit the cockpit, you heard the familiar crackle of comms coming to life. 

You were back in motion, you can’t let the old man down— you can’t let yourself down. Now, what’re you gonna do, reader?

“Doll, you copy?” Shepherd’s voice came through, his usual calm replaced by urgency. 

“Yes, captain,” you replied shakily, trying to steady your hands as you guided the plane into taxi. 

“Watcher! What’s your sitrep?” Shepherd barked, and the voice of Leslie, your fellow comrade, the one in charge of the drone your whole team likes to call the “predator”, crackled through. 

“I’ve got eyes on the curse users! South sector’s been infiltrated! They’re coming for the goods!” she shouted. 

You nodded, focusing as you banked the plane toward the south side of the hangar. "I’ve got eyes on target, estimate of seven people and two curses—large, grades unknown,” you reported, setting the plane to auto-pilot. It was time for you to work your magic. 

In the back of the plane, the gunner’s station was ready. You slid into position, your sniper at the ready. 

"Blow 'em!" came the call from the comms, a sense of excitement clear in their tone. 

“Gotcha!” You locked the crosshairs on the group below, eyes steady. Just as you prepared to fire, a flash of cursed energy caught your attention. Your gaze shifted. 

A tall, white-haired figure stood among them, exuding an overwhelming amount of cursed energy, far too much to ignore. You raised an eyebrow, confusion prickling at the back of your mind. 

Was it an old man? how the fuck—-

Suddenly, alarms blared in the cockpit. 

“INCOMING MISSILES, THREE O’CLOCK!” 

“Fuck!” You scrambled, pressing the button to release flares, narrowly evading the incoming missiles. But as soon as you regained control, your eyes locked on the target once more. It was time to pull the trigger. 

You hit the button, and the blast was deafening, the sound of fire and destruction echoing in the cockpit. But the satisfaction was short-lived. 

“HEEEELLLL YEAAAAHHH!! KILLER!” One of your comrades screamed, one close to you since you’ve been here in this shit hole— Malachai, an american-japanese, your age. he cheered, but the adrenaline felt hollow. 

You let the plane bank, the smoke of the explosion clearing. Shepherd’s voice came back through the comms, ordering you to inspect the damage. “Gunner, get a closer look—make sure they’re all dead.” 

“Rog.” You steadied the sniper, letting your cursed energy flow through it like second nature, making sure everything was amplified. Through the scope, you saw the wreckage—smoke billowing and flames licking at the sky. It was a mess. But as the smoke began to clear, you froze. 

There he was again—the man you saw earlier. Tall. White-haired. Standing. Unharmed. You squinted, trying to process what you were seeing. 

A chill ran down your spine. No. 

He turned slowly, and you could see the serene confidence in his movements. He glanced over his shoulder, as if inspecting the damage, as if nothing had happened. 

It couldn’t be. 

It was. 

Satoru Gojo. 

But you didn’t have the time to actually absorb anything— because you weren’t a sponge, actually what the hell? your plane was crashing. You missed a missile flying your way when you caught sight of your boyfriend, er— ex boyfriend? what was he now?

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Satoru wouldn’t call himself a traditional listen-and-abide sorcerer. Sometimes, he liked to do things his way—whether it got Yaga-sensei into trouble with the school directors or landed a punch on his handsome face for discipline. 

“Seriously? Come back, you don’t need more issues on your plate.” Shoko’s voice echoed on the other end of the line. He could almost hear the frustration in her tone, picturing her rubbing her temples in exasperation. 

“Just cover me, Ieiri—there's more going on here. I found so many dead people and cursed spirit residuals.” Satoru spoke casually, yet his eyes never stopped scanning the area. He stepped over the grotesque bodies scattered around him, their faces unrecognizable from the brutal disfiguration. The stench of death hung heavy in the air. “What if they need my help?” 

“Didn’t they tell you, exorcise the special grade and come back home?!” Shoko shot back, her voice rising in frustration. It was clear she didn’t want to get pulled into his mess. 

He grinned, leaning against a nearby ruined building. “Yeah—since when do I ever listen?” His tone was light, but the gravity of the situation wasn’t lost on him. He heard her sigh, the frustration giving way to the familiar undercurrent of worry she couldn’t hide. “Please?” 

Satoru’s eyes darted around, feeling a shift in the air. Without missing a beat, he activated his Infinity, his senses heightened. A missile was coming straight for him. “Shoko, I’m gonna mute you for a sec—your ears might explode otherwise,” he said with a nonchalant grin, fully aware of the imminent danger. 

“What—” 

“Yikes,” he muttered under his breath as the missile exploded mere meters from where he stood. The shockwave rocked his body, sending dust and debris flying, the blast so powerful that the surrounding area seemed to disintegrate. His six eyes caught a grotesque, grisly sight as he looked around—people, cursed spirits, innocent or guilty, torn to pieces in the chaos. 

The sound of screaming metal and crumbling concrete drowned out his thoughts for a moment. 

When the smoke started to clear, Satoru casually unmuted, his voice as unfazed as ever. “My bad, missile hit.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes still wide with awareness, but his grin was still there, almost apologetic. The force of the explosion hadn’t phased him, but the aftermath… it lingered. 

“MISSILE?! Are you at a task force mission?!” Shoko screeched, her concern now unmistakable. 

Satoru smirked, adjusting his sunglasses with a playful flick of his finger. “Heh. May have eavesdropped on the higher-ups after I talked to them last night. Got the password to their classified archives now~” He teased, a grin dancing on his lips. 

“God, you’re such an idiot—” 

CRASH! 

The sudden sound shattered the lighthearted atmosphere. The ground beneath him shook, and his eyes snapped to the sky just in time to see a plane plummeting toward the earth.  His heart skipped a beat. Someone was in that plane. Someone was falling out of the sky with no way to stop it. 

His expression hardened instantly, the playful air gone in an instant. His gaze locked on the descending wreckage as his heart rate quickened. “Fuck, I’ll call you back!” he snapped, his voice sharp, urgent. Without waiting for a reply, he hung up, already sprinting toward the area where the plane was heading. Every instinct screamed at him—this wasn’t just another mission, not when lives were on the line. 

He pushed himself harder, his cursed energy bursting forth in full force. His mind raced as he calculated his next move—I can’t let anyone die today. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“INCOMING! GUNNER, WATCH OUT!!!!!” A sharp, panicked shout rips through the comms as missiles hurtle toward you.

“what the fu—“

There’s no time to react, no time to deploy flares. The world explodes in a blinding flash as your plane is torn apart. The force of the blast knocks you out of your seat and throws you into the chaos of flames and twisted metal. 

Everything is a blur. You struggle to regain consciousness, the pain throbbing through your limbs, your body in agony as you try to stand. The wreckage surrounds you, and you hear the distant shouts of your comrades—screams, gunfire, curses—it all blends into a cacophony. 

“GUNNER! ARE YOU THERE? DO YOU COPY?” The frantic voice of a comrade crackles through the comms, but your vision is still blurry. You try to focus, but your left hand doesn’t respond. You try to move it, but the pain in your wrist is unbearable. “Shit,” you hiss, your breath shallow. 

“DOLL, ARE YOU THERE?!” Shepherd’s voice breaks through the static, more frantic now. You can hear the desperate edge to it. But all you can think about is how to survive—how to get to safety. 

You stagger, stumbling toward where your radio dropped earlier, the ground beneath you uneven, sharp debris digging into your knees. But just as you reach out to grab it, you hear footsteps. Heavy, purposeful. Someone's close. 

Your heart skips a beat. You hold your breath and freeze. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. 

The figure approaches, but you can't make them out through the smoke, the sounds of the fight surrounding you. Your instincts flare—fight or flight. 

“Stay back!” Your voice is low and fierce, a command wrapped in uncertainty, but the adrenaline has you gripping your gun again. The barrel is trained on the figure now, ready to fire. Fear tugs at your insides, but you won’t let it show. Not now. 

The footsteps slow, and you see a figure in a familiar navy-blue uniform, a face you can’t place—yet something feels wrong. Everything about them looks like a blur, like a threat. 

“I said stay back!” You growl, your voice shaking but sharp, the gun firm in your grip as you hold them in your sights. 

The figure stops a few feet away, and you hear them breathe deeply. 

“You sure you’re alright?” the voice says, and your heart stutters. 

The words are gentle, cautious, but the voice... it feels too familiar. 

You can’t breathe. This can’t be happening. No. Not here. Not now. You convince yourself it can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. 

Satoru...? 

You shake your head, blink rapidly as if to clear your vision. This wasn’t possible. The man standing before you—the man who sounded exactly like him—wasn't real. It couldn’t be. It was a curse, a shapeshifting curse that was manipulating your mind. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it out. He wasn’t real. You’d seen him through the scope just before your plane was hit. It couldn’t be him. He was supposed to be somewhere else, not here. You’d heard his voice—faint, like a whisper—before the explosion. Your senses were compromised. It was a hallucination, nothing more. 

