ayouu

Sirius’ eyes widened, “A bloke?” 

James nodded, “Yeah, like, ya know…” He shrugged, “I’d offer but I’m a happily committed man, Sirius.”

“Hmm.” Sirius bit his lip, thinking about it for a moment, “Add it to the list, I’ll consider it.”

James grinned and hurried to scribble it down, “Shagging… a criminal would work too… that also goes under the category of becoming a criminal. Because, you know, conspiring with them and all that.”

“Ooh, yeah, I’d shag a criminal.” 

“Or like… a creature or something.”

“I’m not shagging an animal, James.” 

James laughed, “No! Like… like a vampire or something, you know? Or a werewolf.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Sirius nodded, “That could be cool.”

“Yeah… hot, right?” 

Sirius shrugged, “Erm, I suppose. I like the muggle vampire romance books, so…”

James sighed and wrote it down, “Oh, look at that.” He hummed to himself, his tone a little playful, a little curious, “A halfblood, criminal… a creature, a bloke…” He chuckled, “You could just shag Moony.” 

“Moony?” Sirius asked, looking down at the parchment. 

James shrugged, “You’d be killing like, four birds with one stone. Your mother would be beside herself.” He laughed, “Ah, I’m just playing fun, Sirius. Obviously you’re not gonna go shag Moony. It’s not like you’re both gay or anything.” 

Sirius nodded his head, “Yeah, it would be funny though.” 

“Yeah.” James sighed, looking back at the parchment, “Ooh! Let the girls do your makeup and go have dinner in the Great Hall in a dress.” 

Sirius gasped, “Oh, James, you’re brilliant!” 

☆ ★ ☆

Sirius swings lazily on his chair, one leg propped up on his bedside table and the other just his toes touching the ground. His hair is tied back all messily, and he’s got his tie loose around his neck and a few buttons on his shirt undone. He’s humming to himself, watching the record spin and spin and spin on the table until it comes to a scratchy stop. 

With an effortless swish of his wand, the record lifts itself up and slots itself away into the Ziggy Stardust sleeve on the shelf. And then he groans, throwing his head back and exposing his long pale neck. 

Remus is going insane. 

“I’m so bored.” He whines, “Why’d she have to make my detention so late?”

“To further punish you, I suppose.” James shrugged. 

“You know, you should be thanking me. If I didn’t take the fall for you, Prongsie Boy, you’d be the bored one right now.” 

“And I’ll forever be greatful for it, shnookums.” James laughs, bouncing over to kiss Sirius sloppily on his forehead. 

Sirius yelps and nearly falls out of his chair, swatting James away, “You’re disgusting.”

“No, you are.” James says, tapping Sirius on the end of his nose like a sappy couple would, going back and forth about who’s cuter. 

Sirius rolls his eyes and smiles anyway. 

“I’ll see ya later.” James calls, “Gotta go do my rounds with Lily.” 

“Bye.” Sirius waves, and goes back to his chair swinging. 

Remus barely mutters his goodbye as he watches, and James laughs to himself as he leaves. 

It’s just them two now. Alone. In their dorm. James out for the next few hours, Peter no doubt distractedly talking with the girls for hours on end. Remus should go down and join them, he said he would, but… well, right now he’d rather watch Sirius swing on his chair. 

Besides, Sirius has to leave for his detention soon, so he can join them later. 

Sirius huffs and a shiny strand of hair flies up out of his face. It slowly settles back down, and then Sirius blows it back up into the air again. He does this a few more times, until it falls off the side of his face and out of reach, and Remus watches, entranced the whole time. 

“Moonshine?” Sirius asks, eyes squinting as he looks out the window. He’s tracking a bird as it loops around the sky. 

“Yes?” Remus squeaks out, then clears his throat and deepens his voice, “Uh, I mean, yes?” 

Sirius shrugs, “Would you ever be interested in shagging?” 

Remus feels his cheeks go red, “What?”

“Shagging?” Sirius asks, turning to look at Remus, and it’s mortifying, “Like, sex… fucking… you know?”

“Ah… yes?” Remus nods, “Yes, I’d be… I mean, who isn’t interested in sex?” He laughs nervously.

“Erm… me, I suppose.” Sirius sighs, looking back up at the roof, “I mean, I do it a lot I suppose- or, well, not that much. But, you know, more than you or Pete and the girls and stuff.”

“Right.” Remus nods.

“But I mean, it’s not that great. You know, if I never shagged again, I wouldn’t care.” 

“Really?” He asks, curious. 

“Yeah, I mean, sure, girls are gorgeous and all but… eh, you know?” 

Remus swallows, “Eh?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, “It’s just… slimey down there. And like… I don’t understand the whole boob thing. I guess… I ‘spose it’s not really normal, so I just ignore it. But I don’t go out of my way to shag a girl unless she asks, you know?” 

“Sure…” Remus says, because he very much knows- or, well, not really. He knows he wouldn’t shag a girl no matter what, because he doesn’t like girls. So he gets that, but he doesn’t really understand if Sirius is implying the same circumstance or not. 

“Have you ever shagged anyone, Remus?” 

“No.” He swallows, “Never.”

“Oh…” Sirius nods, “But you want to?”

“Yes.” Remus nods back. 

Sirius seems to think about this for a moment, humming to himself in quiet contemplation, and Remus just watches. He has no idea what he’s feeling right now, other than downright confused and so fucking intrigued. 

“Would you ever shag me?” 

Remus chokes. He starts coughing and spluttering, cheeks red and eyes wide, “Sorry?” 

Sirius shrugs, “Sorry.” He laughs, “Didn’t mean to catch you off guard like that. But would you ever shag me?” 

“I… I mean…” Remus rubs his forehead, “I’m… I don’t…”

“Just, you know how James and I are finding things to piss my mother off?” 

“Yeah…?” 

“Well, we thought it would be good if I shagged a bloke, and a creature… a criminal, and like… a halfblood.” Sirius smiled, “You’re an unregistered half blood werewolf with a cock, so-“

“Bloody hell, Sirius.” Remus looks at him, absolutely gobsmacked. Lily will go crazy when he tells her about this conversation. “I mean… what?” 

Sirius shrugged, “I mean, it’s not like I’m gay or anything. I just know it would piss her off.”

Well, that’s disappointing. 

“So yeah, do you wanna shag?”

“Are you serious?” 

Sirius smirked. 

“I- no.” He scoffed, laughing into his hands as he hid behind them, “Are you genuinely asking me to fuck, right now, Sirius?”

“Yeah…” Sirius smiled, “Just a bit of fooling around. It doesn’t have to mean anything, and I know we’re both not gay so it’s cool. It doesn’t have to be weird.” 

“Right.” Remus nods, because he’s not gay, no, not at all. 

“Besides, imagine the bragging rights.” 

“Sorry?” Remus hummed. 

“Well, I can say I’ve fucked a werewolf, and a criminal, which is… pretty cool.” He grinned, “And you can say you’ve fucked Sirius Black.”

“Oh, you cocky bastard.” Remus groaned. 

Sirius laughed, “Imagine it, one of those girls in the halls bragging to their friends about how I’ve been inside them- and what, you’d just be able to say you’ve been inside me! Something they’d never be able to say.”

Remus’ eyebrows furrowed, “I’d be inside you?”

“Well, yeah.” Sirius shrugged, “Oh, unless you prefer it the other way around. I just think I’d prefer if you fucked me, is all.” 

Remus’ brain is short circuiting. He’s beginning to question whether or not Sirius is as straight as he claims. 

“When you said shag, I assumed you mean handjobs.” 

“Oh…” Sirius nodded, looking a little disappointed actually, “Oh, yeah, we can… we can just do handjobs if you want.” 

“Erm, no that’s okay.” Remus cleared his throat, “I can… I can, erm, do that, if you’d like.” 

“Oh, Moons, you don’t have to just do it if you don’t want. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.” Sirius smiled, so, so prettily.

“No, it’s okay, yeah, I’d…” Remus looked away for a moment, unable to believe he was actually having this conversation, “I’ll fuck you.”

“Oh, brilliant.” Sirius grinned, “You’re really the best, Remus. Like, my favorite person in the world. Mother will be so pissed if she ever found out- and don’t worry, I’m not just gonna go tell her. It’s just the idea of it.” 

“Right.” Remus nods. 

“So, erm… I’ve got detention, so we can’t do it now… how about tonight?” 

“To-“ Remus stops himself mid sentence and looks at Sirius aghast, “You’re just… yeah, okay, yeah.” 

Sirius hummed, “James will have his date thing in the astronomy tower by the time I get back from detention so… we just have to get Peter out of the room somehow.”

“Leave it to me!” Remus says, “I’ve got… I’ll figure it out. I’m… yeah, we’re good mates so I’ll sort it.”

“Oh, Moonbeam, you really are the best.” Sirius smiles, hopping up out of his chair and bouncing over to pet Remus on the top of his head, “Really, I owe you big time.” 

“Yeah.” Remus blushed and ducked his head, watching Sirius waltz out of the room, humming a happy tune. 

☆ ★ ☆

“Holy shit guys, I just…” Remus plops himself down on the couch between Mary and Marlene. Lily is sitting on the floor against Mary’s legs and Pete’s sitting across from her, they’re playing snap. “I… I think I’m gonna have sex with Sirius.”

All four of them went dead silent, turning slowly to look at him. 

Remus swallows and looks up, “He wants to piss of his parents and… apparently secretly having sex with me is the perfect way to do that?”

“What?” Peter gasps. 

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly, Wormy.” Remus muttered, “Erm, we’re gonna shag tonight… he wants… he wants me to shag him, tonight.” 

“Merlin…” Lily grins looking up at him, “Oh, Remus!”

Remus bites his lip, blushing, “Pete… you reckon you can clear the room tonight?” 

“Trust me, I’m staying as far away as possible.” Peter laughed, “Bloody hell, I owe James ten galleons. I really didn’t think that would work.”

“You planned this?” Remus asked, “Wait, you bet on this?”

Peter looked at him deadpan, “I’ve already made fifty galleons from winning bets on Sirius, he’s so predictable. Obviously I bet on this.” 

Remus sighs and sinks down into the sofa, “I’m going to have sex with Sirius tonight…” He looks around at them all, “How do you have sex?”

“Oh, Remus.” Lily mused. 

☆ ★ ☆

It’s just them. Just Remus and Sirius. The moment he got back from detention James was waltzing out of the room with a cheerful grin, off to his date, and Pete was following right after in hopes of finding Marlene. 

So they’re alone already, which makes things so much easier for Sirius. 

“Thanks.” He smiles, “For sorting Pete out.” 

“No problem.” Remus nodded, “He was gonna hang out with Marlene anyway.” 

“Oh, cool.” Sirius said, starting to feel a little awkward, “Erm, so, I don’t really know how this works.”

“Me either, I suppose.” Remus swallowed, “I did some research, though. Figured out some stuff.”

“Oh, Moons…” Sirius smiled, he really is the most grateful for Remus. He really is the best. He just feels so much admiration for him all the time. “You’re such a good friend.” 

“Yep.” Remus nods, “Such a good friend.”

“So like… are we just doing the sex bit, or foreplay too?” Sirius asked, hoping Remus votes for foreplay. Sirius is good at foreplay, it’s his strong suit. It’s the part he likes the best of sex, so he doesn’t want to make it weird by not enjoying any of this. 

But foreplay is what people do when they like each other, most of the time. So Sirius would understand if Remus says no to it. Like, it would be extra disappointing, but he’d get it. 

“Forplay?” Remus’ eyes widen. 

“Yeah, like… kissing and all that.” He shrugs, “Undressing each other .”

Remus swallows, “Sure.” He says, and for some reason his voice just got higher. Sirius likes when Remus’ voice does that, it’s funny and it makes him feel kinda good, like, proud in a way, but he doesn’t know why. 

“Oh, cool.” Sirius nods, acting all nonchalant when really he’s feeling very happy inside. 

“Uhm… we have to use lube.” 

“Oh…” Sirius furrowed his brow. Girls don’t need lube. He really knows less about this sex stuff than he thought. “Right, well, I think we have some of that butter left from the prank-“

“Not butter.” Remus cuts in, laughing at him, “Definitely not butter, Sirius. It’s going inside you-“

“Oh, yuck. I don’t want butter in my arse.” He grimaced. 

“Yeah, I don’t really want it on me either.” Remus laughed, “Like, sex lube.” 

“Oh…” Sirius nodded, “What’s that? Can we make it?” 

“No.” Remus smiled, turning to his bedside draw, “It’s just gel stuff, I guess. Erm, here…” He tossed a little tube over to Sirius. 

It’s see through and has a transparent slime inside, “Oh, where'd you get this on such short notice? It’s half empty.” 

Remus went red again. Sirius likes when he makes Remus go red. “Erm… cause I use it.” 

“I thought you didn’t have sex?”

“I don’t.” Remus splutters, “It’s for… wanking”.

Sirius looked down at the tube, then over at Remus’ crotch, “Oh… really? I don’t need lube when I wank- I mean, not that I wank very often, but it’s always wet enough when I do.” 

Remus’ eyes widened and he just stared at Sirius for a moment, “Right…” 

Sirius shrugged, “This sex stuff is interesting.” 

“Erm, you’ll also have to be… fingered.” Remus gritted out. 

“Can you finger blokes?” He asks, genuinely baffled as he flips the bottle of lube around in his hand absentmindedly. 

Remus nods. 

“Oh, I didn’t know that… why?”

“To make it like… big enough.” Remus nods, “You know… for…” He waved his hands wearily around his crotch. 

“Oh, yeah, I suppose it’s kinda a small hole, hey?” Sirius hummed, the pieces slotting into place now, “Cool.” 

“Yeah, cool.” 

“So… like, I haven’t kissed a bloke before, but I’ve kissed girls.” Sirius smiled, “Have you kissed a bloke before? I know you’ve kissed a couple girls.” 

Remus nods, “I kissed Peter once.” 

Sirius immediately does not like that. He doesn’t know why, but that’s just weird. It’s just so, so weird. Peter? Remus has kissed Peter? What the fuck. 

“What?”

“Yeah, we made out once-“ Remus cuts himself off, giving Sirius an unsure look. 

Sirius knows it’s because he’s scowling. He’s not even ashamed of it. Remus and Peter made out, how fucking weird. That’s just fucking weird. That’s so gross, that so- oh, is Sirius homophobic? Oh, Sirius really doesn’t want to be homophobic. A lot of his friends are gay, that would be really bad if he was homophobic. 

He huffs and looks at the ground, “Did it mean anything-“

“No.” Remus says immediately, “The girls just dared us one day, since they’ve all kissed each other- it was just stupid. Didn’t mean anything. Never will. Never has.” 

“Oh, cool.” Sirius nods, some of the weight lifting off of his shoulders. The thought still makes him a little queasy, but less so now.

Perhaps shagging a bloke will make him less homophobic. He really hopes it will. He feels really terrible. His whole life he’s been running from the man his parents tried to shape him into, and yet, the shadow lingers. 

It’s terrifying. 

“Erm, so… do we just… kiss?” 

Remus is still for a moment, and he’s looking at Sirius kind of strangely. Sirius doesn’t know what to do with himself in all honesty, he never does under Remus’ gaze. It’s always so intense, it makes him nervous, fiddley… giggly. 

Oh yeah, Remus makes him so giggly. He’s fighting the urge to giggle like a child now. Remus is just… he’s looking at him, like really looking. Sirius feels so special when Remus looks at him, because he knows Remus doesn’t look at anyone else like this. No, this look is reserved especially for Sirius and that’s just… well, isn’t that just delightful? 

But he really doesn’t want to giggle right now. He’s trying so hard not too, because that would be embarrassing. He feels like a girl, which is so weird, and so dumb, because why would he ever feel like that? 

“Do you want to kiss?” Remus asked back eventually. 

“Yes.” Sirius says, without a thought, mouth on autopilot apparently. And that’s probably a good thing, because his brain is kind of a bit useless at the moment. So much is going on up there, yet there are no thoughts at all. He nods his head for assurance, “Yeah, that’d be good.”

“Okay.” Remus smiled and took a couple of steps closer. 

Sirius looked at the gap between them, there wasn’t much of one, but he certainly wasn’t close enough to comfortably kiss. So Sirius took the final step, the baggy wool of Remus’ sweater brushing up against the buttons of Sirius’ shirt. 

“Hi there.” Sirius murmured into the small space between them. If he leant forward, just a smidgen, their noses would bump together. 

“Hi.” Remus smiles, his cheeks flushing a really adorable pink colour, flushed under freckles and scars. 

Sirius really doesn’t know how Remus doesn’t get girls, because he thinks Remus is quite attractive. Well, sure, he’s not dashing in the way Sirius effortlessly is, and he’s not cute in the way Peter is, and he’s certainly not stoically handsome like James. But he’s attractive in his own little way, in the Remus way, the way that he’s just really handsome because he simply is and everyone should just agree because Sirius knows. 

Besides, he looks really cute when he’s about to get kissed. All up close and personal, honey-golden eyes barely visible behind the dilation in his pupils, flushed cheeks smattered under a galaxy of freckles, silver scars that are just so intrinsically Remus, pert lips that look so… so… uhm, Sirius can’t think. He’s too distracted to think. 

Point is, Remus is damned attractive and it’s appalling that not more people think so. 

Remus huffs and bites his lip, and Sirius can feel his eyes searching all over Sirius’ face. But he can’t help but stare at the place between Remus’ front teeth, the plush skin, it’s so pink and shiny. He’s just so… so cute. 

Sirius boops their noses together. 

Remus almost giggles. 

Sirius kisses him. 

It’s… well, it’s so much better than kissing girls. Honestly, Remus must have been practising because he’s just really good at this whole kissing thing. Maybe there’s a spell or something that makes you really good. 

Whatever it is, Remus is it. They’re not even making out and it’s just so much better than every girl he’s ever kissed, ever. 

Remus is really just such a good mate, isn’t he? Gosh, Sirius really thinks so. 

Remus shuffles a little closer and tips his head to the side slightly, opening his mouth and sliding his tongue along the seam of Sirius’ own lips. 

It’s so well done, his smoothness, that Sirius breaks out in goosebumps. Once this is all over, Sirius will have to tell Remus that he really is just so good at all this kissing stuff. 

He’s really that good that Sirius kinda just wants to keep him to himself. Like a little trophy that only he gets to have. No one else should be allowed to be graced with such good kissing skills because honestly, Sirius doesn’t think any girl out there would be able to properly appreciate it. 

It’s so good, when Remus slips some tongue into Sirius’ mouth and reaches up to tug Sirius in by the belt loops, that he moans. He actually moaned, and he’s not even embarrassed because Remus needs to know just how good at this he is. 

Remus tugs him closer and Sirius lifts his hands to grab at the back of Remus’ neck and tug at the jumper over his shoulder because something has just come over him. Something wild. Some primal need or something to just tear Remus’ clothes off and have him. He blames Padfoot. 

They shuffle back to Sirius’ bed until Remus’ knees buckle and he flops down onto it. Sirius shoves himself into Remus’ lap, straddling him and pressing close which just feels… so good. Like, Remus really doesn’t know how good he is. 

He must be some sex god or something. How Remus hasn’t had sex yet, Sirius doesn’t know. But what he does know, is that Remus is so fucking wonderful and Sirius doesn’t want to share. 

How strange is that? 

Remus’ bony fingers reach up to undo the buttons on Sirius’ shirt, but before he can even get halfway, Sirius is yanking Remus’ jumper up and off his body in a rush. 

“So good.” He mutters, leaning in to kiss Remus again. He starts shoving off his own shirt before Remus can do the last button. “Oh, you’re really good at this, Moony.” 

Remus moans against his mouth and wow, holy Godrick, that’s really a wonderful sound. How are his moans even that brilliant? This really isn’t fair. How is Sirius ever supposed to be so good in bed? He really hopes he doesn’t let Remus down. 

“Fuck.” Remus mumbles, latching his lip onto Sirius’ throat and groaning when Sirius digs his nails into Remus’ shoulders, “You- oh, you’re really- you’re so hot.”

Sirius flushes all over, and he dips back down to kiss Remus again. He can’t help but giggle. 

☆ ★ ☆

“Please, please, please, please.” Sirius is mumbling, actually completely naked underneath Remus which is just… it’s really a sight to behold. It’s an image which will be imprinted in Remus’ mind for the rest of eternity. 

Remus can’t help but duck down to kiss him, right on the lips, because Sirius seems to actually really love that. He actually seems to really love a lot of things involving Remus sexually. 

Remus moans, his hips pressing down against Sirius’. The friction from that alone is far better than anything he conjures up in his mind and creates with his own right hand at night. 

“Yeah.” He nods, “Yeah, erm… do… do you wanna do it yourself?”

“Do what?” Sirius gasps, bucking his hips up when Remus doesn’t grind down again. 

“Finger yourself.” Remus says bluntly, because there’s really no other way to say it. 

“Oh, uhm…” Sirius’ eyes fly open, and they flick around Remus’ face for a bit before he flushes more than he already has and smiles, “Can you do it? I don’t really know what I’m doing, and I’ll just probably like it more if you did… you’re like… really bloody good at this sex stuff.” 

Remus knows for a fact that he is not really bloody good at this sex stuff. He’s never even done it before, and he’s being really awkward as he always is. The first kiss they shared he was so stiff for, and he literally opened his mouth and shoved his tongue out really weirdly because he was just so shocked by Sirius actually doing this. He knows that was a terrible kiss, but Sirius just kept kissing him anyway. And then Sirius kinda took the lead there a little and gave Remus some time to figure it out, thankfully. 

So yeah, Remus knows he’s so fucking bad at this. He knows Sirius has been with a good handful of girls who are confident, and experienced, and way nicer to look at. And yet, Sirius won’t stop banging on about how fucking good Remus is at all of this, how his mouth is fucking magic, and how he’s making Sirius all tingly. 

It’s like a dream. A real dream brought to life or something. Remus really pinched himself at one moment to make sure he wasn’t actually dreaming it up. 

But no. It’s real. And Sirius’ is enjoying it. And Sirius wants Remus to finger him. And Sirius wants to have sex with Remus. 

Remus is almost certain that Sirius just… isn’t actually into girls at this point. Or at the very least, is into guys in one way or another. 

Remus grabs the lube from under Sirius’ back, where he’d landed on it a while ago when taking off his trousers. He pops the cap and squeezes a big glob of lube onto his fingers before spreading it around a little. 

Sirius gazes up at him, his legs are slightly open, spread around Remus’ own knees, all just… naked for him. His gaze is heavy lidded, and Remus fights the urge to look further downward. 

“Just be nice, yeah?” Sirius asks, a finger reaching out to draw over a scar on Remus’ middle. “I haven’t been fingered or anything before, so… do you think it will hurt?” 

Remus shakes his head, “Ah… I did it to myself once. If you go slow it doesn’t… I’ll go slow.” 

“Okay.” Sirius blushes again, “You really are the best, Moonshine.” 

Merlin, that name? Oh, Remus is starting to lose it. He’s actually going to lose his mind about it. It’s bad enough as is, when Sirius calls him that just out and about. It makes his heart race and his stomach fill with butterflies. 

But here? Now? Well, Remus is going to implode. He’s so, so fucking into Sirius it’s sickening. 

“Thanks.” Remus mutters, reaching a sticky finger down between Sirius’ legs, “Erm, is that… are you…. Can I?”

“Yeah.” Sirius breathes, his eyes falling shut, “O-oh, fuck, yeah. Oh, Moony, you’re so… mhm, you’re so good at this.” 

Remus’ brain melts a little more, because he hasn’t actually done anything. Really, his finger is just sitting there, only the very tip of it has pushed inside and Sirius is there acting like Remus is just about to make him cum. 

Sirius really can’t be straight. He’s either really good at faking it, or really, really gay. 

Remus hopes for the latter. 

“What about that? Hurt?”

“No.” Sirius hums, smiling to himself as he turns his head into the pillows, his hands gripping the sheets, “No, s’good. Oh, Moonbeam, you’re- oh, you’d never… never hurt me. Never hurt me, baby. S’good.”

Remus has suddenly lost all coherent thought. 

☆ ★ ☆

Sirius feels euphoric. 

Really, he wishes he had sex with Remus earlier because this is just fucking brilliant. Remus is really just so good. 

When Sirius has sex with girls, he feels kinda good physically a lot. Like, his cock likes it, he supposed. But it’s usually really boring. It’s just not all that great, he doesn’t get why James likes sex so much. 

But like, with Moony? Well, everything is great. He’s just really good at it, and he must know exactly what he’s doing because no matter what it just makes Sirius feel so amazing. 

Physically and emotionally. Like, everywhere. He feels like a live wire. 

“R-Remus.” He stutters out, because he’s not very good at talking anymore. He’s mostly just loudly moaning and stuff. Like, it’s so loud that Remus actually stopped midway through to cast a silencing charm so people outside the dorm wouldn’t hear. “Oh, fuck, Remus. Please, can you just fuck me?”

“Shit.” Remus moans, “F-fuck, yeah. You… you sure? You sure you want that?” 

Sirius nods, because if Remus fingering him is this good, then he really wants to find out about the rest of it. 

“Yeah, please.” Sirius said, “Really, really, please, Moonybaby. Oh, fuck- you’re so- you’re so good at- uh.” 

“Fucking- okay, yeah.” Remus chokes out, pulling his hand away from Sirius.  

He can’t help but whine about it, feeling so cold and empty. He reaches out to cling to Remus, but all he gets are glorious, sweaty, scarred thighs. 

He lifts his head when he hears a wet sound, and watches Remus smear some lube over himself, quite entranced by it. He watches the slick glide of Remus’ wonderful hands and wishes it was himself between those magical fingers. 

Remus comes closer, and Sirius immediately grabs for him. His arms sling around Remus’ neck, fingers sifting in through hair and clawing at his back. 

“Oh, Moony.” Sirius moans, kissing him as much as Remus will let him, “Please. Oh, you’re so… oh, R-Remus.”

“Bloody hell, Sirius.” Remus grunts, pressing in as close as he can. His whole body shivers as he slowly sinks down, Sirius whining helplessly in his ear. He can’t help it, it feels so fucking good, just like he thought. “Oh, fuck, you’re so- so hot. So fucking… oh, fuck.”

Sirius can’t stop kissing, everywhere. Anywhere his lips can reach he’s attaching himself to Remus. It really is quite delightful, getting fucked by his sex god best friend. 

He thinks about recommending it to James, but thankfully James is a committed man. Then perhaps Peter, but- no, they’ve already kissed, they’ve done enough. Besides, Sirius is apparently homophobic about that so he probably shouldn’t suggest it. 

Maybe he’ll just tell everyone Remus is really bad, so no one else goes and fucks him- yeah, that sounds good. No one else gets to have him, only Sirius. 

He’s probably a really bad friend for that, but, well, he doesn’t really care right now because Remus is just making him feel so, so good. Like, really lucky. 

☆ ★ ☆

Sirius is clinging to Remus like he’s his life line. It’s probably the best feeling in the world. And yes, that includes the feeling of been balls deep inside Sirius. 

Both are fucking amazing, but being clung too by Sirius beats it by just a smidgen. 

He’s shaking, actually, so much to the point that Remus had thought he’d done something wrong. But no, Sirius has assured him it’s purely because he just feels fucking amazing. That Remus is doing a bang on job. 

Really, Remus isn’t sure why Sirius keeps saying such things. Like, sure, now it’s fine because Remus has found a rhythm and gotten more comfortable doing this, but he was so awkward those first few thrusts. They were miscalculated, and kinda desperate, and just not very good, he could tell. But still, Sirius had said it’s the best feeling ever. 

Remus doesn’t know what to do with himself. So he just lets his body do whatever the hell it needs. And what it needs is to make Sirius finish, and apparently, to say dumb shit he’s going to regret later. 

“You’re so… so fucking pretty, baby.” He mutters, kissing Sirius between each few words, “So good, so gorgeous. Feels so good- so good. Oh you’re just so good, so-“

Remus reels back, because Sirius is thrashing almost violently, and is getting louder and- Remus looks down to find white smeared all over Sirius’ stomach. 

Sirius doesn’t give Remus time to process that before he’s pulling him down into a deep kiss and thrusting his own hips up to meet Remus’. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.” Sirius is muttering on repeat, smattering kisses everywhere on Remus’ face as he chases his own. “Oh, so- so good, Moonshine. You’re so good, too good to me.” 

Remus presses their foreheads together as he cums and kisses Sirius midway through. When he pulls away, Sirius is dazed. 

He has a faraway, dreamy look in his eyes and a relaxed smile on his lips. His cheeks are bright pink, a stark contrast to his pale complexion, and his skin shimmers with sweat. 

Oh, he really is just so fucking pretty. 

“Fuck.” Remus grunts, shifting until he’s laying down beside Sirius, both on their backs, shoulders overlapped. 

Sirius whines as Remus slips away, and shivers slightly. Remus grabs his jumper off the pillow and lays it over Sirius’ chest like a blanket. 

“Hmm.” He hums, and closes his eyes. 

Remus cleans them both up, reaching the end of the box of tissues on Sirius’ bedside. But they’re clean, so it’s fine. 

They lie there in silence for a while. Remus feels the moment Sirius comes too again, stiffening beside him. It’s awkward, tense. Slowly, Sirius shucks Remus’ jumper off his chest and they both lie there, completely naked, staring at the roof. 

They hear James and Peter come into the room, “Told you.” 

“Don’t believe you.” James muttered back, “Pads, mate, you in here?”

“James, they’re probably having a meaningful conversation.” Peter huffs, “Look at the curtains.” 

“Well, I want to see him.”

“You can later.” Peter offers, “Sirius, if you want James to come in, say something back.”

“Don’t come in!” Sirius shouts, and silence lingers outside. 

“See, he doesn’t want you too.” Peter says after a while, “Completely silent.” 

“The charm must still be on.” Remus muttered. 

“Oh.” Sirius nodded. 

“Fine.” James groaned, “Come to my bed later, Sirius. I’m going to sleep.”

Sirius and Remus lie there for a while, listening to James and Peter get ready for bed. Honestly, Remus is glad Peter didn’t say anything to James about them having sex. 

Or, well, he doesn’t think he said anything. 

Not that he’d be mad if James found out Remus is gay. He’s pretty sure James already knows. But, he’s sure Sirius would want to tell him about that. Sirius would probably have some strange things to say about it, so, it’s best if Sirius is the one to lay it all out there. 

Once the room goes silent again, and the lights are all turned out, they dare a glance over at each other. Just as quickly, they look away. 

Remus starts to feel a little guilty. He knows how he feels about Sirius, and Sirius clearly hadn’t felt the same way. At least not prior to now. So, he decides to bite the fucking bullet, despite his own judgments, and confessess. 

“I liked that.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Sirius nodded, eyes fixed on the roof, “Felt good. You made me cum really hard.”

Merlin, he really doesn’t make anything easy for Remus, does he? 

“Yeah.” Remus nods, “But like… I liked it in a gay way.”

Sirius tenses beside him again. 

“Erm, cause I’m gay.” Remus fills in, refusing to look anywhere but the stupid poster of a half naked motorbike girl on Sirius’ ceiling. “And I like you.”

“You… like me?” Sirius mumbles. 

“Yeah.” Remus breathes, “A lot… I think you’re… brilliant. You’re really, really, fucking brilliant. And also really good at sex.”

Sirius swallowed, “So, do you think I’m pretty?”

“Yeah.” Remus nodded, “I said it, before.” 

“I thought you might have just been doing sex talk.” 

“Oh…” Remus swallows, “Were you just doing sex talk?”

“No.” Sirius shakes his head, “I just… no, it was all honest. But, girls often make up sex talk, so-“

“I’m not a girl.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Sirius swallowed, “So you… you fancy me, for real?”

“Yeah.” Remus nods, “A lot.”

“Oh.” 

Remus chewed on his lip. 

“Excuse me.” Sirius muttered, and then climbed out of bed. 

He didn’t even stop to put trousers on or anything. Remus listened as he walked over and pulled back the curtains of James’ bed. 

“Oh, Sirius, hey, I- Merlin! Where are your clothes?”

“Over there. Remus and I had sex.” 

There was silence for a while before James said back, “What?”

“Remus and I had sex.” 

“When?” James asked, fucking gobsmacked. 

“Just then.” Sirius said, “Before you came into the room.” 

“Wh- why?”

“It was your idea!” He said defensively, “You said I should just fuck Remus, so I did. I fucked Remus- or, rather, he fucked me.” 

“And you just decided to come tell me this, still very naked?”

“Yeah.” Sirius said, “I think I can still feel his cum inside-“

“Bloody hell, Sirius. You know he can- just, get in.”

“Do you want me to put clothes on?” 

“Merlin, I don’t care, just…”

“He’s gay, you know?” Remus heard Sirius shuffle into the bed, “Said he likes me.” 

“Wow, really?” James gasped, “I had no fucking idea. It’s not like he stares at you longingly or anything.” 

“Oh…” Sirius mumbled, “I think I’m homophobic, by the way.” 

“Sorry?”

“Yeah, he said he kissed Pete and that made me feel kind of nauseous.” 