You breathe in sharply, your body shaking as the hallucination plays out in front of you. It’s not him. It can’t be him. You try to force the thought through your mind, trying to will it into your reality. It’s a shapeshifting curse—has to be. You can’t even trust your eyes right now. You’ve been through hell, and your senses have been shattered. 

His presence overwhelms you as he steps closer, and for a moment, the world seems to stop. The sounds of the battle fade, and all you can hear is your own rapid breathing. 

“I said stay back!” You shout again, but it comes out weak, unsure. The gun shakes in your hand, the grip slippery from the sweat of your palms. It’s just a curse, you repeat in your mind. This is just another trick. Another curse messing with your head. 

Satoru stops, his blue eyes locking onto yours, full of concern. The intensity in his gaze makes your heart skip, but you refuse to acknowledge it. You can’t. This isn’t real. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice soft, like he's trying to soothe you, but there’s an edge of desperation in his tone. 

Your mind races. This isn’t real. This isn’t him. It’s a curse, it’s got to be. He’s not here. He’s not. You feel your chest tightening as panic surges. You know what’s happening: stress, injury, hallucination. It’s all just a trick, right? 

You can hear Shepherd’s voice in your ear, distant, calling your name, urging you to snap out of it. But it’s all drowned by the pounding in your chest, the frantic voice in your head screaming for you to not let your guard down. 

Stay alert. Stay focused. Don’t let him in. Don’t let your heart betray you. 

Satoru’s eyes soften even further as he steps forward, and you instinctively take another step back, the barrel of the gun still aimed at him. He doesn’t seem to register the threat in your movements, his expression unreadable. 

You’re sure now that if you don’t act fast, you’ll lose yourself to this madness. But what if you’re wrong? What if it is him? What if this is your chance to escape this nightmare? But... how could it be? 

No. 

It’s not him. It can’t be. 

You blink, trying to clear your thoughts, but the adrenaline is so thick you can hardly breathe. The faces of the dead from the wreckage flash in your mind’s eye—your team, the strangers, the endless sea of blood. Your hand grips the gun harder, nails digging into the handle as you take aim once more. 

He raises his hands slowly, like he’s trying to show you that he’s no threat. But that’s just what a curse would do, isn’t it? Pretend to be harmless, get close, and then—attack. 

“You’re not real,” you say, the words barely a whisper, but they feel like they hold everything in them. It’s not him. It’s not him. 

A soft chuckle escapes him, and it feels like a knife in your gut. No, no, no. 

He takes another step closer. “I’m as real as you are.” His voice is soft, almost playful, but there's an undercurrent of pain—like he’s trying to reach you, but the distance between you feels too vast. 

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, the hallucination threatens to dissolve. You can feel the heat of his presence, the familiarity of his voice, the way his words seem to tug at something deep inside of you. The sense of security that you so desperately want to believe in crashes into you like a tidal wave. 

Shit. No. This can’t be happening. 

You raise the gun again, your hand trembling as your vision blurs. It’s a curse. It’s got to be. You’re not going to fall for this. Not again. You can’t afford to. 

“I—” His voice falters. “It’s really you... isn’t it?” 

The way he says it makes your chest tighten, and for a split second, a crack forms in your resolve. No, don’t let him in. Don’t do this. You try to shake the thought away. It’s not real. It’s a curse playing with you. 

You stagger back, unable to tear your eyes from him. "I said stay back!" Your voice is cracking now, desperation bleeding through as the weight of the situation presses in. You need to get out of here. You need to survive.  “I’ll shoot!”

But the urge to drop your guard is almost unbearable. Your heart races against your will, but you can’t let it take over. It’s not real. It’s not real. 

“Stay back!” You shout again, but there’s a tremor in your voice now, more fear than you want to admit. You pull the trigger. You have to. You don’t want to, but you do. 

The shot rings out, but before you can process it, something strange happens. The bullet seems to freeze mid-air, suspended in a force you can’t see, like a barrier of invisible power. It’s not possible. But when the bullet falls to the ground, it’s almost as if the universe itself is mocking you. 

You stare at the empty space where the bullet once was, your mind reeling. That... that wasn’t a shapeshifting curse. That wasn’t a hallucination. That was—him. 

“you’d really shoot me? that hurts, baby.” he murmurs— and you can’t tell if he’s fucking smiling or just actually offended. You can’t tell shit, except from some noises— his voice, and the frankly annoying blue glow of his eyes amidst the smoke. Too bright for your poorly vision, too stimulating for you— sitting like a tall child on the broken concrete and rubble.

The moment of clarity is enough to knock the wind out of you. Your body trembles, a war of disbelief and recognition clashing in your head. But it’s too late. He steps forward again, and this time, you can’t stop him. 

You hear a voice cut through the chaos—your comrade, Alec— Originally Mexican, deployed and recruited into jujutsu task force from North Africa. “RUN! RUN, NOW!” 

Missiles scream overhead, and curses rush toward you, but Satoru’s hand reaches for you, and before you can comprehend it, he’s lifting you in his arms, dashing toward your comrade. You hold onto him reflexively, your arms clinging to his neck as if your very survival depends on it. 

As the sounds of destruction close in around you, you can feel Satoru’s heartbeat against your own. His breath is warm against your ear as he pulls you tighter into his embrace. 

“Don’t let go,” he whispers, his voice full of urgency, but there’s something more behind it—something raw and desperate. 

You can feel the weight of his body against yours, the familiar presence that you once thought was lost to you forever. Your mind races. The confusion doesn’t stop, but right now, with him holding you, you can’t bring yourself to care about anything but surviving. 

But the world isn’t done with you yet. 

The ground shakes as missiles hit, and the screech of enemy fire fills the air, but Satoru doesn’t falter. He holds onto you, and in that moment, you’re not sure if it’s a miracle, a curse, or fate. All you know is that you’re still alive—still breathing. 

The tension in the air thickens as the plane's engines roar, the world outside a blur of destruction and chaos. Satoru’s grip on you never wavers, his hold strong yet gentle, as if he’s terrified that you might slip through his fingers. The steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear is a constant reminder that, for the first time in what feels like forever, you're not alone. Even though the circumstances are far from ideal, in this moment, there’s an odd sense of comfort in the way he holds you—secure and unyielding. 

"RUN, RUN, RUN!" Shepherd’s voice echoes through the comms, and the words seem to pulse through you like a lifeline. Your comrade sprints ahead, leading the charge, and you can barely catch your breath, your body still reeling from the near-miss of death. Satoru’s feet pound against the dirt as he follows, effortlessly keeping up, one arm holding you steady while the other supports your weight beneath your thigh. 

The roar of engines grows louder as you near the hatch of Shepherd's plane. Your eyes are wide, and your pulse is racing. Satoru, as calm as ever, doesn’t let go, and you’re reminded again that he’s here, still here. His presence is overwhelming and undeniable, but it doesn’t stop the chaos within you. Is this real? Is this really happening? 

In a blink, you’re inside the plane. The hatch slams shut with a loud clank, and the roar of the engines drowns out everything else. The three of you are on the floor of the plane, sprawled out like rag dolls, panting for air, desperate to regain some semblance of normality. 

Satoru’s arm stays wrapped around you, even as Shepherd quickly pulls you from his hold. You feel a pang of loss at the sudden distance between you two, but you can’t focus on that now. Shepherd is hovering over you, inspecting your hand with a frown. The broken knuckles—shattered from the impact of the crash—are starting to swell. 

“You did well,” Shepherd breathes, his voice rough with exhaustion. His calloused fingers brush over your hand, making you wince. “My god, look at your hand.” 

“OW,” you whine, pulling your hand away instinctively, but he doesn’t stop, his touch gentle but firm as he checks for further damage. "Ow," you repeat, a little softer this time, as he inspects the fracture. 

He smiles grimly. “I’ll fix ye’ right up, but ye’ did good—we all did. Most of ‘em are dead, but most importantly, those holy transcripts ‘n cursed objects are safe in the ground team's helo.” 

A breath of relief escapes you, the weight of your failure and the mission’s horrors lifting just a little. Your shoulders sag in exhaustion, and you slump against the side of the plane, trying to steady your breath. You hadn’t even realized how hard you were holding it in, but now the adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving you drained and battered. 

But before you can let your mind rest, you remember—Satoru. You blink, as if seeing him for the first time, and your heart skips a beat. 

The reality hits you all over again. 

Alec who had warned you earlier—the one who had been your voice of reason in the chaos—glares at Satoru with suspicion. “Who’re you?” 

Satoru’s expression falters slightly as he blinks, clearly caught off guard. “You… you don’t know who I am?” His voice is laced with surprise, and he looks to you for confirmation, but you can’t provide it. You can’t make sense of any of this. You can’t even think straight. You’re still reeling from the fact that he’s even here. 

Alec’s glare hardens, and Shepherd glances at both of you, his hand hovering over his gun, just in case. The tension in the small, cramped plane is thick, every second stretching as if time itself is holding its breath. 

“No?” Alec repeats, narrowing his eyes. “You an enemy? Part of them?” 

Satoru’s face falls into a serious expression, his posture stiffening. “No! No, I’m a student... at Jujutsu High,” he explains quickly, tugging at the navy-blue uniform jacket he wears as if it should be enough proof. “Fifth year, I had a mission around here—and heard all this chaos... so I came to help.” 

You watch him closely, your heart pounding in your chest as his words sink in. He was close by. What was even close by? was this even Japanese territory? you don’t even know at all— you just seem to black out during these ‘clean-up’ missions, you fail to remember your name sometimes. Shepherd knocks you with a smack to the head to help you.

You don’t know what to feel. You want to scream at him, ask him what the hell he’s doing here, but you’re too exhausted, too bewildered by everything that’s happened. All you know is that this situation is becoming even more surreal by the second. 

You look at him, your eyes softening, yet still full of shock and disbelief. “You found me,” you whisper to yourself, a barely audible sound lost in the cacophony of the plane’s hum. 

His gaze softens, and for the briefest moment, the world outside the plane fades away. He’s here. He found you. Is it really him? 

Shepherd, sensing the moment of tension between you two, pats the comrade on the shoulder, his voice firm. “Relax. Kid’s no harm.” 

Alec gapes, “B-but— gener— I mean, captai— Shepherd, how would you know?!— he just popped out of nowhere!” his hand tightening on his rifle— staring at Satoru. Having no idea he could get hollow purpled at any mom—

Shepherd exhales through his nose gruffly, rubbing his beard and narrowing his eyes at Satoru. “I can feel it.”

Deadpanned— thats what Alec was, “Feel it— yeah, wow, so explanatory.”

Shepherd grunts and points at the button— brooch, whatever it was on the Jujutsu student uniform. “we work for them— he’s a sorcerer. Now, how ‘bout ye get yer ass in the damn cockpit and contact watcher— gimme reports on ground team— if everyone exfiltrated, ye know the drill.”

“Yes, captain.” Alec sighs, prancing into the cockpit.

Satoru exhales sharply, the weight of the situation finally hitting him. A sigh of relief escapes his lips, his shoulders relaxing as the truth of his innocence sets in. He runs a hand through his white hair, glancing back at you once more, the words still hanging in the air between you two. 

The silence feels too heavy, too unspoken, as if something else—something unsaid—lingers in the space between your gazes. 

And then, in that silent exchange, the realization hits. 

Found you, baby. 

His eyes speak more than words ever could, heavy with unspoken emotions—fear, relief, longing, and most of all, the ache of not knowing. But now, it’s clear. The journey to find you is over, and for the first time in a long while, he lets himself believe that maybe—just maybe—there’s a chance for you both after all. 

next.

© All Rights Reserved mymoonisgrey

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@lavnder311

[mymoonisgrey]

you, my love, are All I Need.

synopsis: After the tragedy of the Star Plasma Vessel incident, Satoru Gojo loses more than just his closest friend, Suguru Geto—he loses the one person who made the chaos of his world feel bearable. She was his light, his tether to something more human, and just when he dared to imagine a future with her, fate cruelly severed their bond. With her sudden disappearance in his third year at Jujutsu High, Satoru is left reeling, torn between his duties as the strongest sorcerer and the ache of searching for someone he may never find.

pairings: gojo sator x reader. (og jujutsu au.)

chapter warnings: 18+, blood, mentions of war atmospheres, profanities, sensitive content, masturbation.

wc : 8k+

all i need's playlist!

series masterlist.

a/n: coming in hot with chapter 2, reader, whats your sit rep?

previously.

The higher-ups never made anything easy. Especially not for you. The moment you stepped foot into Jujutsu High, it was as if they’d already decided what you were—not who. A tool. A pawn. A goddamn liability, no matter how brightly your cursed energy burned or how effortlessly you lit up a room. To them, you were a problem—dangerous, volatile, a storm they couldn’t control. And all because of him. 

Satoru Gojo. The Gojo clan’s untouchable prodigy. The strongest. The brightest. Theirs. You weren’t supposed to exist in his orbit, not with the way he looked at you like you were more than just someone—like you were everything. They hated that. Despised it. Because gods weren’t meant to kneel, not even to love. 

“You’re wasting his potential,” they’d said, their voices sharp and cold like a blade pressed to your throat. They made it sound clinical, like they weren’t tearing your life apart for their own convenience. They didn’t ask. They didn’t care. They handed you a choice that wasn’t a choice at all: submission or sacrifice. 

“Marry into a clan,” they offered with saccharine smiles, as if being sold off like livestock was a privilege you should thank them for. “Or,” they continued, their eyes glinting with something cruel, “serve the Jujutsu Society in a way that matters.” 

You’d stared at them, the words sinking in slowly, like venom spreading through your veins. “Serve,” you’d echoed, your voice flat. “You mean die.” 

“Die well,” one of them corrected, and the room erupted in polite laughter. 

It wasn’t funny. None of it was. But what could you do? They’d already made their decision. 

They sent you to the front lines, stripped of your name, your identity, your life. No more Jujutsu High. No more long afternoons spent laughing at Satoru’s bad jokes or stealing quiet moments in between missions. No more him. They took that from you. They took everything. 

You were no longer a sorcerer—not in their eyes. Just a weapon, something to point and shoot. They outfitted you like a soldier, stuffing your hands with guns and knives, with grenades and curses bottled into ammunition. “Barbaric,” you’d muttered the first time they handed you a Glock, but no one laughed. 

“You’ll fit right in,” they’d said, tossing you a uniform that smelled of sweat and iron. “Don’t fuck it up.” 

And then there was Naoya Zenin. Smug, slimy, a roach that somehow always skittered just out of reach. He’d smirked at you the first time he saw you in your combat gear, leaning close like he had the right to invade your space. “Not bad,” he’d said, his voice dripping with condescension. “For a woman.” 

But he wasn’t the worst. That honor belonged to Sato Fuhimito, the sergeant who made it his personal mission to remind you just how replaceable you were. He’d towered over you, all cold eyes and harsher words, laying out your options with the precision of a scalpel. 

“Marry,” he’d said, his tone devoid of emotion, “or fight.” 

You’d laughed in his face, sharp and bitter, a sound ripped straight from your breaking heart. “And here I thought I’d get a third option,” you’d said, dragging a hand down your face. “Like running. Or maybe murder.” 

He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t needed to. They had already won. 

The missions came fast and brutal, one after another. They dropped you into cursed zones without warning, without backup. Your cursed energy tore through everything in its path, but it was never enough. There were always more enemies, always more blood. You stopped counting the bodies after the first week. Stopped feeling anything after the second. 

“You’re good at this,” Fuhimito had said once, watching you wipe blood off your face with trembling hands. “Almost makes me forget you’re expendable.” 

You’d smiled at him, your teeth bared like a wolf. “Don’t worry,” you’d said, your voice like steel. “I’ll remind you.” 

But the worst part wasn’t the missions. It wasn’t the danger or the exhaustion or the bone-deep ache that never quite left you. It was the silence. The way Satoru’s name felt foreign in your mouth after weeks of not saying it. The way his face blurred in your memory, the sharp edges of his smile softening until you couldn’t quite remember what he looked like when he laughed. 

You’d thought he would save you. He’d been so sure, so damn certain that no one could touch you. “They wouldn’t fucking dare,” he’d said, his voice ringing with unshakable confidence. And you’d believed him. You’d let yourself believe, just for a moment, that he was right. 

But they did dare. And when they came for you, you couldn’t even look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the way his face twisted, the way his hands clenched at his sides as if he could hold the world together through sheer will alone. You’d wanted to speak, to scream, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. But the words stuck in your throat, heavy and bitter and unspoken. 

You’d watched him fall apart in silence, his eyes blazing with a fury that could’ve leveled cities. And then they took you, and he couldn’t stop them. For all his strength, for all his power, he couldn’t stop them. 

And now? Now you’re just trying to survive. Day by day, curse by curse. The ache in your chest never fades, a constant reminder of what you’ve lost. Of what they’ve taken. And somewhere, in the quiet moments between battles, you wonder if he’s still out there, wondering the same about you. 

The ocean stretched out before you, an endless expanse of blue and gold as the sun dipped lower into the horizon. The soft glow of the setting sun painted the sky in hues of amber and rose, its light shimmering over the water like a thousand tiny stars. The sand beneath your bare feet was warm, gritty, grounding—a small comfort in the chaos of your life. 

The sundress you wore fluttered in the breeze, its hem brushing against your legs like a whisper. It was simple, white with tiny embroidered flowers, a gift from Satoru during one of your escapades in downtown Tokyo. He’d grinned like an idiot when he bought it, holding it up to you with a dramatic flourish. “My allowance just came in, and my wifey deserves the best,” he’d said, his voice full of that cocky charm that always made your heart skip. You could still hear him, see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when you’d called him insufferable and then kissed him anyway. 

That memory hurt now, a dull ache that settled in your chest as you stood on the beach, staring at the waves. You’d come here to escape, to breathe, to remind yourself that there was still beauty in the world despite everything. Despite the day they’d given you that impossible choice. Despite the way your voice had failed you, the words stuck in your throat as they laid out your fate with clinical precision. 