There was another long stretch of silence, and then from his own bed, Peter muttered, “You owe me twenty gallons, James.” 

“Fuck.” James muttered, drawing the curtains around them, “Look, Sirius, you’re not homophobic.”

“Erm, yes I am.” Sirius said in defence, “Why else would I get mad about Remus getting involved with other blokes?”

“Oh, Sirius.” James sighed, and cast a silencing charm around them. 

☆ ★ ☆

Remus is startled awake by the curtains swishing back. Not that he slept very deeply, just a little nap. He’s still in Sirius’ bed. He was too anxious to move. 

Now that he sees Sirius standing there, still very naked, he feels like he should have left. 

Sirius lifts up the corner of his blanket and slides under, closing the curtain around them before casting another silencing charm. 

He tugs at the sheet and gestures for Remus to get under. And then they both lie there again, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the roof. 

“You okay?” Remus asks after a long silence. He feels so awkward about it. 

“Yep.” Sirius nods, “Just… trying to figure out the least scary way to ask you to be my boyfriend.”

Remus’ heart falls out from under him, “What?”

“Oh.” Sirius mutters, “I guess I just did, didn’t I?”

“Are you serious?” Remus gasps, turning to look at him. 

Sirius smirks and turns his head slowly to look back at Remus. 

“Don’t answer that.” He mutters, “I’m…”

“Yeah.” Sirius nods, genuinity behind his pretty, pale eyes, “Erm, yeah, James told me I’m gay.”

“What?” Remus gaped, “What do you mean he told you you were gay?”

Sirius shrugged, “Like, I’ve been gay this whole time, and I really like you. I just didn’t know it, is all. I thought I was homophobic, can you believe that? James just made me realise I was jealous.”

“Jealous… of Peter?” 

“Yes. Never look at him again, please.” Sirius said sternly. 

Remus furrowed his brow, looking at Sirius in shock. 

Sirius broke into a grin, “I’m kidding. But really, I did get jealous. I’m jealous about you a lot. It’s why I get so angry at you sometimes.”

“Oh.” Remus swallowed, “That…”

“Yeah.” Sirius smiled, laughing at himself softly, “It’s stupid. I’m stupid.”

“You’re not.” Remus corrects, “You’re really smart. You’re the smartest person I know. Sometimes this stuff is just really hard, I get it. I know.” 

He blushes, and it’s fucking adorable. It’s always adorable. 

“You’re so sweet, Moony.” Sirius hums, kissing Remus’ shoulder, “So, will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Be mine?” He asks. 

“Oh…” Remus’ heart is racing. It’s going so fast, beating so hard he can feel it in his throat, “Yes. Fuck, yes please.” 

Sirius breaks out into the most brilliant smile before rolling over and wrapping himself around Remus, “Yay.” 

Remus hugs him back, entangling their legs together and hoping they never have to untangle, “You really mean it?”

“Yeah.” Sirius hums, pressing his lips to Remus’ skin a few times, “Oh, I was so crazy for not knowing it, Moonshine. I’m mental about you.” 

Remus feels extatic, “I’m mental about you too, sweetheart.” 

“Oh, I really like that.” Sirius mused, “I really like you.”

Remus chuckled, “Okay, sweetheart.” 

Sirius hums, content, snuggling closer into Remus’ side, “God, imagine my mother now. Not just shagging an unregistered werewolf bloke, but now he’s my boyfriend?”

“She’d have a heart attack.” 

“Good.” Sirius smiled, “Oh, I love when everything just comes together like this. James is so exited. He owes Pete a lot of money, they’ve been betting on us for ages.” 

Remus snorts, “I think Pete’s been cheating then. He’s known I’m into you for ages.”

Sirius snorts, “Of course he is.” He lifts his head to kiss Remus sweetly, “Let me take you out on a date, Moonybaby?”

Remus melted, sighing against Sirius’ lips, “Yeah, please.” 

“Oh, I’m gonna woo you so hard, you won’t even know what hit you.” Sirius smiled, “And then we’re gonna shag so much again, because I didn’t know shagging was actually fun.”

Remus snorts and kissed Sirius some more, “I did, I was just waiting for you to prove it.” 

The way that Sirius swooned made Remus feel like he was on top of the fucking world. 

⋅⋆ ☼ ☆ ☾ ☆ ☼ ⋆⋅

HAPPY HORNY SATURDAY! i hope you enjoyed this one, it was very fun to write. just a silly little bit of smut because why the hell not, i say?!

don't forget to reblog and commentary is ALWAYS welcome here. thankies!

It has been a few months now.

Enough time for your friends to stop blinking in surprise every time they catch you smiling at him, enough time for the rumors to die down and the whispers in the halls to quiet to a low murmur—though they never go away entirely when it comes to Sirius. 

He is, after all, Sirius Black: loud-mouthed and sharp-eyed, honey-voiced and maddeningly beautiful.

And yet, somehow, he chose you. Or maybe you chose each other, slowly, stupidly,and  sweetly.

You know what people must think. That you temper him. That he ignites you. That your silences fill in the blanks he never bothers to pause for. That he, for all his recklessness, somehow found something steady in you.

Which is why you’re heading to meet him now outside of class. Sirius had promised to spend the entire day with you today, as he was lately busy with studying.

You’re almost there when you hear his voice.

It’s not unusual—he talks loudly, as though the air is something that belongs to him, like even his words are allergic to restraint. But it’s the way he says something now that makes your steps falter. 

You’re still around the corner, concealed by the stone archway. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. 

“Sirius!” James Potter’s voice cuts through the corridor, warm and familiar, and it’s easy to picture his wide grin as he strides up to him. 

“Come on, padfoot. We’ve got a pitch slot and I need someone to test my latest throw. You still owe me from last week when you ditched.”

Sirius laughs, the sound low and raspy in the way you’ve come to know too well. “Didn’t ditch,” he says. 

“Oh, piss off,” James retorts. “You coming or not?”

There’s a pause. You imagine Sirius running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s pretending to think, when in reality he’s already made up his mind and just wants to seem dramatic.

“Can’t,” Sirius says finally, not sounding even the slightest bit apologetic. “I’ve got a packed schedule today.”

James scoffs, exaggerated. “What, you’ve started revising now? What exactly are you busy with?”

“No,” Sirius replies, too casual, too breezy. And then, with no warning at all, he adds, “I’m spending the day with my girl.”

It hits you like a whispered spell.

Not “my girlfriend,” not your name, not even some half-serious nickname. Just that. My girl.

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the way your heart is thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape your chest, of the heat crawling up the back of your neck, of the way your fingers have curled slightly into your sleeves like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. 

You’ve never been someone who takes up space easily, and right now, the sound of those two words fills every corner of your body, makes you feel almost... lit up.

It’s not the fact that he said it. You know you're his girl. He’s told you in the way he tucks his fingers into the loops of your jeans just to pull you closer in the quiet corners of the library. 

In the way he lights up when he sees you walk into the common room, mid-sentence with Remus, stopping only to grin like you’ve rewired the gravity in the room. 

In the way he sits behind you during study sessions just to braid strands of your hair and mutter things like “beautiful,” and “gorgeous.”

But still—my girl.

You’re fairly certain you and James both made the same face at the same time. That vaguely unhinged, utterly stunned, slack-jawed expression that usually precedes a dramatic spill or a burst of inappropriate laughter in the Great Hall.

Somewhere in your brain, a single electrical wire sparked, and then everything short-circuited.

You could practically see James’s eyebrows lifting halfway to the ceiling, and it’s almost hilarious, almost.

Because you would have laughed—if you weren’t frozen, rooted to your spot like some enchanted statue.

Then came Sirius’s voice again, casual and clear, carrying from inside the classroom, smug in the way only Sirius Black can be when he knows exactly where he’s headed.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “She’s probably already out there waiting for me.”

James groans dramatically. “Tell your girl I’m filing for abandonment.”

“See you later, prongs,” Sirius calls back, followed by the scraping sound of a chair and the creak of hinges swinging open.

Panic sparks in your chest.

You leap back from the wall like you’ve just been caught with your ear pressed to the keyhole—because, well, you have, essentially—and immediately fumble with your bag, turning slightly so it looks like you’ve just arrived. 

And then there he is.

Leaning against the doorframe like it’s something he was born to do. Hair half-tucked behind his ears, tie loose, expression bright and unreasonably happy for someone who got an earful from Slughorn not two days ago. 

His eyes find you instantly, like he was already reaching for the sight of you before he even walked out.

“Hi, baby,” he says, voice soft and amused and utterly at home in the syllables.

“Hi!,” you reply, a little too fast.

His brow lifts slightly. “Hi.”

Your heart trips. “Hi.”

He stares at you for a beat, then lets out the kind of laugh that sounds like it comes from his chest. The kind of laugh that should probably be bottled and sold as some form of antidote in your humble opinion.

“You look a little too happy for a Monday, baby,” he says, stepping closer, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head tilted as he studies you. “What’s happening?”

You shrug with deliberate nonchalance, fighting the smile that tugs at your lips. “Can’t I be happy?”

He grins like you’ve just said something precious. “Of course you can,” he says, reaching out to squish your cheeks between his hands so your words are suddenly a little garbled.

“Just wanna know what’s got you extra happy today.”

You mumble something unintelligible, eyes darting away, and he narrows his own suspiciously.

“Hmm?”

You free your face from his fingers and try not to giggle. “It’s nothing.”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, tilting his head with mock offense. “You don’t get to smile like that and then say ‘nothing.’ Come on, tell me.”

You hesitate, toeing the stone floor with your shoe. “I, um. I heard you.”

Sirius blinks. “You heard me?”

“In class,” you clarify, shifting your weight to the other foot and feeling heat crawl up your neck. “When you were talking to James.”

He tilts his head again. “You get happy when I talk to James? That’s new,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles softly across your cheek—his touch featherlight.

His eyes, usually sharp with mischief, are softened now, warm and brimming with a quiet kind of awe.

You swat at his chest lightly. “No, Sirius.”

He laughs again, utterly delighted. “Okay, okay, sorry. What did I say?”

You bite your lip and look away. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Now I need to know.”

You shake your head stubbornly, lips pursed, trying not to smile, but Sirius isn’t fooled.

He takes a slow step closer, tall enough that his shadow stretches over you, the scent of him curling into your breath. The air between you tightens.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, voice pitched low with amusement, grin sharpening like he’s just solved a riddle he’s been working on since breakfast, “Was it when I called you my girl?”

Your face gives you away in an instant.

Your eyes widen, the way they always do when you’re caught off guard, as if your thoughts have leapt too fast for your expression to catch up. Heat blooms high in your cheeks, blooming pink and soft across your skin like sunrise, betraying every effort to stay composed.

“Oh my god,” he says, actually laughing now, hands braced on his hips as if the revelation physically knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what got you all smiley?”

You narrow your eyes, cheeks blazing. “Stop laughing!”

He tries, he really does, but the laughter keeps bubbling out of him, shameless and golden. 

You huff and turn on your heel, nose in the air like you’ve just declared a personal war against him.

But you don’t get far.

Before you can take a single step away, he moves—quick and fluid, one long stride and he’s behind you.

His fingers find your waist with ease, curling firmly around your sides, and in one seamless motion, he pulls you back—hard enough to make you stumble slightly—until you're flush against his chest.

He holds you close. So close it feels like you’re standing inside the space between seconds.

“Hey, hey, c’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, brushing against your skin like silk. His arms slip around you fully, drawing you in again, and this time, you don’t resist.

“Why so shy, baby?” he whispers, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief and tenderness all tangled together.

You pout instinctively, your fingers resting lightly against his chest. “Nothing.”

His brows lift. “No, no. No hiding. What is it?” He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “You are my girl though, right?”

You glare up at him, but your heart is not cooperating.

“You just... never called me that before,” you say, quiet, soft enough that it barely survives the space between you.

Sirius exhales, and pulls you even closer, resting his chin lightly on top of your head.

“Well,” he says into your hair, “You should start getting used to it.”

You don’t even get a moment to tease him back before he’s wrapping his arms around you again, tugging you flush against his chest like holding you is as instinctive as breathing.

He rocks you gently side to side, his chin hooked over your shoulder, and you can feel the quiet grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he speaks.

“You’re so cute, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for your ears.

He says it again, and again. Each repetition comes between a kiss to your cheek, his lips brushing against your skin with unbearable fondness, his long hair tickling across your jaw like satin.

“My girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your cheekbone.

Another kiss, this time closer to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty girl.”

You giggle, trying and failing to turn your face away as warmth floods your cheeks. “Sirius, your hair’s tickling me—”

He just smiles into your skin, clearly unbothered. Another kiss, this one slower, more lingering, pressed just beneath your ear. “My favorite person.”

You squirm in his arms, laughing harder now, your hands curled into his shirt as you try to wriggle away, but he only holds you tighter.

“My most favourite girl.”

Each word hums against your skin like a spell.

And you, useless and smitten thing that you are, melt for him completely.

A quiet giggle escapes you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face in his chest to hide the way your cheeks are burning. 

You try to squirm away, overwhelmed and giddy, but his grip tightens gently and he tilts your chin up with two fingers, catching your gaze with a look so full of open affection it robs the breath from your lungs.

He holds your face like it’s something precious, like he’s afraid to let it go. His thumb brushes just beneath your cheekbone, featherlight and impossibly gentle, and then he says—quietly, sincerely—

“Can I get a kiss?”

The way he looks at you in that moment, like you’re his whole damn universe, is almost too much. 

His long black hair falls into his eyes, the ends brushing his cheekbones, his mouth barely parted.

His eyes are shining, glassy with something deeper than a smile, and he’s smiling anyway, soft and crooked like the words he wants to say are too big to fit in his throat.

There’s a trembling silence where you don’t know how to speak.

Because this is the part no one sees.

This is Sirius Black in love. Not loud, not cocky, not showy or flirtatious. But bare, unshielded, and tender to the point of devastation.

And somehow, it still surprises you—how much he feels.

Because he plays it smooth, always, with his smirks and his swagger and his stupidly charming quips.

But deep down, Sirius is just as flustered to be around you as you are around him. Maybe even more.

He still hasn’t gotten used to saying your name out loud without his heart stammering. Still can’t look at you some days without wondering if you’re a dream made flesh. Still marvels at the fact that when you walk into a room, you’re walking toward him.

He calls you his girl like it’s nothing. But to him, it means everything.

Because you’re not just his girl. You’re his world.

You lean up slowly, your hands resting against his chest like he might vanish if you touch him too fast. Then you press your lips to his, soft and sweet.

He smiles against your mouth before pulling back slightly, his eyes still closed, like he’s trying to savor the moment just a little longer. A beat passes. Then—

“Can I get another one?” he whispers, one eyebrow lifting, that same mischievous edge bleeding back into his voice.

You blink at him. “You’re so—”

But you don’t get to finish.

Because he kisses you again—harder this time. His hand cups the back of your neck, his other arm firm around your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid the world might steal you away if he lets go.

And when he kisses you like that—like you’re his first and last prayer—there’s no doubt left.

Sirius Black is utterly, hopelessly, and beautifully in love with you.

And even if you don’t quite realize it yet — he’s been yours all along.

His lips are still brushing against yours when he pulls back the slightest inch, gaze hazy and wonderstruck, as though he’s only just now realizing that you’re real. 

His thumb is tracing absent shapes at your waist, his breath slow and uneven like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your mouth by air alone.

His eyes, dark and warm and barely blinking, drink you in like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of whatever this is.

And then, of course, he leans in again for a third kiss. 

You stop him with a hand on his chest and a breathless little laugh. “Sirius,” you whisper, dragging out the syllables. “You can’t keep kissing me, we have a whole day ahead of us, and we’re still in the bloody hallway.”

He leans his forehead against yours with a groan, dramatic and wounded, as if you’ve just denied him water in a desert.

“But I thought you were my girl,” he says, pout in full effect, lips parted and brow creased with the exaggerated tragedy of it all.

“My girl doesn’t let me kiss her as much as I want? This is unfair.”

You burst out laughing, fully this time, and the sound of it sends a visible shiver through him.

He never gets tired of hearing it, probably never will.

“Come on, Black,” you tease, grabbing his hand and turning on your heel to pull him down the corridor behind you, your fingers threading easily through his.

“I need someone to help me carry the books I ordered.”

At that, Sirius lights up like someone’s handed him a trophy. “Books?” he says, perking up.

“You ordered books and didn’t tell me? That’s a violation of trust. But don’t worry, love—I’ll carry them, all of them. You won’t lift a single bloody finger.”

You glance back at him with a smirk. “Wow, look at you,” you tease, eyebrows raised.

“All manly now, huh? Sirius Black, the knight in shining armor, savior of poor girls with heavy textbooks.”