“Marry or fight,” they’d said, their expressions cold, detached. And you? You’d said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. You’d just stood there, swallowing back the fear, the anger, the overwhelming urge to scream. And now, here you were, on a beach halfway to nowhere, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your life———-

“Hey, you alright?” 

The voice pulled you from your thoughts, gruff yet kind, with a trace of an accent that always made you think of old westerns and wide-open plains. You turned to see Vincent Shepherd, his tall frame silhouetted against the sunset. The captain’s ever-present gun hung at his side, his hand resting on it like he was ready for anything—or maybe just always expecting the worst. 

You laughed, the sound more genuine than you’d expected. “Do you ever put that thing down?” you asked, nodding toward the gun. 

Vincent raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “What, this?” he said, patting the weapon. “Darlin’, this here’s my best friend. Never lets me down, never talks back. Can’t say the same for some people.” 

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lifted. “Pretty sure it doesn’t have much to say in general.” 

“Exactly,” he said, his tone mock-serious. “Quiet and dependable. Unlike a certain someone who keeps sneakin’ off to the beach without backup.” 

“Backup?” you echoed, arching an eyebrow. “I’m not exactly storming a cursed battlefield here, Shepherd.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re out here, and that’s enough for me to worry. You know the drill—eyes open, head on a swivel, gun ready.” 

You laughed again, shaking your head. “I think you’re just paranoid.” 

“Paranoid’s kept me alive this long,” he shot back, though his tone was light. But then his gaze softened, his eyes catching yours in the fading light. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s really goin’ on?” 

Your smile faltered, the weight of his question settling over you like a heavy blanket. Vincent was sharp, perceptive in a way that sometimes made you uncomfortable. He could see through the walls you built, past the jokes and the casual bravado, straight to the parts of you that hurt the most. 

“It’s nothing,” you said quietly, turning your gaze back to the waves. 

“Bullshit,” he said, but there was no heat in his voice. Just concern. “Come on, kid. Spill it. What’s eatin’ at you?” 

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. The sunset painted the world in gold and crimson, but it couldn’t mask the ache inside you. Finally, you sighed, crossing your arms as if that could shield you from the vulnerability creeping in. 

“It’s just… everything,” you admitted. “The missions, the… choices. Being here, fighting for a place that doesn’t even belong to me.” 

Vincent was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped closer, his voice low and steady. “Listen to me, kid. You’re not just fightin’ for a place. You’re fightin’ for people. For the ones who can’t fight for themselves. And yeah, it’s dirty, it’s messy, it’s thankless as hell. But it matters.” 

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his tone. “Vincent…” 

“And you matter,” he continued, cutting you off. “Don’t you dare forget that. I don’t care what those assholes up top say. You’re here, you’re fightin’, and that means somethin’ to me. To all of us.” 

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. The lump in your throat was back, but this time it wasn’t fear or anger. It was something softer, something that felt a little like hope. You glanced at him, the rough lines of his face softened by the fading light, and managed a small smile. 

“Thanks, Shepherd,” you said quietly. 

He snorted, the moment of seriousness breaking as he ruffled your hair with a gloved hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re still on dish duty tonight.” 

You groaned, but the laugh that followed was genuine. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, you felt the ache in your chest ease just a little, the weight of the day a fraction lighter. 

For now, that was enough. 

The night stretched endlessly as you and Shepherd walked side by side, the only sounds the crunch of sand beneath his boots and the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves. The moon hung low, casting a pale silver light that painted the world in soft shadows. The hem of your sundress still swayed in the cool breeze, brushing against your legs like a ghostly touch—one that reminded you too much of a hand you hadn’t felt since late 2007. 

Gojo Satoru’s hand. 

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as if the motion could physically expel the thought of him. It didn’t. His memory lingered, clawing at the edges of your mind, leaving behind a sting that burned hotter with every step. 

“Y’know, kid,” Shepherd’s voice broke the silence, low and gravelly. “I’ve been thinkin’. What’s the point of all this? The dirty work? Feels like we’re breakin’ our backs for scraps while the special grades sit nice and comfy, watchin’ the rest of us bleed.” 

His words hit harder than you expected. Your pace slowed as his question echoed in your mind, mingling with memories you had spent so long trying to suppress. 

“I mean, hell,” Shepherd continued, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’re out here fightin’ curses, takin’ down rogue sorcerers, cleanin’ up their messes while they could snap their fingers and end it all. Don’t that ever piss you off?” 

It did. God, it did. But the heat in your chest wasn’t anger—it was shame. You felt it claw its way up your throat, twisting into something bitter and heavy. 

“They’re too important to risk their lives,” you said, your voice hollow. 

Shepherd let out a dry laugh, one with no humor behind it. “Bullshit. They’re sittin’ back, keepin’ their hands clean while we drown in blood.” He glanced at you, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve got someone in mind, don’t ya? A name and a face.” 

The air felt thinner all of a sudden, your lungs struggling to draw in a full breath. You swallowed hard, your feet slowing to a stop. 

“I had a classmate,” you said quietly, your gaze fixed on the distant waves. “Someone… powerful. The strongest.” 

The words felt like shards of glass on your tongue, sharp and cutting, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. You could see him in your mind—Satoru standing tall, his white hair catching the light, that cocky grin plastered across his face like he owned the world. And he did, didn’t he? 

Satoru Gojo, the prodigy, the untouchable. The boy who made you laugh so hard your sides ached, who looked at you like you were the only person in a crowd of thousands. The man who promised you—promised—that no one would ever hurt you. 

And yet, here you were. Hurt. Broken. Abandoned. Were you even abandoned? Was it your fault? 

“If I had told him of everything,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “He could’ve stopped all of this before it even started.” 

Shepherd stopped walking, turning to face you fully. His expression was unreadable, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. 

“Then why didn’t you?” he asked, his tone careful. 

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. How could you explain that? That the choice to leave had been taken from you before you could even tell him goodbye? That the memory of his voice calling your name was the only thing keeping you sane some days, and the thing that haunted you on others? 

“I don’t know,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Shepherd frowned, but he didn’t press. “Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, shaking his head. “A kid like you? You should be up there with the rest of ‘em. Hell, maybe even leadin’ ‘em. What the hell are you doin’ out here, fightin’ my battles?” 

The question hung in the air, the weight of it pressing down on you like a lead blanket. You looked down at your feet, the sand shifting beneath your toes. 

“I don’t know,” you said again, the words tasting bitter. 

Shepherd sighed, running a hand over his face. “Maybe it’s not supposed to make sense,” he said after a moment. “Or maybe the systems just as fucked as we think it is.” 

His words pulled a small, humorless laugh from you. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Maybe.” 

He looked at you then, his eyes softer, less guarded. “Y’know, kid,” he started, his voice quieter now. “You remind me of my daughter. Same stubborn streak. Same look in your eyes like you’re carryin’ the whole damn world on your back.” 

You glanced up at him, startled. “I didn’t know you had a daughter,” you said. 

“Had,” he corrected, his tone rough. “She and her mom… they’re gone. Lost ‘em to a curse user while I was fightin’ overseas. Thought I was doin’ the right thing, protectin’ ‘em by stayin’ away. Turns out, I was dead wrong.” 

The rawness in his voice made your chest tighten, but before you could speak, he shook his head. “I ain’t gonna make that mistake again,” he said firmly. “Not with you.” 

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?” 

“I’m gonna protect you,” he said simply, his gaze steady. “Even if it kills me.” 

The lump in your throat returned, but this time it wasn’t just guilt. It was something heavier, something softer. Shepherd had no idea who you really were, what you had with Satoru, or the reasons you’d been torn from him. But his words, his promise—they eased the ache in your chest just a little. 

“Thanks, Shepherd,” you said quietly. 

He ruffled your hair with a rough laugh. “Don’t thank me yet, kid. You’re still on cleanup duty tonight.” 

The smile that tugged at your lips felt foreign but not unwelcome. As the two of you continued walking, the camp lights flickering faintly in the distance, Shepherd spoke again. 

“Did you—i mean back when you were at Jtech, hear of a village fire caused by those fuckers?” he said, his tone almost casual. “The one that took out my family. Does it ring a bell for you?” 

You frowned, the question prickling at something deep in your memory. A flicker of flames, a scent of smoke, screams that you couldn’t place. 

“I don’t know,” you said slowly, your voice uncertain. 

“Well,” Shepherd said, his tone hardening. “If it ever does, you let me know.” 

You nodded, your mind spinning. And as the two of you disappeared into the camp, you couldn’t shake the feeling that your past was creeping closer, its shadow stretching long and dark behind you. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The faint hum of a jukebox played a nostalgic melody in the corner diner, its fluorescent lights casting a warm, cozy glow. Satoru Gojo sat slouched in the booth, his sunglasses pushed up to rest on his head. Across from him, Shoko Ieiri twirled a straw lazily in her iced coffee, her usual nonchalance firmly in place. The diner wasn’t particularly crowded—just a couple of patrons scattered about—but its charm had always drawn them in whenever they found themselves downtown. 

In front of Satoru sat a generous slice of matcha cheesecake, the kind he usually devoured in record time. Tonight, however, the plate remained untouched. 

“Excuse me,” a soft, nervous voice interrupted their conversation—or lack thereof. 

Both of them looked up, and there she stood: a girl, maybe a college student, with flushed cheeks and a shy smile. She clutched her phone like it was her lifeline. 

“Um, hi,” she stammered, her gaze fixed on Satoru. “I was wondering… could I get your number?” 

Shoko raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching in amusement, but Satoru barely blinked. 

“Sorry, can’t do that,” he said, leaning back and adjusting his sunglasses. “I’ve got a girlfriend.” 

The girl’s face fell slightly, but she didn’t back down. “Oh… where is she, then?” 

Before Satoru could respond, Shoko leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “She’s right here,” she said smoothly, gesturing toward herself. “Thanks for asking.” 

The girl blinked, her confusion evident, but she quickly mumbled an apology and scurried off, leaving Satoru and Shoko alone again. 

“You’re welcome,” Shoko said with a smirk, taking a sip of her coffee. 

“Very convincing performance, Shoko. I’ll nominate you for an award,” Satoru quipped, though his tone lacked its usual bite. 

“Please, as if anyone would believe I’m your type,” she shot back, waving her hand dismissively. Her gaze flickered to his plate, her brow furrowing. “Speaking of unbelievable—are you seriously not going to touch that? Matcha cheesecake, Gojo. Your favorite. And look at the size of it. Practically made for you.” 

Satoru didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the cheesecake, his fingers tapping against the table in a steady rhythm. Finally, he let out a sigh, pushing his sunglasses back down over his eyes. 

“What’s on your mind?” Shoko asked, her voice softer now. 

He hesitated, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms. “Just… stuff.” 

“Uh-huh.” Shoko tilted her head, giving him a look that clearly said she wasn’t buying it. “Come on, you can’t just ‘stuff’ me. Spill.” 

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, almost reluctantly, he muttered, “I still think of her as my girlfriend.” 

Shoko froze, her straw stilling mid-stir. She knew who he meant—of course, she did. She sighed, resting her arms on the table as she studied him. “You’re not eating sugar because you’re moping over her? That’s serious, Gojo.” 

“Who said I’m moping?” he retorted, his tone defensive. 

“You did. With your face.” She motioned toward him, unimpressed. “And the cheesecake. That’s screaming ‘mope.’” 

He gave a half-hearted chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I just… I don’t get it, y’know? One day she’s there, and then she’s gone. And no one tells me anything. It’s like she just vanished.” 

Shoko fell silent, her brow furrowing in thought. Her mind turned over the puzzle, piecing together fragments of conversations and whispers she’d overheard during her time as Jujutsu High’s unofficial medic. 

“I might be able to help,” she said suddenly, her tone careful. 

Satoru’s head snapped up, his attention now fully on her. “What do you mean?” 

She hesitated, glancing around the diner before leaning in slightly. “I’ve got access to… certain files. As the school’s only undergrad medic, they trust me with medical records and reports. Including stuff on the Taskforce.” 

His brows shot up. “Taskforce? What taskforce?” 

Shoko sighed, fiddling with the corner of her napkin. “The Jujutsu Society has a special division—kind of like a… clean-up crew. They handle stuff no one else wants to touch. High-risk missions, curses in remote areas, cursed weaponry development. It’s brutal work, and it’s not exactly voluntary.” 

Satoru stared at her like she’d slapped him. “You’re telling me they’ve got a whole group of people risking their necks every day, and they didn’t think to tell me? I’m the strongest—I could end those missions in seconds!” 

“They don’t want you doing that,” Shoko said calmly. “The higher-ups protect the strongest for the big stuff. Wars. Catastrophic curses. Things that only someone like you could handle. They’re not going to waste you on things they think the Taskforce can handle.” 

“Waste me?” he repeated, his voice rising. “I’m not a tool they get to save for a rainy day!” 

Shoko raised a hand, trying to placate him. “I get it, okay? But it’s not just you. I’m in the same boat. They keep me out of the field because I’m the only one who can use reverse cursed technique on other people. They’re not about to risk losing their only medic.” 

He let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “That’s different, Shoko. You’re saving lives. They’re just throwing people at problems and hoping for the best.” 

Shoko shrugged, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t say it was fair. Just how it is.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, the din of the diner filling the space between them. Finally, Satoru leaned back, his jaw tight. “You said you could look into it,” he said. “About her. Do you think she’s… there? In the Taskforce?” 

Shoko met his gaze, her eyes steady. “I’ll see what I can find.” 

For the first time that night, Satoru’s expression softened, though the pain in his eyes remained. “Thanks, Shoko.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, smirking. “This could get me into serious trouble, you know.” 

“Trouble’s your middle name,” he shot back, his grin faint but genuine. 

Shoko chuckled, leaning back in her seat. “Yeah, well, don’t forget it. Now eat your damn cheesecake before I do it for you.” 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Satoru picked up his fork, the faintest glimmer of hope stirring in his chest. 

The night air was crisp, the bustle of downtown Tokyo beginning to quiet as the hour grew late. Satoru and Shoko exited the diner, the neon lights reflecting in scattered puddles along the sidewalk. Satoru shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his mind still racing with the revelation Shoko had dropped about the Taskforce. 

“You’re really not going to let this go, huh?” Shoko asked, her tone casual as she lit a cigarette. 

“Would you?” he shot back, glancing at her. His sunglasses were perched atop his head again, exposing the piercing blue of his eyes—eyes that flickered with something between hope and desperation. 

Shoko exhaled a plume of smoke, shrugging. “Fair point.” 

They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of distant traffic and murmured conversations filling the air. Satoru’s gaze wandered, his thoughts a whirlwind. He was about to say something when he froze, his breath catching in his throat. 

Ahead of them, a woman stood at the edge of the sidewalk, her back to them as she waited for the pedestrian signal to change. She wore a long coat, her dark hair falling in soft waves down her back. The sight of her made Satoru’s chest tighten painfully. 

It couldn’t be. 

Without a word, he stepped forward, his strides quick and determined. Shoko blinked in surprise, hurriedly stubbing out her cigarette and following him. 

“Satoru, what are you—?” 

He didn’t answer. His focus was locked on the woman ahead, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Every rational part of his brain told him it wasn’t possible. But the way her hair caught the light, the way she tilted her head ever so slightly—it was too familiar. 

“Wait!” he called out, his voice sharper than he intended. 

The woman turned her head slightly, startled, but it wasn’t enough. Desperation clawing at him, Satoru reached out and gently grabbed her arm, spinning her around. 

For a moment, the world stopped. 

It wasn’t her. 

The woman stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified, clutching her bag tightly against her chest. “W-What are you doing? Let me go!” 

“I’m sorry,” Satoru said quickly, releasing her arm and stepping back. His voice was unsteady, his mind reeling. “I thought you were someone else.” 

The woman’s fear didn’t fade, her hands trembling as she clutched her bag. Shoko arrived at Satoru’s side, her sharp gaze flitting between him and the woman. 

“Relax,” Shoko said smoothly, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “He didn’t mean any harm. Just a misunderstanding.” 

Satoru opened his mouth to apologize again, but then his eyes caught on something—a glint of sapphire at the woman’s throat. His breath hitched. 

The necklace. 

It was unmistakable: a delicate chain with a small sapphire pendant, custom-made because she’d once said his eyes were her favorite shade of blue. 

“Where did you get that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

The woman blinked, her fear momentarily replaced by confusion. “What?” 

“The necklace,” he said, his voice stronger now. “Where did you get it?” 

Her hand instinctively went to the pendant, her grip tightening. “A… a friend gave it to me.” 

Satoru’s stomach dropped. “Who? Where? When?” he demanded, his words spilling out in a rush. 

“I-I don’t know!” the woman stammered, taking a step back. “I don’t even know her name. We just… we worked together once, that’s all!” 

Shoko placed a firm hand on Satoru’s shoulder, tugging him back. “That’s enough,” she said quietly, her voice edged with concern. 

“But—” 

“Satoru,” she said firmly, giving him a look that brokered no argument. 

He exhaled shakily, stepping back and running a hand through his hair. The woman still looked terrified, her eyes darting between them. 

Shoko turned to her, her expression softening. “We’re sorry about this. He really thought you were someone else. What’s your name?” 

The woman hesitated, her gaze flicking to Satoru before returning to Shoko. “It’s Hana,” she said cautiously. 

“Thank you, Hana,” Shoko said with a small nod. “You can go now. Sorry for scaring you.” 

Hana didn’t need to be told twice. She practically ran across the street as soon as the light changed, disappearing into the crowd. 

Shoko watched her go, her sharp eyes catching the faint glimmer of something on Hana’s wrist as she moved. A tattoo. Small and faint, but unmistakable. 

J.S.T.F. 

She frowned, her mind already working through the implications as she turned back to Satoru. He was staring after Hana, his hands trembling at his sides. 

“Let’s go,” Shoko said, tugging his sleeve. 

Satoru didn’t argue, following her in a daze as they made their way toward the train station. 

Once they were seated on the train, the hum of the engine and the sway of the car providing a semblance of normalcy, Shoko finally spoke. 