“I am manly,” he insists, puffing his chest out like an idiot and giving your joined hands a little swing. “And chivalrous and noble and handsome and criminally underappreciated and—.”

You snort. “Okay, I get it!”

But just as you’re rounding the next corridor, Sirius glances down and suddenly stops short, yanking you to a halt beside him.

“Wait—you’re carrying your bag?”

You blink, confused. “Um... yes?”

He gasps so dramatically you’re worried for a moment he might start clutching his chest. “What a horrible boyfriend I am,” he cries.

“Carrying nothing. Letting my girl do the heavy lifting like some kind of untrained baboon.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as he makes a scene of freeing your bag from your shoulder.

“Give me that. No, seriously, give it. I was raised better than this. Even my horrible, bloody mother would’ve scolded me for letting you carry your own things.” – He takes the bag from you with exaggerated care, slinging it over his shoulder – “Granted, she’d probably scold me just for being in public with you, but the point stands.”

You giggle again, unable to stop smiling, as he then reaches for your hand once more, the two of you falling into step like you were made to.

Your hands swing gently between you, fingers warm and safe in his.

And from that moment on, he never stopped.

Sirius Black referred to you as his girl in every corner of the castle, whether you were there to hear it or not.

He’d say it proudly, like the words alone lit something inside him.

And when you weren’t around, you’d better believe he was still talking, still rambling, and surely still flustered.

Cheeks tinted a soft, unmistakable pink, he'd go on and on to anyone who’d listen—usually James—about how smart you were, how good you smelled, how pretty you looked with your nose buried in a book or your hair tied back or when you laughed with your whole body like you did when he tickled your sides.

James, for his part, teased him relentlessly. But Sirius didn’t mind. Not even a little.

You hum unsteadily. 

“Do you think you might be sick again?” You’re unsure. “You should tell me if you might be. I’ll have to get a bag.” 

“Have I been sick?” you ask, looking up at him. 

Something flickers over his expression at your question. He rubs his thumb over the space behind your ear soothingly. “You have,” he answers, “but that was before we came, so it was a bit different. I don’t think they’ll let me follow you into the toilets here.” 

You feel your eyes widen. “You were there?” 

The man grins. It’s worse than anything he’s done so far, so dazzling you feel you have to close your eyes. You’re seeing stars again. 

“I’m not so terribly squeamish as to leave my loveliest girl all alone when she needs me,” he says. “I’m not that awful.” 

“I don’t think you’re awful,” you tell him. 

“No.” He makes a humorous-looking pouty face at you, still stroking behind your ear. “No, you wouldn't. That’s why you’re my loveliest girl, you’re too good to me.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“What does what mean, gorgeous?” 

You shy a bit at the misnomer. Surely people this beautiful shouldn’t just be dolling out compliments like that. “Your girl.” 

His thumb doesn’t stop petting you, but it slows. He looks at you for a handful of moments. It’s rather a lot; you shift in your uncomfortable, plasticy chair, but don’t think once of lifting your head from his shoulder. 

“Do you know who I am?” he asks eventually. 

You worry your lip between your teeth. “Am I supposed to?”

“No.” He folds his hand over your head again, kissing your temple. “That’s okay. You’ve had a bump on the head, and it’s made you forget some things, but it won’t be forever. My name’s Sirius.” He says this all very patiently. You get the sense he’s done it more than once. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now.” 

At this, you do lift your head. Sirius lets you, though he watches like he doesn’t intend to let you go far. “You and I have?” you ask.

The corner of his mouth ticks. “That’s right.” 

“How long is a while?” 

“You say two years.” He tilts his head from side to side, like really it’s up for debate. “I say two years and a few weeks, because I thought our first date was to the Ramones show but you thought we were hanging out as friends.” 

You gawp at him. Your mouth has actually dropped open. “Are you my boyfriend?” 

“Some have said that,” Sirius says, smiling. “I prefer exclusive live-in soulmate.” 

You don’t know how you know, but you sense he’s half joking about the last part. Not the first, though. 

“Really?” you ask. 

Sirius quirks a brow. “Is it so difficult to believe?”

“You’re just—you’re so pretty.” 

“Really?” His smile returns to knock the air from you. This one’s wide enough to make his lashes kiss at the corners. “You think so?” 

“Of course. You’re beautiful.” You shake your head, surprised when it hurts and then startled anew when Sirius cups your face to still you. You trace the length of his arm with your eyes, admiring the patchwork of tattoos that goes all the way up to disappear under the sleeve of his t-shirt. 

“Be careful with yourself,” Sirius murmurs. 

Your eyes flit back up to his face. “You have to know.” 

“Have to know what?” 

“That you’re beautiful.” 

Sirius looks absolutely delighted by you. “Well, it’s always nice to hear it,” he says. “Especially from someone so lovely as yourself.” 

You feel your features pinch with genuine dismay. “I don’t tell you?” 

“You say you don’t want to give me a bigger head than I already have. Something about throwing the earth out of its orbit or something.” He strokes your cheek while he talks, as though this sort of disparagement could inspire only fondness, but at your obvious distress Sirius softens. “I’m joking. You tell me, you just don’t usually look so surprised when you do. Come here, sweetheart.” 

He coaxes you under his arm, helping you snuggle up against his side where he can kiss your head as often as he pleases. It’s like Sirius knows exactly what you need; with your head against his chest, now the thing you hear most is the steady beat of his heart. His body works like a grounding point for you, calming your nerves and hushing your thoughts. The sweep of his thumb over your shoulder sends pleasant little shivers all down your arm. 

“You don’t have to be so shy, my love,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s only me.” 

If you weren’t shy before, you are now. You hide your face in his chest. “Please don’t call me that.” 

Sirius chuckles. “No?” he asks, his voice slow and syrupy sweet with a heart-pittering quality that rings familiar. “You usually like it when I call you nice things.” 

“It’s too nice.” 

It was a habit he’d mastered long before Hogwarts—back when the walls of Grimmauld Place echoed with slurred legacies and scornful lectures. In those days, slipping away unnoticed had been a form of survival. At school, it was simply routine.

But tonight… something felt different.

Maybe it was the fact that his name had slipped past someone else’s lips.

Maybe it was the company—James Potter, Marlene McKinnon, and you—tucked just around the corridor outside the Gryffindor common room.

Or maybe it was something subtler, something aching and ancient, when Marlene’s voice laced his name with ice.

He hadn’t meant to linger. He’d only returned to fetch the worn book he’d abandoned on the windowsill that morning. He hadn’t expected anyone to be there—let alone you, laughter softening your voice like candlelight.

He could’ve kept walking. He should have.

But then—

“I think there’s kindness in him,” James said, uncertain. His voice faltered like a lantern in fog.

“I mean… we’ve barely spoken, really.” He rubbed the back of his neck—nervous, boyish. Always more heart than caution.

“Maybe he’s just not great with people?”

You hummed softly, nodding in agreement, though your gaze had grown distant, pulled by the threads of memory. You understood him far better than the others did—better, perhaps, than anyone else dared to try. That’s why Marlene and Dorcas had turned to you, curious about the boy who walked the castle halls like a ghost no one could quite touch.

You had known Regulus Black long before you shared the same classes at Hogwarts. Growing up among pureblood circles had made your paths cross more than once, though back then, he barely acknowledged your presence. It wasn’t until your fifth year that a quiet camaraderie started to bloom—quiet, not because it was secret, but because it had no need for loud declarations. A glance. A shared silence. A wordless understanding. All of it wove together like a private constellation only you two could see.

You smiled faintly at the memory, a soft huff of laughter escaping you. It was absurd, really, to think you’d somehow become the unofficial Regulus Black Expert of Gryffindor Tower. The idea would have made your younger self laugh out loud.

Because back then—when you’d first been introduced to him by a smug Sirius Black with a wicked grin and a mischievous, “Reggie, this one won’t bite unless you ask”—you never would have imagined this strange little bond forming.

“Regulus has always been… closed off,” you murmured at last, agreeing with Marlene’s earlier observation, though your tone drifted somewhere far away. Your words were less a reply and more a wandering thought, drifting like parchment on the wind.

It hadn’t been easy, not at first. Regulus had no interest in friendship—especially not the kind that came packaged with Sirius’s teasing introductions. He had been all cold stares and clipped replies, a boy carved from silence and family pressure. And you? You had simply been the unfortunate soul swept into the current of Black family drama, doomed to be one more casualty in Go-to-hell, Sirius’s grand matchmaking schemes.

Time after time, you found yourself at 12 Grimmauld Place under the excuse of “study sessions” or “family dinners” orchestrated by Sirius’s sheer willpower. And time after time, Regulus kept his distance, each glance sharpened like a dagger, each word a carefully measured offering. He didn’t need friends. He didn’t want them. And you? You were just a name on a list he hadn’t asked for.

And truthfully, you never quite knew when it shifted—or why. When, between wary glances and measured silences, something real began to stir between you. You chewed gently at your bottom lip as the thought unfurled, trying to follow the winding trail back to the precise moment when your distant acquaintance melted into something gentler, more sincere. Something you could, without hesitation, call a friendship now.

“Do you think he ever lets anyone in?” Marlene asked, a touch of disbelief in her voice—not meant to wound, only to confess her own discomfort. She never knew how to fill the silences Regulus left behind, not the way Dorcas or you somehow managed to. “It just doesn’t add up to me.”

Unseen just around the corner, Regulus leaned his weight against the stone wall, the cold of it pressing into his back as he stood completely still. This was the part where he should have left. Disengaged. Forgotten he’d heard anything at all. He should have reminded himself that he didn’t care what people thought—because he didn’t. Or at least, he hadn’t.

But something invisible tethered him to that moment. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the soft echo of his own name on your lips.

“I get that you’re close,” Marlene went on, “but how does someone like you end up friends with someone so…”

He didn’t want to hear the rest of the sentence. And yet, he couldn’t stop listening.

Her voice faltered for a second, and Regulus felt it like a fist around his ribs. He could guess what came next.

“So… cold?”

The word landed like frost beneath his skin.

Cold?

His mind latched onto it, dissecting it like a puzzle he didn’t ask to solve. Is that truly how they saw him? Was that what he looked like through other people’s eyes? He supposed he wasn’t the easiest person to read. He wasn’t known for kindness or warmth—but cold? The word clung to the back of his throat, sharp and stinging.

He should’ve walked away. Brushed it off like he had with everything else. He’d built his world out of walls for a reason. He didn’t let himself care. He never had.

So why, then, did his chest feel like it had been split open?

He was turning to leave, to forget the book he came for and the crack this moment left behind—

Until he heard your voice.

“Cold?” you echoed, and Regulus froze mid-step. There was something in your voice—an edge he couldn’t quite name. Anger? Disbelief? Something that made his heart stutter painfully in his chest.

He found himself leaning into the shadows again, listening, caught in your words like a boy drowning in a storm.

“Regulus Black is anything but cold,” you said, your voice like silk woven through fire. A laugh escaped you next, quiet and bitter. “He’s the warmest person I’ve ever known.”

His breath caught. He almost laughed—almost—but stopped himself. He was supposed to be hidden, after all.

Still, that one sentence echoed louder than the rest.

“Truly?” Marlene blinked at you, surprise tugging at her brows like she hadn’t expected the warmth in your voice.

You nodded with the kind of certainty that didn’t waver.

“Absolutely,” you said, your voice soft but steady, like morning light through a window. “There’s no one quite like him. He’s… kind. Deeply so. He just doesn’t wear it on his sleeve like most do. You have to look closer to see it.”

Around the corner, hidden behind the curve of ancient stone, Regulus stood still as the marble beneath his feet. Your voice was like a tether, pulling him back every time he considered walking away.

“Regulus doesn’t move like everyone else,” you continued gently, a smile curling at the corners of your lips. “He’s quiet, sure. Always has been. But cold?” You let out the softest laugh, the kind that sounded like wind through lavender fields. “No… not cold. Never that. He’s warm in ways most people don’t know how to be.”

Warm? Regulus nearly scoffed, but the heat that rushed to his face betrayed him. If only you knew the darkness he buried his heart beneath. If only you saw the shadows he called home. And still—still—your voice made him believe, just for a second, that maybe you did see. And maybe… you didn’t mind.

“He wouldn’t believe me if I told him,” you said with a small laugh, like you could hear his thoughts. “But it’s true. He cares in ways that matter—in quiet gestures and steady presence, in showing up without ever announcing that he’s there.”

“Ohhh…” Dorcas and Marlene echoed, their tones laced with newfound understanding.

You giggled then, all bright and unbothered, and it struck Regulus like starlight—sudden and impossible to ignore.

“He grows on you,” you promised, voice turning soft again. “Little by little. And when he does… you realize just how lucky you are to be close to someone like him.”

Regulus ducked his head, hiding the sudden flush crawling up his neck, thankful there were no mirrors nearby to betray him. He’d never been lucky a day in his life—but if you thought being near him was some kind of gift, then maybe, just maybe…

“Merlin’s beard, (Y/N), that was kind of adorable,” Dorcas teased. “How long have you known him, then? You two sound like old souls.”

“A while,” you said, tilting your head as you thought it over. “Slughorn once invited us to the same dinner—years ago. Said we were both too serious for our own good. I don’t think either of us said more than three words that night,” you laughed softly. “But… over time, I think we just started understanding each other. Quietly. Comfortably. And now… he’s someone I look up to. A lot.”

A good person? Regulus nearly rolled his eyes. You always saw the best in him—even the parts he tried hardest to bury.

“He’s always helping me,” you added, a smile blooming on your lips. “Especially when I’m struggling with Dueling, or studying late into the night. He says he does it because I ask too many questions—but I know he stays because he wants me to do well.”

Well. He couldn’t exactly argue with that one.

“And he’s a bit of a secret gentleman,” you said, your voice dipping low, like a delicate confession passed between old stone walls. A soft smile ghosted your lips. “Even when we weren’t close, he’d carry my books without asking, hold open the doors with barely a glance, pull out my chair in the Great Hall like it was second nature…”

Your words trailed off as the memories rose like stardust behind your eyes—small, quiet gestures that had once seemed incidental, but now shimmered with meaning.

Just around the corner, half-shrouded by flickering torchlight, Regulus leaned back against the cold stone, eyes half-lidded, breath caught. He’d forgotten about some of those moments—at least on the surface—but hearing them from your lips made them pulse to life again. You noticed. Merlin, you noticed.

He’d never thought of himself as kind. His mother had taught him manners, not softness. His brother had taught him rebellion, not care. But you… You brought something different out of him. With you, gentleness had become instinct.

And now, hearing you speak of it with such warmth, he found himself wondering if you saw something in him he hadn’t dared to believe existed.

Your smile deepened. “There was one time, years ago…” You laughed under your breath, as if it were still a secret.

“We’d snuck into the kitchens when the elves weren’t looking—he nabbed a chocolate biscuit from the tin. Broke it in half.” You looked toward Marlene and Dorcas, your voice softening like candlelight.

“And he gave me the bigger piece.”

The girls exchanged a glance, both catching the distant look in your eyes—the way your gaze flickered not to the past, but to a version of it you carried close, cherished. You hadn’t even been friends yet. Just two children on opposite sides of a too-large world, momentarily brought together in the dim glow of the kitchen hearth.

You’d spent the rest of that evening curled beside Tilly Toke’s Magical Mishaps, Regulus sat across the table, not saying much. But the half-cookie had meant something, hadn’t it?

The memory wrapped around you like a charm.

And somewhere behind the wall, Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his thumb into his palm—grounding himself. Because yes. He remembered it exactly that way.

“Aww!” Marlene let out a dramatic gasp, pressing her hands to her heart as if the memory had physically struck her. “He must’ve had a tiny little crush on you, darling,” she teased, her voice lilting like a melody as she batted her lashes.

You laughed under your breath, but Regulus, hidden just around the stone corner of the corridor, felt like his heart had been flung into a freezing lake.

A crush?

Was that how he came across?

His pulse thundered in his ears as panic curled tight in his chest. Surely not. All the little things he’d done—carrying your books when you complained about the weight, offering you his scarf on cold mornings, brewing tea when you stayed up too late studying—all of that was just… friendship. Wasn’t it? Politeness. Chivalry, even. Raised by Walburga or not, he did have some decency.

He tried to believe that.

But the longer he stood there, the more tangled his thoughts became.

None of it was just about kindness. Not really.

You were the only one who made the castle feel less like a cage and more like a dream. The way you laughed when he muttered sarcastic remarks under his breath. The way you hummed when concentrating. The warmth you gave off without even trying.

You were sunlight—unapologetic and golden. And him? He was the boy who lived in the shadows of dark family tapestries and colder expectations.

He didn’t mean to care for you the way he did.