“She had a J.S.T.F. stamp on her wrist,” she said. 

Satoru turned to her, his brows furrowing. “What does that mean?” 

“It means she’s part of the Jujutsu Special Task Force,” Shoko explained. “Or at least, she was. It’s how they identify Taskforce members—normal sorcerers versus J.S.T.F. operatives. If that woman worked with her, then…” 

Satoru’s eyes widened. “You’re saying she’s alive.” 

“I’m saying it’s possible,” Shoko said carefully. “And now that I have her name, I can look into the files. There might be something there.” 

For the first time that night, a spark of hope lit in Satoru’s eyes. He leaned back in his seat, exhaling deeply. “Thanks, Shoko.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, her tone light despite the weight of their conversation. “You’re lucky I’ve got nothing better to do.” 

Satoru chuckled weakly, his gaze drifting out the window as the city lights blurred past. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t chasing ghosts after all. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The infirmary was silent, save for the hum of the ancient desktop computer and the occasional rustle of paper as Shoko flipped through files stacked in precarious piles. It wasn’t her usual station; this room was unofficial—more like a storage area converted into an impromptu workspace. Cardboard boxes labeled J.S.T.F. were scattered haphazardly around her, their edges worn from years of neglect. 

The fluorescents overhead flickered, casting pale light over Satoru as he slumped in the chair opposite her. His elbows rested on his knees, his white hair falling messily over his forehead, and his trademark sunglasses sat firmly atop his head. There was no trace of the easy confidence he usually exuded. Instead, his eyes were shadowed, distant. 

Shoko glanced up from the computer screen, her cigarette dangling between her fingers. “You’re awfully quiet for once. Not gonna tell me to speed up?” 

Satoru didn’t respond immediately. His gaze was fixed on the floor, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his knee. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he murmured finally, his voice barely above a whisper. 

She sighed, setting the cigarette in the ashtray beside her. “Crazy? No. Desperate? Definitely. But I get it.” 

He leaned back, his lips twitching into a bitter smile. “Do you? Shoko, I felt her. For a second, I thought... I thought I was going to lose my mind.” He dragged a hand down his face, his frustration palpable. “Two years. She’s been gone for two years. And now, out of nowhere, this?” 

Shoko didn’t answer right away. She understood his pain better than he realized. Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer, was human after all. “Look,” she said, her voice softer now. “If it’s her, we’ll find out. If it’s not... you need to know, either way. That’s why we’re doing this.” 

He nodded, though his jaw was clenched tight. 

The computer beeped as Shoko typed in the search parameters. “Okay, let’s start with the obvious,” she muttered. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, inputting the name Hana into the system. The screen flickered before pulling up three entries. 

“Three hits,” she said, leaning forward to scan the information. “Alright, first one. Hana Matsuda. Thirty-eight. Definitely not her.” 

Satoru’s gaze sharpened as she clicked on the second name. 

“Hana Ishikawa. Twenty-five. Civilian. Nope.” 

The final file loaded slowly, the outdated system grinding like it was struggling to breathe. Shoko’s eyes narrowed. “Here we go. Hana... Johnson. Age twenty-eight. Six-year veteran of the J.S.T.F., under the command of Captain Vincent Shepherd. American jujutsu sorcerer. Thirty-five years in service, promoted to captain in his fourth year. Thats the girl we saw.” 

Satoru stiffened, the name ringing in his ears. His eyes darted to the screen as Shoko scrolled through the details. "Johnson? do the higher-ups have a thing for drafting foreign sorcerers?"

Shoko mumbles something he couldn't hear, but gives a half nod-- conveying she wasn't entirely sure.

“Shepherd,” he repeated, his tone flat. “That’s the guy that captains everything? the one that—” He cut himself off, unable to finish the sentence. 

Shoko nodded. “Yeah. He’s the one running the team. She’s been under his command for six years...” Her voice trailed off as realization dawned. She glanced at Satoru. 

“what?” he pressed, his voice rising. 

“Look at Shepherd’s profile.” Shoko finished, clicking through more files. Her breath caught as another name appeared. 

“Bingo,” she whispered. 

The screen displayed a profile picture—grainy and poorly lit, but unmistakably you. Your face was sharper now, her features hardened by time and whatever hell she’d endured, but it was her. 

Satoru froze. His world narrowed to that single image, the one he’d thought he’d never see again. His chest tightened as a wave of emotions crashed over him—relief, anger, guilt, and something raw and unnameable. 

“She’s alive,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. 

But Satoru didn’t laugh. His fingers trembled as he reached out, tracing the edge of the screen. The woman in the photo was both familiar and a stranger, her eyes holding a weight he didn’t remember. 

Shoko didn’t know what to say. The strongest sorcerer in the world looked like a man on the verge of breaking, and for once, she had no words to comfort him. 

The glow of the computer screen flickered in the dim office, the silence heavy and suffocating. Satoru stared, his usually bright and sharp eyes wide and disbelieving. Her picture was there, alongside a name he’d never been able to forget. Her name. Her.

“Shoko,” his voice cracked, almost unrecognizable. “What is this?”

Shoko didn’t answer immediately. She stared at the screen, frozen, her cigarette burning down between her fingers. Her brows knitted together as though her mind refused to piece together what she was seeing. “I… I don’t know.”

“That’s her!” he shouted, slamming his hands down on the desk. The computer shook, and so did his voice. “Her name, her picture, her—why the hell is she on this file?”

“I thought—” Shoko swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “I thought she was dead as well. We all thought she was dead, Satoru.”

He pulled back, staggering as if the weight of her words had hit him physically. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, pacing back and forth, his movements erratic. “Dead?” His voice rose, brittle and cracking. “Then why the fuck is she on a classified task force roster? How could—how could she be alive and no one told me?”

Shoko finally moved, taking a shaky drag from her cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “None of this makes sense.”

He froze mid-step, spinning back to her. “Task force members are supposed to be low-grade sorcerers, right? Barely any cursed energy? She was semi-first grade by the end of our first year.”

Shoko looked at him, her usual calm façade nowhere to be found. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “That’s what we have to figure out.”

His chest heaved, his breaths ragged and loud in the still room. “Shoko.” His voice broke, raw and guttural. “Why didn’t I know? How could you not know?”

He turned away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He hated this—the spiraling fear, the anger clawing at his throat, the gut-wrenching helplessness. For all his power, for everything he could do, he couldn’t reach her. He couldn’t protect her.

Shoko stepped closer, her voice soft but unsteady. “We’ll figure it out,” she murmured. “I promise.”

When her hand landed on his shoulder, Satoru froze, then slowly turned back to her. Without warning, he pulled her into a crushing hug, burying his face in her shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking again. “Thank you, Shoko.”

She patted his back lightly, her own grief mirrored in her touch. “Go get some rest, Satoru. You’re no good to her like this.”

He nodded, releasing her, his trademark cocky smirk flickering to life for just a second. “Yeah. Night, Shoko.”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The night was still and cold as he stood in the parking lot, the sleek curves of his black car gleaming under the streetlights. He rolled his eyes, snapping his fingers and teleporting home instead.

The penthouse was immaculate, a study in luxury and emptiness. The marble floors gleamed, the furniture was pristine, and the city skyline stretched endlessly through floor-to-ceiling windows. It was everything anyone could want, but to him, it was nothing.

The silence pressed in as he shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over his tense muscles. But no amount of heat could thaw the ice in his chest, the hollow ache that had taken root.

Later, he lay sprawled on his massive bed, the silk sheets cool against his skin. His mind refused to quiet. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—her smile, the way she used to roll her eyes when he teased her, the sound of her laugh breaking through the walls he never realized he’d built.

The memories felt cruel now, a double-edged blade that both comforted and destroyed him. He let himself imagine the life they should’ve had—something quieter, simpler. A house by a lake. Her, curled up on the couch with a book while he pretended to read but really just watched her. Kids running barefoot through the grass. A cat lazing on a windowsill, a dog chasing after a ball, maybe even a parrot screeching in the background just because she thought it’d be funny.

He smiled bitterly. “Anything you wanted,” he whispered into the dark, his voice breaking. “Anything you wanted, I’d have given you.”

Reaching for his phone on the nightstand, he scrolled through his photo gallery. Picture after picture filled the screen, each one a moment in time that felt like a lifetime ago. There was her pout when he teased her, her mischievous grin during a mission, her face peaceful as she slept against his shoulder.

Then his finger hovered over a private folder, his pulse quickening. He opened it.

The video played on his phone, the screen dimly lighting the dark room. Satoru lay sprawled on his bed, bare-chested, his hand resting low on his abdomen as his eyes devoured every frame. The grainy quality didn’t matter—her voice, her body, the way she came undone under him—it was all burned into his memory.

He swallowed hard as her moans spilled through the speakers, soft and breathless, laced with the kind of vulnerability only he had been privy to. His cock throbbed beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, and he freed himself with one quick motion, hissing softly as his palm wrapped around the swollen length.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice rough, nearly guttural. His thumb dragged over the sensitive head, smearing precum, and a shudder ripped through him. “You always knew how to ruin me.”