But he thought of you constantly. In between potions ingredients, in the flutter of owl wings across the morning sky, in every flower you ever paused to admire. Even the Black family crest seemed to dim in your presence. His own reflection was easier to face when he imagined you smiling at him.

Gods, he was utterly doomed.

fuck. 

Regulus pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, trying to steady himself—anchor his mind back to the cold stone floor beneath his shoes and not the warmth blooming beneath his ribs. None of that meant anything, did it? All those quiet favors, the lingering glances, the moments where his hand brushed yours without needing to—none of it had to suggest something deeper.

He could care for you platonically. Couldn’t he?

He nearly scoffed at himself.

How utterly cliché. The proud, brooding boy spiraling the second he felt something tender for the girl who glowed like she’d been carved from starlight. Maybe he was just being ridiculous. Maybe you really were just friends. Friends could look after each other. Friends could think the other was breathtaking and luminous and—

Merlin help him.

Because if you were to lean in one day, maybe on the edge of a courtyard or under a soft-spoken sky, and confess you wanted something more—he wouldn’t push you away, would he?

His chest tightened. No. He wouldn’t. And that answer, so simple, nearly unravelled him. His thoughts tangled like spellwork gone wrong, and for a moment he swore the castle spun slightly beneath his feet.

“I don’t know about that…” your voice broke through the air, softer than parchment under fingertips.

And Regulus felt it—something unfamiliar and ferocious rising in his chest. Like swallowing honey and fire at the same time. It bubbled with sweetness, with something terrifyingly hopeful. His fingertips tingled, his lips twitched with the start of a smile he didn’t know he could make. He wasn’t sure whether to dread it or chase it.

“Well, you should ask him out!” Marlene said cheerfully, breaking the moment like glass on stone.

“Wh-what?” you stammered, blinking rapidly.

“I’m serious!” she grinned, nudging Dorcas playfully. “He’d say yes. You’re definitely his favorite, and have you seen the way he stares at you?”

I do? Regulus froze where he stood, blood rushing in his ears.

“He does?” your voice slipped out, barely more than a breath, tinged with disbelief and the faintest hope.

Regulus could feel it now—magic surging beneath his skin like it wanted to rise just for you.

Were you surprised? Mortified? Regulus couldn’t tell. From his shadowed post behind the half-open door, he was practically vibrating with the urge to peek out, to catch even a flicker of your expression.

If he could just see your face, he’d know exactly how you were processing all of this—whether you were laughing him off or secretly hoping it might be true.

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen him looking at you loads of times,” James said casually, like he was stating the weather.

“Same,” chimed in Marlene, lounging across the common room couch. “Honestly, I thought you two were already together when I first transferred.”

He did?

“You did?” your voice fluttered out, laced with disbelief—and something else Regulus couldn’t name, something soft and glowing.

“Yeah,” James shrugged like it was obvious. “He always sits close to you. And when he speaks—which isn’t often—it’s usually just to you. I thought it was some kind of intense, brooding flirting.”

No, you imbecile, I just don’t want anyone overhearing—

Regulus dragged a palm down his face, lips twitching with frustration. This was disastrous. He rolled his eyes and tugged slightly at the skin under them, as if it might yank him back into reality. But no—there it was, pulsing like an inconvenient truth just behind his ribs.

Of course he fancied you. Merlin, how hadn’t he seen it?

Or maybe… maybe it had always been there. Dormant. Waiting. Quietly thriving in shared glances, in the way you beamed when he walked into the room, in how his mornings never felt quite right until he heard your laugh.

That laugh drifted out now, pulling him violently from his spiraling thoughts. Light and bright, it danced in the air like the flicker of fairy lights during winter.

“No, no—you’ve got it all wrong,” you said, laughing again as you tried to dismiss the idea, but there was something dangerous in your tone. Something syrupy sweet and hesitant, like you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted it to be wrong. “We’ve known each other forever. If something was going to happen, it probably would’ve by now.”

The pause that followed was heavy. Not uncomfortable—but thick. Charged. Like the castle itself was holding its breath.

Regulus swallowed hard. His heartbeat roared in his ears like crashing waves, deafening and all-consuming. He knew he should walk away, that eavesdropping this long was borderline shameful.

But he couldn’t. 

“You say that like you want something to happen,” Marlene teased, her voice laced with playful suspicion. “Are you the one with the crush?”

Regulus felt the breath knock out of him. Every passing second that she didn’t answer made his head spin, made the walls feel closer. If he didn’t move soon, he was going to collapse right here in this hidden corridor, fully exposed in the most humiliating way possible.

“I…” your voice broke through the silence, soft and unsteady.

Regulus clenched his jaw, fighting every instinct not to lean just a little farther around the corner. If he could just see you—if he could catch the twitch of your fingers or the tilt of your lips—he might finally have his answer.

If you were fidgeting, surely it meant you did like him.

If you stood still, frozen in disbelief, then the idea of the two of you must’ve been laughable to you. An impossibility.

“I haven’t thought about it,” you murmured at last, so quietly he barely caught it.

There was a shuffle of feet. Marlene let out a thoughtful hmm, unreadable in tone, and James called out his goodbyes as he bounded off toward the courtyard to meet Sirius and Peter.

Marlene followed not long after, muttering something about borrowing Lily’s notes or charming Professor Slughorn into letting her redo a potion.

You gave a breathy laugh and waved them off with a smile in your voice. And then, once their footsteps faded into silence, you exhaled.

It trembled at the edges.

“Merlin,” you whispered to yourself, pressing a hand to your chest as you dropped onto the worn couch in front of the common room fire. “That was way too close.”

Regulus, hidden in the shadows just beyond the entrance, let his back fall against the cold stone wall.

He’d never known it was possible to be both relieved and utterly destroyed in the same moment.

Your heart was still rattling in your chest, refusing to slow after the teasing from James and Marlene. You needed to get away—away from their knowing eyes, their smug grins, their pointed little looks that made you feel like your thoughts were written across your forehead. You were certain they knew. Certain they’d seen through every flimsy deflection and quiet denial you’d offered.

Just as you were about to flop onto the couch and sink into a well-earned nap by the fire, something caught your eye: a thick hardcover left resting on the arm of the chair beside you. A neat, velvet-green ribbon was caught between the pages, and all the sections before it were practically bursting with parchment scraps and scribbled notes.

You recognized it instantly. If you didn’t already know Regulus had been buried in that book all week, the sheer intensity of the annotations would’ve given it away. No one else read like that. Not in your year, at least.

A smile tugged at your lips as you picked it up. He must’ve left it behind in a hurry. Knowing him, he’d want it back the moment he realized it was gone. You figured he had the afternoon free, so it wouldn’t take long to find him. Besides, your nap could wait.

Cracking it open to the first page marked by a slim pink tab, you let your eyes flit across the topmost note stuck inside—only to immediately become absorbed, not in the book itself, but in the way his handwriting crawled into the margins like vines. You didn’t even notice him until you were practically on top of him.

“Oh—sorry!” you gasped, stepping back from the broad figure you’d nearly barreled into.

When your gaze lifted and locked onto familiar grey eyes, your surprise dissolved into a gentle smile.

“Reg! I was just coming to find you,” you added, brightening with a soft laugh. You held up the book like a prize. “This is yours, right?”

He nodded, slowly, almost as if startled into silence. His hand brushed against yours as he took the book, and for a second he couldn’t seem to find his voice.

“…Thanks, soleil,” he managed finally, quieter than he intended.

“No problem,” you replied easily. “It was in my nap spot,” you added with a sheepish little shrug.

That made Regulus laugh, low and amused. The sound startled even him, but the grin it brought to his face was unstoppable. You tilted your head slightly at the sudden warmth in his expression, your fingers twisting together, the flutter in your chest growing louder by the second.

“Hey, I was wondering…” you began, brows knitting slightly as your courage wrestled with uncertainty.

Regulus, ever so composed, tucked the book under his arm and gave you his full attention.

“Yes, amour?” he asked, voice soft and clear, like he was ready to listen to anything—anything at all—from you.

He watched your fingers begin to fidget again—an old habit of yours—and his heart thudded heavily in his chest. That small, familiar gesture pulled at something deep inside him, something tender and terrifying all at once. You were fidgeting. You were nervous.

“Uh, ah—it’s silly—” you began, your voice hitching as you almost backed out of it. But Regulus shook his head quickly, the usual cool in his features melting into a rare softness. He didn’t want you to stop. Not now. Not when it felt like your words might change something between you.

“I’m sure it’s not,” he said, more firmly than he expected. You glanced up at him in surprise, caught off guard by the seriousness in his voice. “What is it?” he asked again, quieter this time. Earnest.

You blushed.

Actually blushed.

And Regulus felt something in him collapse at the sight. How had he not realized sooner? The way he cared about you—it was more than careful friendship. More than routine familiarity. It was this. That look. That moment. This feeling swelling in his chest like an uncontrollable storm.

“Do you remember when we were little, and my mum always made us have those awkward little tea visits?” you asked, laughing under your breath. The sound was light but edged with nerves. “She’d dress you up like a little heir to the empire.”

Regulus chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the memory. “How could I forget, soleil? You were the only thing making them bearable.”

You opened your mouth as if to explain yourself further, then stopped short. Your gaze dropped to your hands again, which were still twisting in your lap, and your smile grew quiet.

“I don’t know, I guess I…” you stumbled, your words catching on emotion you hadn’t quite figured out yet. Merlin, you hated how your voice trembled. How silly it made you feel. “Do you remember when we became friends?”

You rushed the question out, afraid of losing the courage altogether.

Regulus nodded, his expression unreadable—but not cold. There was something still behind his eyes. Watching you closely. Listening like he always did, but with his heart too, now.

“I do,” he said gently. “You spilled ink on my essay, and I didn’t hex you for it.”

You laughed at that, your eyes glinting. “That was the moment, huh?”

“I think it always had been,” he replied, voice almost too quiet to catch.

“I do,” he replied without hesitation.

“Like, actual friends,” you clarified, raising a brow, not convinced he’d thought that through. “Not just two kids being dropped off at some posh tea party and expected to get along. I mean—real friends.”

Regulus nodded again, a little smile tugging at his lips.

“I do,” he repeated, softer this time, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You don’t?”

You pressed your lips together thoughtfully, chewing at the corner of one as you shook your head slowly. Your brow furrowed as you tried to remember, and Regulus gave a low chuckle at the sight, eyes glinting with fondness.

“Well?” you asked, voice tinged with impatience. “What changed?”

“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” he said with mock hurt, tilting his head and placing a dramatic hand on his chest. “That wounds me amour, you know.”

“I didn’t think you had feelings, Black,” you shot back playfully, a teasing lilt to your voice. “But come on, tell me.”

You looked at him expectantly, eyes wide and gleaming with curiosity. Regulus found himself caught in your gaze, helpless to look away.

You always did that—held his attention like no one else ever had. But this time, there was something different. Something unspoken between the words, resting in the stillness of the air between you.

He swallowed thickly. If you asked anything of him like this, he would give it without pause. It hit him like a charm straight to the chest. That soft glint in your eyes—he wondered if he’d always missed it, or if it had only just begun to appear.

“It was right before we came to Hogwarts,” he said finally, voice quieter now, like he was unearthing something sacred. “The weekend before the train. Do you remember?”

You nodded, the memory vague but there. You’d spent a late summer afternoon at Grimmauld Place while your parents caught up with his.

You vaguely recalled teasing him for organizing his trunk with meticulous precision and muttering something about the Weird Sisters under his breath.

“I remember you sorting your books by spine colour like some cursed Ravenclaw,” you teased, grinning.

Regulus huffed a laugh. “You were sitting on the floor in my room,” he continued, tone suddenly gentler. “You brought every sweet from Honeydukes you could carry and made me try all the ones I said I hated.”

Your grin softened into a warm smile.

“And then you told me,” he said, eyes flicking to yours, “that if Hogwarts was awful, and I hated every second of it, at least I’d have someone to sit with on the train ride back.”

The memory bloomed in your chest like an old Polaroid, blurry around the edges but warm all the same.

“You meant it,” he added. “And I think… that’s when I knew.”

“When we became friends?” you asked.

He looked at you for a long moment, then gave a slight nod, lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—not out of sadness, but because there was more to it than he could say.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s when everything changed.”

“Professor let us move in a night early,” Regulus recalled, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Probably so the castle staff could have one last evening of peace before the school year started.”

You laughed under your breath at the realization, nodding. “At the time it felt like freedom. Our own space for the first time.”

“Exactly,” he agreed, eyes soft with the memory. “Feels strange thinking back now. It was just you and me in this massive castle… for a while at least.”

“I almost forgot that,” you admitted, the corners of your mouth curling up as you thought of it. The quiet corridors. The chill of stone floors under your socks. The thrill of choosing your own bedtime, your own space. “It feels like it’s always been this way.”

“But you don’t remember the first night?” he asked, tilting his head.

You squinted, trying to trace the memory like it was hidden in fog. There were flashes—wandering the halls, fiddling with enchanted portraits, a failed attempt at brewing hot cocoa with a half-working kettle you’d found in one of the old kitchens…

“You woke me up,” Regulus said, chuckling softly.

Your eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh—Merlin. Right. I couldn’t sleep and—”

“You were bored,” he supplied, shaking his head fondly. “You dragged me out of bed and made me sit with you in the common room. And then you made me watch that ridiculous enchanted Muggle film projection your dad enchanted for you.”

You snorted. “The Princess Bride is a classic, I don’t care what you say Reggie.”

“It’s too long,” he shot back without missing a beat. “And you didn’t even stay awake. I sat there like an idiot while you snored on my shoulder.”

You covered your face with your hands, laughing with secondhand embarrassment. “Okay, okay—”

“You talked through half of it,” he went on, grinning. “You said you were scared.”

The laughter softened on your lips, surprise flickering in your gaze.

“I did?” you asked, quieter now.

Regulus nodded, watching you intently.

“You said you didn’t know what Hogwarts would be like,” he continued, voice gentler. “You were afraid you’d mess everything up. But then you said as long as I was around, maybe it’d be alright.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The memory settled over you like a forgotten charm being reawakened.

“And it was,” he added softly. “Alright, I mean.”

Your eyes met his again, and there was something about the way he looked at you then—like you were the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Like he’d never forgotten that night for a reason.

“You said you were scared of failing,” Regulus’ voice dipped low again, quieter than before—almost reverent. “That… you were afraid of never becoming powerful enough to protect the people you cared about.”

Despite the memory being so old, embarrassment flickered through you now like a lit match to dry parchment. You couldn’t believe this was the moment he’d held onto all this time. Of all things, this one?

“I almost wish I hadn’t asked,” you muttered, cheeks burning, “I can’t believe I said that to you.”

But Regulus didn’t tease. In fact, his smile turned almost fond.

“Then you told me you thought I was strong,” he continued, and for the first time, there was the faintest trace of pink brushing the tops of his cheeks. “You asked if I’d help you… get strong too. Like me.”

Your eyes widened slightly. The image of little you, curled in a blanket in the Slytherin common room, whispering fears into the dim glow of floating candles, was something hazy and far away.

But Regulus? He remembered it like it had just happened.

“And then,” he added with a snort, “you passed out mid-sentence, head on my shoulder. I was stuck watching the rest of that bloody Muggle film just so you wouldn’t wake up and yell at me for skipping to the end.”

“You watched the rest of the movie?” you asked, your voice soft with wonder.

He laughed. “Every last minute.”

You blinked, stunned. “I can’t believe I don’t remember any of that.”

“You were exhausted,” Regulus shrugged like it didn’t matter, even though it clearly had. “And it was a long time ago. I never expected you to remember it… I just never forgot.”

You chewed on your lip, falling quiet as warmth coiled in your chest. That kind of memory… someone keeping it for you when you hadn’t even known to treasure it—it meant more than you could say.

But then he stepped forward.

Just a single pace, barely anything. And yet your whole body felt it—the sudden closeness, the silence that wrapped around you both like a breath held too long.

“And by the way…” he murmured, pulling your gaze up to his with ease. “I do kind of stare at you, a lot.”

Your face went red so fast you thought your ears might start steaming.

“You—you heard that?” you squeaked, mortified.

“And then some,” Regulus replied smoothly, and despite the flush still tinting his cheekbones, he was smiling. Really smiling

For once, he didn’t feel like hiding.

“Did you mean all of that, soleil?” he asked.

And this time, the air between you was electric.

Your mouth opened once. Closed. Opened again.

The conversation from earlier came crashing down on you all at once, each word echoing in your head with horrifying clarity. He’d heard it. All of it. Your rambling. Your clumsy affection disguised as hypothetical questions. And—Merlin—had he heard that last part?