The video showed her writhing beneath him, her back arching, her lips parted as his name tumbled from her mouth like a plea. He matched the rhythm with his hand, slow and torturous, his grip tightening with every stroke. His mind blurred the line between memory and fantasy, the vivid recollection of her warmth, her scent, the way her nails had clawed at his back, begging him for more.

“Miss the way you’d take it,” he rasped, his teeth gritting as his strokes grew faster. His hand slick with precum, the obscene sounds of his movements filled the otherwise silent room. “Miss the way you’d fall apart for me—fuck, look at you.”

The video shifted, showing her face up close, eyes glassy with pleasure, lips swollen from his kisses. He groaned, his hips bucking into his fist as if chasing the ghost of her touch. The ache in his chest burned as hot as the fire pooling low in his abdomen.

“You’d love this, wouldn’t you?” he growled, his voice dropping lower, darker. “Me, falling apart like this. So desperate for you. So fucking pathetic without you.”

The tension coiled tighter, his breathing ragged and shallow, each stroke driving him closer to the edge. Her name spilled from his lips, raw and hoarse, a broken prayer as he imagined her beneath him again, her legs wrapped around his waist, her lips brushing his ear, whispering promises he’d never let her keep.

When release finally hit, it tore through him like a wave, his body arching off the bed as his hand milked every last drop from him. Her name escaped him again, quieter this time, barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

He lay there, chest heaving, his hand sticky and warm, but the satisfaction was fleeting. The hollowness returned almost immediately, swallowing him whole.

With a shaky exhale, he reached for the tissues on the nightstand, cleaning himself with mechanical precision before tossing them aside. Then he opened the drawer, pulling out the small velvet box that felt heavier than it should.

Flipping it open, he stared at the ring inside—a stunning twin-pear cut diamond on a slender gold band. The jeweler had tried to warn him about the price, but he’d only laughed. “Do you think money matters to me? It’s for her.”

His fingers trembled as he brought the ring to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the diamond.

“I’ll find you, baby.” he whispered, his voice barely holding steady as he cracks a small, lopsided weak smile. “what could you be doin’ right now, hm?”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The night was alive with chaos. Screams tore through the air as bullets ricocheted and curses shrieked, their grotesque forms illuminated by the staccato flashes of gunfire. The battlefield sprawled like a macabre painting-smoke rising in thick plumes, flames licking at the debris-strewn ground, and the sharp tang of iron and ozone saturating the air.

Shepherd moved through it all like a force of nature, his commands sharp and unyielding as he led his team into the fray. The chemical hangar loomed ahead, a foreboding structure with jagged shadows clawing at its edges. It was their target, the heart of the enemy's twisted operation, and it needed to be neutralized at all costs.

"Cover the rear! Don't let those bastards flank us!" Shepherd barked, his revolver spitting cursed energy into the night. The weapon's rounds glowed faintly, cutting through the inky darkness as they tore into a curse lunging from the rubble. It let out a guttural scream before disintegrating into ash.

Behind him, the team moved like a well-oiled machine, their formation tight despite the relentless assault.

They were soldiers, each of them hardened by battles far too numerous to count, but even they couldn't mask the tension etched into their movements.

“Hostiles incoming-two o'clock!" one of the soldiers shouted, swiveling to unleash a barrage of gunfire. The bullets caught a humanoid curse mid-leap, its misshapen body convulsing as it hit the ground, twitching before falling still.

Another curse-a grotesque, serpent-like monstrosity

-slithered toward them, its eyes glowing with malice.

Shepherd didn't hesitate. He surged forward, his hand crackling with cursed energy as he slammed his palm into the creature's head. The curse writhed, its hiss morphing into a scream as Shepherd's technique surged through it, obliterating it from the inside out.

"Keep moving!" he roared, turning to face his team.

"The clock's ticking!"

Inside the hangar, the air was suffocating, heavy with the acrid stench of chemicals and the faint hum of cursed energy. The barrels lining the walls seemed to pulse with malevolence, each one a ticking time bomb of destruction waiting to be unleashed.

The team fanned out, their boots echoing against the concrete floor as they worked with practiced efficiency.

Charges were placed with swift precision, the adhesive strips sticking to the tanks with muted clicks.

"Status?" Shepherd's voice was a low growl, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space for movement.

"Almost done, Captain," one of the soldiers replied, sweat streaking his dirt-smudged face as he secured the final charge. "Two minutes to finish the setup."

The words had barely left his mouth when the shadows shifted, and curses began to materialize from the darkness.

They came in a wave-hulking beasts with jagged limbs, their eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.

The soldiers reacted instantly, opening fire in a deafening cacophony. Shells clattered to the ground as bullets tore through the air, some embedding themselves in the curses' grotesque forms while others ricocheted off the walls.

One of the larger curses—a grotesque amalgamation of limbs and teeth-barreled toward the group, its roar shaking the ground. Shepherd met it head-on, his cursed energy igniting like a wildfire. He dodged its swiping claws with practiced ease, his movements fluid and lethal as he closed the distance.

The curse lunged, its jaws snapping shut inches from his face. Shepherd countered with a brutal uppercut, his cursed energy-enhanced strike shattering its lower jaw. The creature staggered back, and he followed up with a series of rapid blows, each one punctuated by the sickening crunch of bones.

Behind him, another soldier let out a sharp cry as a curse pinned him against a barrel. Before it could land the killing blow, a bullet tore through its head, and it crumpled to the ground. Shepherd spared a glance at the soldier, nodding once before returning his focus to the fray.

"Team Bravo, report!"

"Charges are secure, Captain! We're ready to exfil!"

"Good. Move out! Cover each other and keep those bastards off our backs!"

The team began their retreat, their movements quick but deliberate as they wove through the chaos.

Shepherd brought up the rear, his revolver barking with each pull of the trigger, every shot a precise kill.

Outside, the battlefield was no less chaotic. Smoke hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of blood and burnt flesh. The aircraft still loomed above, a silent predator waiting for the signal.

Shepherd's voice crackled through the radio, cutting through the static. "Eagle One, blow 'em to hell, doll."

For a moment, there was silence.

Inside the cockpit, the world seemed to still. You exhaled slowly, your breath fogging the glass as your hands moved with meticulous precision. The targeting system beeped softly, its crosshairs locking onto the heart of the hangar.

The chaos below was a distant memory, muted by the hum of the engines and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. Your finger hovered over the trigger, and for a split second, you let yourself feel the weight of it-the lives, the destruction, the purpose carved out for you in the shadows of this war.

Your lips curled into a faint smile, a chilling edge to it as your voice cut through the silence.

"Yes, Captain."

lets go.

© 2025 All Rights Reserved mymoonisgrey

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@lavnder311

[mymoonisgrey]

you, my love, are All I Need.

synopsis : After the tragedy of the Star Plasma Vessel incident, Satoru Gojo loses more than just his closest friend, Suguru Geto—he loses the one person who made the chaos of his world feel bearable. She was his light, his tether to something more human, and just when he dared to imagine a future with her, fate cruelly severed their bond. With her sudden disappearance in his third year at Jujutsu High, Satoru is left reeling, torn between his duties as the strongest sorcerer and the ache of searching for someone he may never find.

pairings : gojo satoru x reader. ( og jujutsu au.)

chapter warnings : 18+, substance use, brief smut, profanities.

wc : 6k+

all i need’s playlist!

series masterlist.

a/n: hiiii! my first ever ever ever write— besides my take on shakespeare during highschool, should i call it dollspeare? haha. anyway, see you on the flipside! 💋

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The water was cold. 

Not the kind of cold that refreshes you. Not the cold side of a pillow or the chill of water after a midday nap. No, this cold was invasive, sharp, and biting. It numbed him in the worst way possible. His once expensive, custom made suit clung to his skin, heavy and oppressive. Wet clothes had always been a pet peeve of his—an irritation he could never quite shake. 

The cigarette between his long, calloused fingers felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. Satoru didn’t smoke. He never had. He’d always told you it was bad for you, even though you’d laugh and light another one, saying it was the only thing that kept your head straight when life got too heavy. Now he wondered if he could’ve been your relief, if he could’ve been what grounded you. But that wasn’t how life worked, was it? 

How foolish of him to think he could ever compare to a simple cigarette. 

He raised it to his lips, took a drag, and immediately regretted it. It tasted awful, acrid and bitter. He coughed. Shoko had given it to him, probably as a joke, but he couldn’t even bring himself to chuckle at the thought. Sweetness was more his thing, wasn’t it? Something saccharine to drown out the bitterness. But this—the taste clung to him, lingered like a bad memory he couldn’t shake. 

RING!

“Fuck me,” he muttered, startled by the shrill ring of his phone. The sound echoed in the silent bathroom, his head pounding with every note. He groaned, shifting in the water as it sloshed around him, reaching for his phone. His movements were sluggish, as though the cold had seeped into his bones. His first touchscreen phone—a novelty he would’ve been excited about in a different time. Would you have liked it? Would you have made him take pictures, dragging him into the frame despite his protests? 

“Boo, took you long enough,” Shoko’s voice teased, the usual dullness tinged with something heavier, wearier. 