“I mean, y—yeah. Yeah,” you stammered, nodding just a little too fast. “Of course I did.”

But your voice had gone breathless, barely even sound.

Regulus tilted his head slightly, gaze fixed so firmly on you you thought he might see through you completely.

“Even that last part?” he asked, stepping forward again. The hem of his robes brushed yours now, but you didn’t move back. You couldn’t.

“Last part?” you echoed stupidly, throat dry.

“Yeah,” he nodded, and this time his hand lifted—not hesitantly, but reverently—as though you might vanish if he rushed the moment. His thumb ghosted beneath your jaw, the faintest brush of contact that left you aching for more.

“You know,” he murmured, voice deep and velvet-smooth, “that bit where you said you hadn’t really thought about me like that.”

You remembered. Of course you did. It was the one part of the conversation that had clanged in your mind like a bell since it left your lips.

“You meant that too?”

You swallowed hard. His fingers were still at your chin, gently anchoring you in place, and the look in his eyes—

You couldn’t look away if you tried.

“No,” you breathed, and it was so soft it nearly disappeared into the silence between you. But Regulus heard it. He saw it form on your lips, caught the tremble behind it.

“No, I didn’t mean that.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—small, private, and impossibly warm. You watched it unfold, saw the way his eyes softened as he noticed your hands fidgeting again.

He knew.

You felt it too.

“And what did you mean to say?” he asked, and there was a raw sort of need in the question, like it had lived in him for ages, waiting to be unburdened.

Like if you said the words now, it might change everything.

Your gaze lingered on his lips.

You hadn’t meant to stare, but he was close now—closer than you ever imagined he’d dare to be. And yet he was still waiting. Still asking for the truth with a calm so controlled it nearly masked the ache in his eyes.

He wanted to hear it. And you wanted to say it. But wanting and doing were not the same.

“I meant…” you began, eyes flicking up to meet his when you realized how long you’d been caught staring. “I meant I have thought about… something more…”

The words came out in pieces, light and thin like cobwebs, hardly brave or poetic. Nothing like the declarations you’d imagined in your head a hundred times. But it was real. And yours. And when you cleared your throat and added, “But they didn’t need to know that,” with a sheepish little laugh, something cracked wide open in his chest.

“No, I suppose not,” Regulus murmured, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips—one of those rare, real ones that reached his eyes and made them glow softer than moonlight.

You didn’t feel so nervous anymore. Not around him.

“So…” you tilted your head, teasing gently. “Spying on your friends these days, is that your new hobby, Black?” Your voice was quiet, but there was laughter behind it, light and fluttering. “Bit off-brand for you, Regulus.”

He chuckled lowly, and your heart stumbled at the sound—low, smooth, and entirely unguarded.

“When else was I going to hear you say all those nice things about me?” he replied, his voice rich with warmth and something sweeter. His thumb still rested beneath your chin, brushing idly along your skin like he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

Regulus Black had never been the touchy type. He was all self-restraint and deliberate space. But now? His touch was gentle, steady, and intentional. Like he had finally decided not to pull away anymore.

“I quite liked the part where you said I was a gentleman,” he added, the corners of his mouth quirking with quiet amusement.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too wildly.

And then he leaned in. Not rushed, not hesitant—just certain. Your eyes widened, nearly burning from how long you kept them fixed on his. Everything about him in this moment—his steady breath, the warmth of his hand, the tender curve of his mouth—made the world shrink until it was just him and you in this quiet corridor that smelled faintly of old parchment and lavender.

“But for the record,” he whispered, and you swore you could feel every word land against your lips, “I’m lucky to have you, too.”

Your chest swelled, and your smile came freely now, radiant and soft as your fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his sleeve.

Yes. Just as you thought.

He was the warmest person you knew.

Regulus Black was the warmest person in this wide universe.

"And," he continued, his voice a shade softer, more reverent now, "you are my favorite."

You let out a breath of laughter, quiet and a little stunned, before you rolled your eyes at him. There was no real exasperation behind it. Only a fondness so deep it practically glowed from you.

"I know," you murmured, narrowing your eyes with playful suspicion. The smile you wore, though, that was sincere. Sweet and sincere and so unguarded it made Regulus feel like you had just handed him your entire heart without even realizing it.

"Must be a side effect of your staring problem."

He tilted his head slightly, guiding your chin up with the faintest tug of his thumb. His nose brushed yours.

You could feel the warmth of his breath as it mingled with yours, and just as you leaned into it, just as the world started to tilt, he paused. Of course he did. Always the gentleman, no matter how undone he felt inside.

"May I?" he murmured. His lashes dipped as his gaze flicked between your eyes and your lips, every syllable spoken like a secret. "Kiss you?"

You almost laughed from how impossibly soft he could be. You wanted to throw caution to the wind, wrap your fingers in the collar of his uniform and pull him in like you were in the climax of a dramatic novel. But your voice was trapped in your throat, and your limbs would not obey you.

So you closed your eyes.

And nodded.

Just barely.

It was enough.

His lips found yours with a grace that felt practiced, like he had been dreaming of this for far too long. And he kissed you like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. Gentle, tentative, almost reverent.

Your body softened completely. Every piece of tension unraveled in his arms. Your hands, which had been stiff by your sides, slowly lifted and curled gently over his shoulders.

His lips deepened against yours in return, not forcefully, just sure, like he had found something precious and had finally been allowed to hold it.

His free hand, no longer gripping the book he always carried like armor, settled against your cheek. His fingers trembled ever so slightly before the tip of his index ghosted along the shell of your ear, down the line of your jaw, and back up again. Slow. Slow. Slow. Like he wanted to memorize you.

You felt like you might float away. Your heart swelled so high in your chest you were almost afraid of what would happen if you stopped.

And when you did part, it was not with loss, but with a quiet sort of awe.

Your lips still tingled. Your fingers still trembled slightly on his shoulders. Yet all you could do was smile. A real one. Warm and quiet and deeply content. And Regulus? He wore the same smile. Mirrored and soft. As if kissing you had rewired something inside him.

You did not even open your eyes for a moment, basking in it. And that made him chuckle.

"Next time," you murmured, dazed and dreamy, "I’ll let them know you are a good kisser too."

He smiled—genuinely, boyishly, almost bashfully—and leaned in to press a featherlight kiss to the corner of her mouth.

"Don’t," he whispered. "I like that being just yours."

"Will you?" he murmured with a tease laced beneath the softness of his voice.

You nodded, leaning your cheek into his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of his palm made you glow, even as a blush crept up your cheeks and your nose crinkled with hesitation.

"Well, maybe not right away," you mumbled, your tone sheepish now.

Regulus laughed, actually laughed. And it was the kind that made you feel like you had just discovered a hidden treasure.

His smile was wide, unguarded, and it lit up every inch of his face. The pink hue blooming across his cheeks was proof enough that whatever mask he usually wore had fallen completely away for you.

"Maybe not right away," he echoed. His voice dipped low again. Softer now and more tender.

His thumb stroked along the curve of your cheekbone, so carefully, like you were something fragile and precious that only he got to hold.

The sound of his voice, husky and warm against your lips, was enough to pull you under.

Your eyes fluttered closed instinctively. And when his lips brushed over yours once again, it was with all the careful affection of a boy who had never believed himself worthy of softness until now.

You kissed him back just as sweetly. Your fingers traced along the sharp edge of his jaw, hesitating for only a second before settling there. You wanted to pull him closer, wanted to let passion take over, but you did not, not yet. There would be time for that. You could feel it.

He would make time for you.

And for the first time in a very long while, Regulus believed in what you saw in him. He believed he could be kind, gentle, and loved.

But only because you had seen it first. Had named it. Had handed it to him freely, without condition.

He thought he should tell you, one day. That everything good he was becoming had started with you. But that could wait.

You had time now.

Time enough for him to return the favor. Time enough to tell you again and again just how extraordinary you were, until his lungs gave out and your cheeks stayed permanently pink.

Because that was the kind of future he wanted.

One where he never stopped reminding you that you were his favorite, too.

The words left his lips in a breath, a quiet confession. "Tu es le soleil qui me réchauffe."

Regulus walked into his dorm room where you have spent more days than not for the past few months, and sighed defeatedly when all he finds there is Barty laying on top of Evan in some odd position that cannot possibly be comfortable.

“Hello to you too, Black. Thrilling to see you.” Barty’s voice was laced with sarcasm, but there was no menace there as of yet.

“Yeah, yeah,” Regulus grumbled as he threw his bookbag onto his bed and sat down. “You seen Y/N lately?”

“You mean since you were all snuggled up this morning? Nah.”

Regulus rolled his eyes painfully hard at his oldest friend, murmuring a soft sod off before tossing whatever was closest – his pyjama t-shirt – in Barty’s general direction, missing by a good metre. He is a seeker and not a chaser for a reason.

“What of it, Reg?” Evan mumbled, but it was distorted by Barty’s elbow being more or less shoved into his mouth. He could never sit still.

“Just figured she’d be here, ‘s all. She finished class before me.” Regulus falls down onto his bed, curls spilling onto the emerald sheets as he stares at the ceiling, picturing you there and then immediately kicking himself for being that down bad. Then reminding himself with the therapy-speech Sirius has been teaching him, love is a strength not a weakness, it’s good to feel your feelings. Yada yada. "It's been a long day."

“Maybe she got tired of your sorry ass.” Barty laughed at his own joke only to be smacked by Evan’s finally-freed hand.

“Or yours, you sod.”

“Nah, Treasure absolutely adores me.” Barty propped himself up to flash you both a grin. “See, unlike you, I’m fun.”

“Interesting word to substitute insufferable with.” Evan said, leaning his face up from underneath Barty, as if to intimidate him.

“You love me,” Barty drawled before kissing the blond soundly.

“Would you guys please stop flirting?” Regulus’ voice was closer to a groan than anything else. He pressed the backs of his hands to his eyes, seeing stars and thinking of you. Stupid poetic feelings.

“Just because you can’t keep track of your girl doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves.” Barty pointed an accusatory finger at Regulus. “I would classify that demand as rude.”

“Bite me.”

“Only if your girlfriend says yes.” This time it was Evan’s turn of tuning into Regulus’ torture.

“And she would.” Barty winks at him.

This time it’s a pillow Regulus throws at them, and it lands perfectly, smack in the middle of Barty’s face.

“Oi!” He calls as he throws it back. “Either you quit it, or you throw me your jumper, it’s freezing in here.”

“You’re literally in bed, Barty.” Regulus looks at him, unamused. “Just–”

He trails off, gaze falling from Barty to the wall behind him as he pieces the puzzle together and realisation dawns on his face. The other boys seem to have caught on as they both cock their heads curiously at him. 

“Of course,” Regulus whispers, first in marvel and then it morphs into something between exasperation and disgust. “Of course.” At last, he gets a determined look on his face, slapping his palms on his knees as he sits up from bed and grabs his jumper to go.

“Excuse you, what just happened?” Barty says, increasingly louder throughout his sentence as he realises Regulus is headed for the door, thick wool jumper tucked under his arm. “Hey!”

Regulus throws the boys a look over his shoulder, smirking at them and shaking his head before shutting the door and walking off. He barely catches Evan’s “shush, you baby, I’ll warm ya” before he is out of earshot.

A man with a purpose and half a plan stalks off, beginning the treacherous journey from the Slytherin dungeons to the Gryffindor dormitories.

What is the single thing Regulus knows can keep you from him when you’re otherwise attached at the hip? The cold.

What is the one person you go to for anything and everything, especially dealing with the cold? A certain ragged boy with a wolfish smile that he knows is to be found only behind the portrait of an increasingly annoying woman.

“Password?” The Fat Lady asked, quirking a brow ridiculously high as she regards Regulus with a mutual disgust.

“Catulus leonis.” Regulus does not bother holding back the eyeroll at the ridiculous passphrase.

She looks at him a moment or five longer than she needs, almost as if considering not letting him in despite his answer being perfectly correct, before she finally swings open the door wordlessly.

Regulus mutters a harsh thank you, Pureblood upbringing having knocked some politeness into him he is just not able to forego, no matter how severe his beef – as Sirius says – with the woman is.

When he finally approaches the offending dorm, the door opens fast enough to knock some wind across his face, and he is met with a set of black curls and a superfluous frown that both match his own.

“Regulus. Thank Merlin.”

“Good to see you too, Siri. How'd you know it was me?”

"Recognised your footsteps. Now, c'mon."

Regulus pushes in past his brother and his eyes immediately find Remus Lupin’s bed. To the unaware, it would just look like the scrawny boy was innocently laying on his bed, head propped against a mountain of pillows and reading another one of his paperbacks.

However, Regulus knew better and could see the perfect girlfriend-shaped lump underneath Remus’ jumper, shielded by his arms as he held his book over his stomach.

Or, at least shaped like this rather specific form of his girlfriend.

“Hello, amour, I’ve been looking for you.” Regulus’ voice is addressed to the bump on Remus’ chest, but he looks up at him with a quirked brow and a smug smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

“Didn’t know we were on a pet name-basis, Reg. Good to know.” 

“Absolutely not.” Sirius and Regulus chorus at the exact same time, and Regulus fights back the wince at how painfully similar they are in this moment.

“Reggie,” Sirius finally whines. “Your girlfriend’s been stealing my boyfriend for the past two hours. Do something!”

Despite having a very similar sentiment settled in his own chest, Regulus gives his brother a pull yourself together look as he comes up to stand beside him, near the occupied bed. “I’m fairly certain your boyfriend has stolen my girlfriend equally as much,” he tuts.

“Whatever, just do something.” Sirius waves his hand towards Remus’ still very relaxed state with something a bit too close to a pout forming on his face.

“There’s no need to be jealous, Pads, the poor girl’s just cold,” Remus chides, with a teasing glint in his eye that clearly shows he knows his boyfriend is being dramatic for the bit and not actually upset. "Gotta help 'er out."

“‘M not jealous. I’m needy.” Sirius’ deadpan stare is not affected by Remus’ laughter nor Regulus’ barely-contained snort.

“Glad you admit it,” Regulus says slyly, patting Sirius on his shoulder twice, who immediately shrugs his hand off with a scowl.

“Like you’re any better, you slithered all the way up from the snake pit to fetch her. At least I’m open about it.”

Before Regulus has the chance to retort, Remus puts his book down in his lap and reaches out a hand for Sirius, which he immediately takes. “I told you you could come lay in the bed with us, love,” Remus murmurs and swipes his thumb over the back of Sirius’ hand.

If he did not feel the same way, Regulus would have given Sirius hell for how he seemed to absolutely soften in the sunlight of his boy. “Yeah, I know, Moons, I’m just being theatrical.”

Remus laughs once more, and this time his chest rumbling results in a distinct prrrt! coming from the inside of his jumper. Up through the collar, cheek smashed against Remus’, comes the tentative head of beautiful grey-and-white fur and slow-blinking yellow eyes, still riddled with sleep. 

“Good morning, amour,” Regulus coos, ignoring Sirius’ snort as he drops down to squat beside Remus’ bed so his face is lined up with yours.

You pur, stretching beneath the fabric, a single paw escaping beside your head through the collar as you roll over onto your back. Your eyes remained trained on Regulus, and though he knows cats can’t actually smile, he swears you were smiling at him.

“Sorry to wake you, princess,” Sirius drawls as he looks down at you from where he is leaning on the bedpost beside Remus. “But have you seeped up enough warmth for me to get my boyfriend back yet?”

You make a faux hissing sound before ducking your head down, so it’s just barely hidden by the collar.

Remus laughs heartily, setting his book completely away this time so his hand can come up to rest on your cat-form, petting you through his jumper. “It’s alright kitten, take your time.”

The exposed paw lightly hits Remus’ cheek in retaliation, and this time it is Sirius and Regulus’ turn to laugh at his expense. “Ow! I share my warmth with you and this is what I get in return?”

From the movement beneath the fabric, Regulus assumes you’re nuzzling your head against his chest in apology.

“Amour, I brought your favourite jumper of mine and promise to make you so much hot cocoa if I can steal you back. We can be in your dorm room instead of mine, it’s warmer in there, right?” A smile remains consistent on Regulus’ face as he talks to you.

Sirius pats him on the back, murmuring something about you’re so whipped that he doesn’t bother to pay attention to. 

More movement beneath the fabric, and then suddenly your ears are poking out of the neckline again – because why would you make it easy for yourself and use the big exit, when you can squeeze your way through a tight opening? You’re a cat after all.

Remus seems to be thinking the same as he laughs while you attempt to climb out beside his head, soft fur brushing against his skin and making up for the occasional claw you use for traction. 

Regulus attempts to bite back the coos as he sees more and more of you, recognising your movements as sluggish with sleep, no doubt coaxed into it by finally being comfortable.

“Thanks for today, see you again tomorrow, same time?” Remus teases, head turned towards you as you headbutt him lovingly, finally fully escaped from his jumper and standing on his shoulder. He nuzzles you back and scratches your head in goodbye.

Another prrrt! escapes you in greeting as you saunter your way across Remus and plop onto the small strip of mattress on his side where Regulus’ hands are open and ready to receive you. 

“Hi, sweetie,” he whispers as you allow him to scoop you up into his arms while he’s still squatting beside the bed. He holds you like an infant, tight to his body and securely supported. You immediately begin to purr loudly, nuzzling your head even further into his neck and shoulder.

Regulus does not bother to hold back the slight giggle as your caresses tickle him. 

“Good gods, are you two sappy,” Sirius groans, but when Regulus looks up, there is a wide grin on his face. A slightly teasing one admittedly, but a grin nonetheless.

Then, Regulus recognises where Sirius is grinning at him from – properly cuddled up besides Remus on the opposite side of the bed, arms beneath his jumper, soaking up the leftover warmth from you.

“Wait– how did you get there so fast?” Regulus’ voice is almost incredulous, stopping his greeting of you – earning him a harrumphing meow – to narrow his eyes at his brother. “I didn’t even notice you move from beside me.”

“What can I say; I am a dedicated man.” Sirius nuzzles into Remus’ cheek, not much unlike how you were mere seconds ago, albeit his involved a tad many more kisses.

“You’re weird, that’s what you are,” Regulus laughs as he stands up with you in his arms.

You turn around to look up at him with those big, slitted eyes of yours. When you extend your neck further towards his face, Regulus lifts you higher so you can give him the cat-kisses you so evidently wanted, his lips curling at your touch.

Sirius lifts a brow at the two of you. “Yeah. I’m the weird one.” 

Regulus scoffs at him, but when you continue to caress your furry cheeks against his lips and chin, it is difficult for any menace to remain serious.

“Thank you for your deviant supernatural warmth keeping my girlfriend alive, Lupin, but I’d like to steal her away from you now.” 

“By all means, Black, you’ve already stolen her from me once,” Remus harrumphs, pretending to be some scorned faux older brother but his eyes betray his facade; he is happy for you.

Regulus chooses to ignore it nonetheless.

“Brother.” He nods at Sirius. “Soon to be brother-in-law.” He nods at Remus. “We bid you goodnight.”

“Try not to undo all of Moony’s hard work by freezing her right back up with your freakishly cold feet!” Sirius calls after him as he heads towards the door. He then promptly gives out a soft yelp that indicates Remus corrected him in some physical way.

“Goodnight love, goodnight Reg,” Remus calls instead.

“Yeah, bye, doll!” Sirius adds, whispering more to himself, “he’s mine again now.”

You give out a tired meow that is so cute it makes Regulus’ heart clench with endearment. You cuddle properly up into the crook of his neck as he carries you out, softly closing the door behind him with a smile.

He shifts you in his grip so he can look down at you more carefully. “You are so unbelievably predictable. And even cuter than that again, which is saying something,” he murmurs to you and you respond with quiet meows.

He looks at you curiously. “Are you going to remain in cat form the whole night?”

Your tail twitches teasingly, your only other response is a quiet prrt as you close your eyes into the warmth of his neck again. He laughs, covering your feline body with his hands as he carries you, to keep the warmth in.

He sneaks into your dorm – thankfully often unoccupied as Marlene is with Dorcas and Mary is with Pandora – and settles you down onto your plush mattress and pillows. He undresses and gets ready for bed, while you’re resting your head on the pillow, observing him, but just before getting under the covers, he slips on his jumper.

“It’s so soft I could cry, Reggie,” you had whispered to him when you cuddled up to him when he wore it around you for the first time. “I fear I can never let you go now.”

Regulus slides under the blankets with a knowing smile, opening the hem, allowing you to creep under, chest against chest with your head poking out of the collar to rest at the bottom of his neck. 

“I'm no werewolf, but I’ll keep you warm with my love, amour,” he whispered to you in the dark, one hand combing through your fur protectively underneath his own jumper.

He swears, he could hear the little cat snort against his skin.

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 !

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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  

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

@beaniesayshi @etsuniiru @candyluvsboba @iglb12 @doobybopbop  

@kamuihz @katsukiseyebrows @ezrazra @kalulakunundrum @torusbbg  

Henry Winter rises above all of them, I fully believe that. The world bends to his will, it always has and it always will. He is the tempestuous sea that grinds down the cliff, he is the wind that bends trees with only a light breeze, Henry Winter in his magnificence is the Sun which the World revolves around. 

He stands on the edge of the lake as I see him, towering over the calm surface, trusted book resting in the crook of his elbow and a red apple in his hand. If I squint and let the sun go into my eyes for a moment, I can wholly see him as Zeus, King of the Gods, unshackled by any guilt or any error he might have upon himself, he grips the fruit of sin in his palm, his thumb stroking the skin of it as if it was a lover’s cheek. “Henry,” I call out to the wind and I feel the Heaven I had created in my mind collapse when my voice reaches him. His gaze breaks from the horizon, it sets itself upon my figure, it feels like I’m no longer standing near Francis’ lake house, instead I’m perambulating through the Elysian Fields, at the edge of the world. This man is a disease, he is a drug, and I am but a servant of his world slowly stealing crumbs of what he offers me, becoming an addict before I can realize it.

“You should have stayed back with the others. I’ll be but a minute.” He speaks and it’s a subtle order the one he gives me, but I’ve never been one to follow instructions, even if given by Gods of his caliber. I am unable to move from my spot. It is an impossible task, almost herculean, how could it be anything else when this is one of the very rare moments we can catch, with just us present.

At my insolent inobedience, his lips tilt up into a grin. It is a swift motion as he tosses the apple to me, an even swifter motion as I grab it. And it ends there: Paris has chosen the one to whom the Golden Apple belongs to. He wordlessly approaches me, spins me around, rests his warm hand on the small of my back and guides me back to the house.

A week later, as I’m nursing him back to health after he's found himself victim to a vicious migraine, his kitchen acts as my sanctuary and it isn’t until after ten minutes of pure silence that his house phone rings, on the other side of it none other than Bunny. “How’s Henry?” He asks, and I doubt he is looking for an honest answer, “He’s resting,” I reply, hoping he might find some other poor sinner to bother. To my displeasure, he keeps talking, tasking me with the lowly chore of having to listen to him.

“That’s too bad! I’ve been meaning to talk to him about something of the utmost importance,” He professes, his smirk perfectly audible in the tone of his voice.

“I’m sure I can pass along the message, what is it, Bunny?” “Oh, I was just wondering if he could lend me a couple hundred dollars before he begins going mental trying to organize your wedding.” Now, this was one of the most dumbfounding sentences Bunny had ever spoken into existence. Even if it was for a fleeting moment, my mind could not comprehend him: ‘your wedding’ he had said, like he expected me to agree as second nature. “My wedding, Bunny?” I sought further information, with not little confusion in my voice, his newly founded dubiety mimicking my feelings. 

“Yes? Your wedding. You know, the one Henry proposed to you not so long ago? Have you really forgotten?”  His ‘know-it-all’ tone doesn’t do much to help me find what grain of peace of mind I have lost. “No, Bunny. Henry did not propose to me, you must be mistaken. We are not engaged, whatever you are drinking is doing you more harm than good.”

“Ah, but I’m as sober as a stone carving, dearest friend,” and there it is again, the mockery that so perfectly encapsulates what Edmund ‘Bunny’ Corcoran is. If Henry is a disease, then Bunny is the plague itself. “And I am not mistaken, I don’t know what the point of acting secretively is now that we all know about your engagement. You’re acting ridiculous.” 

For once in my life, I find Bunny’s words interesting, and for as much as I would love for it to be reality, I know an engagement with Henry never occurred. Lest I was too inebriated to properly recall it.

“I for one,” he keeps talking, much to my dismay when I see Henry staggering into the room, “Would be heartbroken if my Marion were to forget a romantic proposal such as the one you experienced. Ah! I can feel it shattering already, my poor heart.”

“Bunny, I have to go.”

“Wait! What about the mon-” I’m quick to interrupt him by hanging up. With time it’s become almost an artstyle: ignoring Bunny’s requests this way is something not even Henry himself is able to do.

My fingers are still tightly wrapped around the handset, the only noise I hear is Henry’s rugged breathing as he struggles to keep himself upright. Such a prideful man, bested by a migraine. Were I not caught up in an internal turmoil I would have precipitously scrambled by his side, wrapped my arm around his body and guided him to his armchair, but now? Now I watch him, and he watches me. His eyes are like a hawk’s, they pierce right through me.

He hasn’t heard what Bunny said, I know it, I’m certain of it. Then, why is it that I feel like in front of me is not a man, but judge, jury and executioner. He’s waiting for me to do anything, my Achilles’ heel is waiting, standing right in front of me and it seems unsure of what to do: to mercilessly bore himself through me as a spear does to an enemy soldier  or to let me make the first step into the battlefield unharmed.

“Bunny called.” My voice is unrecognizable to me, his hum is enough for me to keep talking, “He is often unruly, foolish and to be completely honest unbearable. One can always expect to be mocked when in his presence,” Why I find myself detailing our friend’s manners is unclear, perhaps I am searching for a grain of context where I can find only unsureness, “But he said something peculiar today, to my surprise. Something I find myself clinging on. It was but a short-lived conversation, yet, it flooded my mind with ‘what-ifs’.”

“Even Bunny has his moments.” His attempt at a joke is but a mere flicker of light humor, a fickle attempt to avoid this situation we are both stuck in. Knowing him, Henry right now would love nothing more than a glass of whiskey and for me to start working on his dinner. So I do. A sigh abandons my lips as I move to the kitchen, and before I know it I’ve abandoned the subject at hand, focusing instead on the sound of the bottom of his glass makes as it makes contact with the wooden table.

Henry, my gentle savior, pops me out of my bubble with just a few words. “I have yet to properly thank you for taking care of me this way.” I feel he wants to say more so I don’t interrupt and as expected my transcendental divinity blesses me with his voice once again, “My kitchen feels right with you in it, there’s a dent in the place you always occupy on the couch, for some reason I can’t bring myself to fluff it out.” A beat passes, “My bed feels warmer with you in it.”

Nights with him weren’t all that rare, but they also weren’t a regular occurrence. I know I’m not the only one to have seen Henry in his most intimate moments, the sheer passion we have shared wasn’t one that he kept locked away just for me. He is a giver, at heart. His heart, although cold and behind bars, has a need to give, all the time. I fear he thinks that if he does not give, then he has nothing himself. 

“Are you saying I should move in with you?” I ask, the spoon I’m using to stir his dinner almost abandons my hands to fall into the pot. He is easier to read than he thinks, or maybe I am a fool with a crooked halo. 

“I feel it is only proper.” His presence behind me is noticeable only when his arms wrap around me, his chest presses against my back and I delude myself this is a display of affection for an invisible audience, I mislead myself into imagining we are in  a house full of people gazing at us with a soft smile on their faces, being participants of what could be our affection for each other. I know better. From the way his arms twitch, my beloved Henry is only using me as a crutch to make sure I am not burning his food. 

“Is it?” The ability to form sentences seems to have fled my mind, “And why is that? Simply because I nurse you back to health?” 

“I won’t lie and say that’s not part of why I want you here. I would have thought you had understood by now.”

Maybe I don’t know Henry as well as I do, because his words strike me with each syllable. “What Bunny said, he said something about a wedding. My wedding, your wedding, our wedding.” 

And just like that the bandaid comes off. And a response never comes. His hair tickles my neck and the cold rim of his glasses sends goosebumps down my neck when he nuzzles his face in my shoulder. Now I’m sure I don’t know him at all.

“Our wedding.” He finally breaks the silence when he notices the spoon inevitably fell into the pot. I hear his soft whisper directly into my ear.

As my head turns to try and find his gaze, my eye falls onto the basket of apples set on the counter. Red ones, like the ones near the lake house. Red, the color of love, of passion and of blood. It ties together the two most gruesome things in human history, a pair that cannot be undone not even by divine intervention: Love and Murder.

“I thought you’d be overjoyed to be my bride. Was I wrong?” There’s a challenge in his tone, he wants to be challenged, almost wants me to deny him, but Henry knows. He knows I cannot deny him, ever. I don’t want to deny him. 

Now it seems so obvious. Henry must think me a fool for having taken so long, even so, teasing him tastes just like sweet ambrosia and no matter how much I try, part of me cannot be restrained.

“Throwing an apple at a girl to claim her as your bride might have been the fashion back then,” His smirk is pressed into my skin as his lips kiss the spot right under my ear, “But might I have to remind you, Henry, not all of us are as knowledgeable about Ancient Greece's customs as you are. It was such an ephemeral moment it did not seem to have much meaning.”

“I’m offended, I’ll have you know I put quite a lot of thought into it.” His hands rest on my waist as they have done so many times, only now it doesn’t feel as inconspicuous as it used to be. I’m the last one to know, this is a first. 

“I doubt aiming a fruit at my face took you much thought.”

“On the contrary, dearest. Were my toss too strong it would have hurt you, and that was not my intention.” His hand is warm, it’s all I can feel when it rests on my cheek, and as he did while holding the apple that day, his thumb strokes my skin. “It was entertaining to see you so oblivious, I have to admit, even if I owe Bunny around two hundred dollars now.”

“What for?”

“He bet everyone that you would not understand what my action meant until someone brought your attention to it.”

“That bastard.”

I have a sneaking feeling a diamond ring will sit on my finger before tomorrow, but for the time being, this is fine. Jewelry, accessories have never meant much, it’s just gold, silver, rubies. The way his lips press against mine to muffle my laugh means much more than any diamond ever could. I’ve spent long trying to not fall in love with Henry, and now I’ll spend even longer knowing what being loved by him feels like. 

it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.

you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”

and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.

and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.

choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.

you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.

because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.

and you? you love him. maybe too much.

you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.

maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.

it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.

you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.

but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.

there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.

it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.

maybe not forever.

~

the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.

bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.

you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.

he’s on the couch. he always is.

slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.

until he sees you.

choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.

“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”

and just like that, you’re home.

you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.

“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”

he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.

“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”

he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.

your heart stutters.

“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”

you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.

“you’re stoned.”

he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”

you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.

the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.

he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.

“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.

“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.

he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.

you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”

“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”

you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”

he hums. “don’t hit the same.”

you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.

you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.

so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.

you stay like that. for a long time

later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.

you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.

his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.

you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.

“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”

he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”

you grin. “exactly.”

he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.

like you always will.

when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.

he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.

“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”

he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.

“always.”

you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.

you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.

but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”

you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.

“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.

he doesn’t let go.

you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.

choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.

you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.

he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.

“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.

“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.

he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.

and there it is again. home.

“this party was kinda ass,” you say.

“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”

your stomach flips.

but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.

“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”

choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”

“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.

“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”

you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”

“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”

“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”

he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”

you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”

“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”

“always.”

his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.

“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”

you blink.

“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”

you laugh. “well someone has to.”

“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”

your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.

he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.

he says it like it’s just the truth.

“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.

his thumb strokes your arm, slow.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.

he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.

you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.

he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.

they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.

how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.

they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.

you’re not together.

but this? this is something else.

“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.

you nod, curled into his side.

“you?”

“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”

“i never do.”

he hums, already drifting.

you close your eyes.

"night, cho."

"night, babe."

and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.

right where you’re supposed to be.

~

the sun’s too fucking bright.

choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.

his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.

he’s never rushing.

the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.

he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.

he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.

“yo.”

he looks up.

toji.

posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.

choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”

“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.

choso shrugs. “feel fine.”

“late night?”

“always.”

toji grins. “bet.”

choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.

they’re not close, but they’re good.

“you throw last night?” toji asks.

“yeah. packed out.”

“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”

choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”

“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”

“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”

“tragic.”

they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.

“how much you make off the door?”

“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”

toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”

choso snorts. “nah.”

“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”

“i’m not good with rules.”

“fuck rules.”

choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”

“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.

that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.

“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.

“yeah. lab.”

“tough.”

“i'm so fucking hungover.”

toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”

choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”

toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.

“y/n?”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“you guys together now or what?”

choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”

toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”

“why?”

“you’re always with her.”

“yeah.”

“you sleep in the same bed?”

choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”

toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”

“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.

“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”

choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.

because it isn’t like that.

not yet.

but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.

“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”

choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.

he knows.

he knows.

~

choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.

there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.

his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.

his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.

[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn

[10:38am] choso: chem

[10:38am] you: ew

[10:38am] choso: yea

[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored

[10:39am] choso: wya

the response comes fast.