Satoru winced, his throat raw and hoarse. “Five seconds too long for you?” he replied, his tone biting, though the effort felt half-hearted. 

“You sound like shit.” 

“Gee, thanks.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “Rough day.” 

“Mission?” 

“Yeah. Mission. Great.” 

“Doesn’t sound like it.” 

“What do you want me to say, Shoko? That it was fucking fantastic? Peachy?” His voice cracked, and he hated himself for it. “Sorry, I’m just…” 

“It’s fine. I get it.” Her tone softened, but the silence that followed was deafening. Crackling static filled the line as he struggled to find words that wouldn’t spill over into something he couldn’t control. 

“They still have her files,” he blurted, the words bitter on his tongue. His free hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into his palm. “They still have them, Shoko.” 

“...Seriously?” 

“Yeah. I saw them today. Her picture was just… there. Like she never fucking left. Like she’s still here, just out of reach.” 

“And the verdict?” 

“She’s alive. I fucking know it. Why else would they have her files? No stamp, no ‘KIA.’ They lied to me, Shoko. They told me she was dead, but they lied.” 

His voice cracked again, and he swallowed hard, trying to choke down the rising tide of emotion. Don’t cry. Not now. Not here. 

“What if it’s an old—” 

“Don’t. Don’t do that.” His tone was sharp, cutting. “You know as well as I do that they wouldn’t keep her file out if she were dead. It would’ve been archived, buried under layers of dust and bureaucracy.” 

Silence. Then, softly: “So what are you going to do?” 

“Find her,” he said, the words a vow. “I have to find her.” 

“Then do it,” she said firmly. “You’re the strongest, aren’t you? Use it. Burn it all down if you have to.” 

He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. His eyes flicked to the orange bottle on the bathroom sink—benzos Shoko had prescribed him in a moment of pity. He hated them, but he hated the alternative more. 

“Can I use your bathtub?” Shoko asked suddenly, her voice lighter, almost teasing. “The dorm showers are shit.” 

“Yeah,” he said, his lips quirking into a small, fleeting smile. “You’re always welcome, Shoko.” 

When the call ended, he stood, water cascading off his soaked suit. It dripped onto the expensive tiles as he walked to the sink, his movements erratic and unsteady. He grabbed the bottle, popping more pills than he should’ve, and braced himself against the counter. His reflection stared back at him, hollow and tired. 

“I’m going to find you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding in his head. “I swear it.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Late 2007. 

“Baby?” 

You turned at the sound of his voice, cigarette in hand, the embers glowing faintly in the darkness. Your eyes met his, heavy with the weight of everything you couldn’t say. His heart ached at the sight—dulled color, dimmed light. You used to shine. What happened? 

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” you asked softly as he sat beside you, his presence warm against the night’s chill. 

“Can’t sleep without you,” he admitted, his voice gentle, honest. 

Your cheeks flushed, and he smiled, the kind of smile that could’ve lit up your entire world if you let it. He reached for your hand, pulling you closer. 

“Talk to me,” he urged, his thumb brushing against your delicate knuckles. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” 

You hesitated, biting your lip—a nervous habit he always noticed, he noticed everything about you. “Mission tomorrow,” you said finally. “Just nervous.” 

He frowned, his round glasses slipping down his nose. “You’ll be fine. You’re amazing, remember?” 

He kissed your temple, soft and lingering. “Anything goes wrong, call me. I’ll be there.” 

“You can’t.” 

“I can,” he insisted. “I’ll cross the world for you. You know that. What’s a few old geezers gonna do to me, huh?” 

His words were too much, too heavy, too sincere. They broke something in you. But you smiled anyway, because how could you not? He was Satoru Gojo—light incarnate. And you were about to dim that light forever.  After months of him trying to light it back.

“Let’s go to bed,” you murmur softly, your fingers slipping into his with the kind of ease that comes only with familiarity. His hand is warm, encompassing yours, grounding you in a way nothing else ever could. He rises without hesitation, trailing behind you, his gaze tracing your every movement with an intensity that makes your heart falter. His eyes—those unrelenting, cerulean eyes—are filled with something unspoken, something that burns. For you? He’d cross any line, defy any rule. Murder? It’s not a question of if. It’s when. 

His bed is warm, impossibly so, as though it’s been waiting just for you. The mattress is decadent, the kind of luxury you almost envy him for, but the thought dissipates the moment he pulls you against him. His arms encircle you, his chest firm and steady at your back. One hand rests possessively on your waist, the other trailing languid, deliberate circles over your stomach. His lips brush your temple, soft and reverent, like a prayer whispered to a god he doesn’t believe in. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice raw, aching with everything he feels but cannot say. “I love you so much.” 

The words sink into you, heavy and bittersweet. They wrap around your heart, squeezing painfully tight. You feel it all—his love, his longing, his desperation to keep you close—and it hurts. Ouch. 

“I love you... oh!” 

Satoru’s breath is hot against your skin, but there's something different in the way he exhales—a harsh, almost desperate edge to it. His lips curl into a grin, but it's not playful, it’s darker, more possessive. “Shhh,” he hisses, voice rougher than before, "Don't even think. Just let go. I'll make you forget everything." 

Before you can respond, his hand is already sliding under your waistband, fingertips grazing your skin in a way that feels almost possessive. His touch is no longer gentle, it’s urgent, demanding. He presses against your clothed clit, and the pressure is firm—so deliberate that you gasp, your body instinctively arching toward him, wanting more. 

You can feel how damp you are, the evidence of your body's betrayal, but there's no time for embarrassment now. You’re lost in the way he touches you, the relentless friction, the heat spreading through you. His fingers move with purpose, pushing you toward something far more intense, and the quiet whimpers spilling from your lips only fuel his desire. His fingers slide your panties to the side, rubbing over your clit with precision, it’s too fucking much. 

He’s too fucking much. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” His voice is lower now, like a growl, as he trails his lips along your neck. The heat of his breath against your skin sends jolts of electricity through your body. "Say it. Let me take care of ya, please, baby." 

You can barely form the words, your breath coming in quick bursts. "Yes... please..." You don’t even recognize your own voice. It’s needy. Desperate. 

Satoru's other hand moves swiftly to your chest, fingers grasping your ample tit with an almost bruising intensity. He kneads it, pinching your nipple sharply until you let out a startled gasp. The pain is sharp, but it’s mingled with the overwhelming pleasure of his touch, making you dizzy with desire. You’re at the edge, teetering, lost in the mounting pleasure that threatens to unravel you. 

“I love you,” he mutters, but it’s not the gentle, loving declaration from before—it’s guttural, a promise of something darker. His lips crash against yours in a kiss so intense, so consuming, it knocks the air from your lungs. He dominates the kiss, his tongue claiming you with an urgency that leaves you breathless, desperate for more. His hands never stop moving—teasing, demanding—his touch leaving no room for hesitation. 

“Feel me,” he demands between kisses, his tone low and commanding, yet so fucking desperate as if you were gonna leave. Touche..  

“As long as I’m here, you don’t think. You don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything but feel. Let me take care of everything. That’s my job, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” His fingers are relentless, working you harder now, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, each movement sharper than the last. Your body is trembling beneath him, and he knows it. He knows how close you are to breaking, to completely losing yourself to him. And he’ll make sure you do. 

“I'm sorry.” You croak out as he takes care of you. Like he always does. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

That was the last time he saw you. Because the next morning, you were gone.  

The polaroids in his hands, ones he found while looking for a specific sweater in the back of his closet, felt heavier than they should’ve, their glossy surfaces cold against his fingers. Dates were scrawled in blue ink—a souvenir pen from a trip to Seoul. He stared at the pictures, your beautiful face smiling back at him, frozen in time. 

“Did you even love me?” 

The question lingered in the empty room. He didn’t believe you were dead. He couldn’t. Not when his gut told him otherwise. You were out there. Somewhere. And he would find you. 

Even if it killed him. 

next.

© 2025 all rights reserved mymoonisgray.

[mymoonisgrey]

You, my love, are All I Need.

synopsis : After the tragedy of the Star Plasma Vessel incident, Satoru Gojo loses more than just his closest friend, Suguru Geto—he loses the one person who made the chaos of his world feel bearable. She was his light, his tether to something more human, and just when he dared to imagine a future with her, fate cruelly severed their bond. With her sudden disappearance in his third year at Jujutsu High, Satoru is left reeling, torn between his duties as the strongest sorcerer and the ache of searching for someone he may never find.

status: ongoing!

pairings: Satoru Gojo x Reader, original AU.

notice ! : this series will contain mentions of dark content, smut, heavy angst, murder, kidnapping, manipulation, substance use, cheating, torture, some brief reader x suguru, jealousy, some fabricated information in order for the story to make sense. THERE WILL BE INDIVIDUAL WARNINGS FOR EVERY CHAPTER.

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tag list is open, just comment!

chapter 1 : polaroids.

chapter 2 : yes, captain.

chapter 3 : found you.

chapter 4 : truths or lies?

chapter 5 : war makes friends and foes.

© 2025 all rights reserved mymoonisgrey.