[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.

choso smiles.

it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.

he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.

~

the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.

perfect.

you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.

you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”

he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.

“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.

he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.

you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.

he doesn’t notice.

or maybe he does.

but he doesn’t say anything.

“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.

“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."

you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”

“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”

you shrug. “probably.”

he grins.

you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.

you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.

choso looks over. blinks once.

his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”

“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”

“your brand is slutty candy princess?”

you flash him a wink. “you know it.”

he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“you’d like it.”

“maybe.”

you both laugh.

but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.

“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”

choso blinks. shifts.

“how’d you know that?”

“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”

he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.”

you hum. “what’d you say?”

he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”

you nod.

but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”

choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”

you don’t speak for a second.

then—

“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”

he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”

you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”

“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”

it knocks the air out of you a little.

you don’t reply.

he doesn’t push.

instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.

“you mind?” he asks.

you shake your head. “go for it.”

he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.

you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.

he passes it to you.

you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.

“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.

“you always smell like sleep and candy.”

“that a compliment?”

“you know it is.”

you smile.

and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.

he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.

you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”

he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”

“toji’s place?”

“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”

you make a face. “ew.”

he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”

“what kinda party is it?”

he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”

“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.

“come anyway.”

you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”

he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”

“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.

“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”

“classic.”

“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”

you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”

“better lighting.”

“less vomit.”

he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”

you blink at him. “so what?”

“you comin’?”

you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”

he gives you a look. “me."

“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”

“me.”

“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”

he smirks. “you already know.”

you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”

“what an honor.”

“you’re welcome.”

he flicks the roach away and leans back again, hood falling down to rest at the nape of his neck. you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

there’s something warm in your chest.

like always.

“what time’s it at?” you ask.

“late.”

“when are we getting there?”

“later.”

you smile. “as always.”

“as always,” he echoes.

you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.

he doesn’t notice.

but you do.

you always do.

~

the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.

shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.

because you’re painting.

your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.

you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.

the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.

but this time’s different.

this one’s for him.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.

maybe it’s because you love him.

not like that.

not yet.

but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.

in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.

in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.

you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.

outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.

you aren’t ready yet.

but you will be.

because he asked.

because you always go when he asks.

by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.

there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.

“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”

“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.

you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.

“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.

a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.

“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.

“two,” you shoot back.

you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.

“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”

“please tell me you’re drinking tonight,” maki says, eyes already glossy.

“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"

“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”

you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”

“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.

“girl.”

you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.

“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like—cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”

maki snorts. “you faked it?”

“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”

shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”

“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.

“they’ll live,” maki says.

you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.

“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”

you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”

they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.

“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”

nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because you just spotted him.

across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.

he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.

you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”

you beeline straight to him.

he sees you coming, of course. always does.

“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”

you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.

“hey, babe.”

he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”

you grin. “you’re high.”

“and you’re hot.”

“so high.”

gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he was proud of him.”

“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.

“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.

“a sweet menace,” choso adds.

gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”

“godspeed,” you tell him.

choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”

you nod. “girls are wild tonight.”

“when aren’t they?”

you smile. “party’s kinda gross, though.”

he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”

“i missed your parties.”

he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week. tuesday.”

“a tuesday party?”

“hell yeah.”

you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.

without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.

he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.

you hand it to him wordlessly.

his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.

he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.

“you painted this?”

you nod.

“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”

“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”

he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.

then—

“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”

you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”

he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”

you blink.

he says it so casually. so high. so him.

like it’s just a fact.

you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.

but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.

“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.

choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.

he flicks it once. flame bursts up.

“perfect,” he mumbles.

“it works?”

“better than my soul, babe.”

you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.

you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”

his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.

he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”

you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”

he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.

then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.

“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”

choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”

you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.

“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.

he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.

then he’s alone.

not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.

the lighter’s still in his hand.

and it won’t stop looking like you.

'she fuckin’ made this.'

that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.

(which you do.)

'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.

he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.

'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'

it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.

he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.

he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.

he pauses there.

your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.

his thumb hovers over the screen.

“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”

sukuna.

choso glances up. “am fried.”

sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”

choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”

they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.

“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”

“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”

he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.

sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”

“yeah.”

“you look like you just had a vision.”

choso finally meets his eye.

“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”

sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”

choso doesn’t answer.

instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.

sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”

the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.

he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.

it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.

“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.

the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.

“what’s up, man?”

choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.

he holds out his phone.

“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”

the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.

it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.

looking up at him.

choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”

the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”

choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.

the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.

the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.

“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”

choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.

then finally:

“nah.”

the guy hums. “girlfriend?”

he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”

he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.

“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”

the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”

choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.

“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”

“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.

“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”

the guy snorts. “fair.”

the needle hits skin.

choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.

“like what?”

he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.

choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.

“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”

the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.

“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”

“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.

“nah.”

another pause.

“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”

a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.

“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”

choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”

“yeah?”

he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”

the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”

choso closes his eyes.

“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.

just for him.

~

the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.

“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”

choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.

“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.

the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.

and fuck.

there it is.

your eyes.

wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.

for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

he just stares.

it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.

yo.

he’s obsessed.

like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.

he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.

god.

you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.

it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.

but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.

“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”

“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”

the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”

“fair.”

he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.

she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.

nah.

this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.

“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.

“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”

“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”

choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.

he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.

“appreciate you, man.”

“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”

he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.

but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.

not of what they are.

but of what you mean.

upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.

maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.

but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.

he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.

sleeve tugged down.

lighter in his pocket.

eyes on his arm, just for him.

~

later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.

you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.

“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”

you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.

“hey, ma.”

his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.

“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”

“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”

“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”

“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”

“amen,” sukuna snorts.

“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.

“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”

“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.

“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

“was it… alive?”

“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”

“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”

choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”

“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.

“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”

“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.

“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”

“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.

“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.

“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.

the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.

you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.

“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”

“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”

“you ever tried dabs?” sukuna asks. “that’s when shit gets spiritual.”

“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”

“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.

“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.

“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.

“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”

you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.

“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.

“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.

and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.

~

the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.

choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.

“you good to dip?”

you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.

he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.

“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”

gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”

you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.

“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.

sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”

“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.

they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.

“get on.”

you blink, amused. “seriously?”

“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”

you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.

“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.

he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”

you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.

he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.

his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.

but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.

he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.

you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.

you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.

“hey.”

you look over, curled on your side facing him.

his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.

“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”

your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”

he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”

you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”

“feels like it.”

he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.

you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.

he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.

“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”

you press your face into his chest.

“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”

choso’s quiet for a second.

then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”

you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”

he exhales slow.

“fuck, ma.”

“what?”

“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”

you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.

his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.

“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”

he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.

“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”

you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.

his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.

his voice comes again, quieter this time.

“gonna keep that lighter forever.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”

“not even gonna let gojo touch it."

“definitely good.”

his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.

you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.

his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.

“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.

you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.

his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.

and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.

just for him.

just for tonight.

just for you.

~

~

it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.

he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.

“yo, choso.”

doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.

he pulls one earbud out and slows.

toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.

“what’s up?” choso mutters.

“you got a sec?”

choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.

“…yeah,” he says anyway.

they walk.

they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.

“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.

“same shit.”

“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”

choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”

toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”

he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.

“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”

choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.

“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”

he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”

choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.

“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.

toji hums. “you sure?”

choso looks over.

“what’s your point?”

“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”

“we’re not.”

“but you hang out every day.”

“yeah.”

“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”

choso’s mouth tightens.

toji grins like he caught something.

“so she’s single?”

choso stares straight ahead.

“…yeah.”

“good to know.”

silence.

the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.

“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.

“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.

“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”

no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.

“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply.

“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”

“don’t do this.”

choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.

“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”

he tilts his head.

“so which is it?”

choso breathes slow through his nose.

“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.

but he doesn’t.

“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”

“what’s that mean?”

“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.

“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, bebe ron the lips.

because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.

“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.

“yeah,” choso says, barely above a whisper.

toji gives him one last nod.

“cool,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.

just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.

he knew before he asked.

and now he’s coming.

because choso left the door wide open.

and you?

you’re free to walk through it.

~

choso’s room, late afternoon

your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.

his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. always do.

“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.

“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.

toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.

you bite your lip. thumbs hover.

then you type:

you [3:07pm]: oh you're stalking me noww?

you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.

“who you texting?”

you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.

“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”

he tilts his head.

“someone, huh.”

you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”

he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.

“that toji?”

your breath stalls.

“…yeah.”

choso stares at you. unreadable.

“why?”

“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”

he hums. low. not buying it.

“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”

“what’d he say?”

“choso—”

“lemme see.”

he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.

“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.

“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.

“he said i was cute when i was bored. and i said maybe. that’s it.”

his jaw ticks.

“you flirting with him?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.

“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”

“what does that matter?”

“it matters.”

his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”

“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”

“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting. he’s circling. you don’t see it?” you blink.

“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”

you freeze.

the silence that falls is loud.

so loud.

your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.

“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.

“never mind.”

“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”

he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.

you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.

choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.

“why?”

he doesn’t answer. but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.

because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.

you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.

“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.

instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.

“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.

“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”

“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”

his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too. “how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”

“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.

he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.

“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.

“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.

“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.

“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”

he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”

his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.

he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.

“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.

you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.

“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.

“i’m fucking in love with you.”

your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.

“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”

you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.

“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”

you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.

“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”

you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.

“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”

his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.

“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”

his eyes widen. “no—”

“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”

“y/n, it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”

choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.

he swallows.

and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.

he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.

there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.

of your eyes.

staring straight back at you.

your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.

choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:

“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.

“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.

“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”

your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.

“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”

you’re still staring at the tattoo.

he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.

“you think i’d get your fucking eyes on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.

his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”

his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.

but he lets it go anyway.

“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.”your breath catches.

“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of the street. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like i already lost you. and it kills me.”

his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.

“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”

you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.

and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.

and then he doesn’t anymore.

he crashes into you like he’s starving.

the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.

your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.

his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”

your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.

“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”

his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.

you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.

“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”

“choso.”

he shudders.

“again.”

“cho!.”

he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.

and fuck, you let him.

you’ve wanted this just as long. needed him just as bad.

and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.

you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.

choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.

“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.

you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”

he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.

and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.

his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”

you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks — slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.

“choso…”

he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.

your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.

he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.

“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”

your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.

“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”

his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.

and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.

his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”

“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”

and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.

“fuck, baby… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”

his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.

he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.

“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”

you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?

you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.

he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.

“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”

~

the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.

and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.

gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”

“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”

“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”

“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”

“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“you okay?” you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.

“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”

“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”

“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”

“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.

“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.

you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

and the thing is — he is.

he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.

“It’s not you all I wanted to eliminate, you simply chose to defend them, the weak, pathetic…” He can’t say it anymore, what he called them, what he called you.

“Weren’t you the one who said it’s our job to protect the weak?” Satoru’s voice is quiet now, reminding him of just that, the time he felt that way, naive and young.

“You continue to lose all your comrades and friends, Satoru you may be the strongest but it’s not worth it - without them, there are no more curses.”

“It’s not your choice to change how the world is. You’ve gone so far, the only person I’ve ever seen you love since you… changed… is here.” Satoru’s words nearly make him fall over with the pain, the grief, looking at your still unconscious body, as Shoko focuses harder.

“Please just save her.” He whispers now, and Satoru slips off his blindfold completely, blue eyes seeing right through him.

“You did this. If she doesn’t make it, it’s because of you.”

“I fucking know that!” Suguru shoves Satoru now, which merely earns a tired, sad little smile, while he grips his wrist before he lets Suguru strike him. “I know it, okay? I don’t even… fucking deserve her. I know it.” He’s close to tears as he shoves off Satoru, covering his face before he looks back at you.

It’s gone too far, god it’s all gone too far, hasn’t it?

How can he live with himself after what he’s done to you. He places a hand on yours, you don’t grip it how could you, limp and weak fingers, exhausted face growing just a little brighter. You’re exhausted from him, from the stress - god he left you in his bed, alone, naked and gleaming from your lovemaking.

Love making, it was love making.

You were his everything, and not once did he let you get treated or shown that way, what was just one time of worshipping your body when he didn’t worship or appreciate your soul? Your mind, your wishes, he barely knew you truly - he never gave you a chance to listen.

He hates himself.

He was going to kill them all, for a better world, but to lose the only important thing to him, in a room with two people who loved him?

What has he done?

“It’s not working.” He says then, worried as Shoko sighs, shaking her head.

“I need more time with her, her body is already in a rough state.”

“What rough state!?”

“She has a weak will, and she needs to have some will to make it through this.”

A weak will, because of him, he fucking knows it too- it’s all him that did this, that caused it, he wants to blame Satoru for putting you in danger, but it’s ultimately his fault. You begged him to stay despite having been forced into this, despite the horrible things he said and did to you, despite it all you still asked him. You still tried to break through, almost meeting your end.

You awaken suddenly with a gasp, sitting up, staring at an unfamiliar but pretty face of a woman in scrubs, a stethoscope around her neck. She smiles gently, you feel two men’s hands on you, Satoru’s holding one hand, Suguru the other, both staring up at you now.

“I’m sorry I put you in harm.” Satoru’s words are full of remorse, one of his eyes staring up at you, glimmering. “It was the only way but…”

“It’s okay. I chose to, it was the right thing.” He exhales in relief, as you look to Suguru now, torn between anger, relief and fear. “Suguru…”

“I ended the battle.” It’s all relief now, as you clutch him tightly, and all the love in your eyes makes him even more sick, how could you love him?

“It worked.”

“It was foolish, reckless-”

“You are not about to lecture her right now on being reckless.” Suguru scowls at Satoru’s words.

“Let’s talk while Shoko checks her out.” Suguru’s words are surprisingly soft, a way you’ve only heard a couple times, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

Satoru and Suguru walk to the other end of the enormous room, footsteps echoing while Shoko murmurs softly. “I’m Ieri.”

“Thank you for… saving me, Ieri.” Your own quiet name makes her smile a bit, as she looks at Satoru and Suguru. “They were your friends, weren’t they?”

“Hmm, I guess they were. Let me check this heart rate, okay?” You nod, eyeing the two quiet men, as your disoriented mind and sore body process what happened.

“I know you owe me no favors, Satoru… but can I ask for one?” Satoru frowns now, leaning against the wall, as you sit up with Shoko’s help and speak quietly.

“You stopped the attack, if you’re willing to give this up, I’ll do you any favor.” He says, making Suguru sigh.

He doesn’t deserve you.

He doesn’t deserve Satoru.

He deserves no happiness for what he’s done, the horror in your eyes, the fear of the unknown, the baby just barely growing that surely would not survive with him near you. You look at him across the room, with those sad, broken eyes - he’d never made you happy, not once - yet you truly tried. You begged him to fucking stay and what did he do, what did he cause?

“I am taking Mimiko and Nanako far away.” Satoru’s blue eyes widen now.

“And your wife, yes?

“No.”

“Suguru, are you fucking serious, what more does the girl have to do to be with you!? She almost died to save you, not just everyone.” Satoru’s voice is a hushed whisper, eyes narrowed.

“That’s just it, I’m no good for her, or the baby if it… makes it. Chances are with me and how devastated I make her, it won't.”

“Suguru, she will forgive you.” Satoru puts a hand on his former best friend’s shoulder, coated in blood, and Suguru doesn’t shove it off, he takes a breath instead, shaking his head.

“She will, and so will you, but I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve her and I never did.”

“So become the man she needs, you’re not too-”

Suguru laughs harshly, taking Satoru’s hand off now, holding it for a moment, a million memories of their friendship falling as his hand falls. “Both of you make excuses, but I see what I did to her.”

“She’ll be okay, Shoko-”

“She’ll never be okay. Satoru, I have to ask you…”

“Don’t. Don’t you fucking run, seriously!?” Suguru yanks him out of the room, out of your earshot now, Satoru crosses his arms, as the door echoes in the cold empty halls of the abandoned building they’d shielded Shoko in.

“Take care of her.” At Suguru’s broken words, tears feeling once cold eyes, Satoru falters, lips parting. “Take care of the baby if it… makes it.”

He glares, shoving at his old friend, who’s too down to not let him budge with the movement, forlorn look on his face. “You take care of them, become better.”

Suguru shakes his head. “I can’t face her. I can’t face what I’ve done, I need to go. Far, far away.”

“For how long!?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever come back. I know it’s a lot to ask - but I also know I can trust you to take care of her.” Satoru’s furious, not at the thought of taking care of you, but the fact that Suguru is running, that he still even now can’t accept love. “You will take care of her better than I could.”

“You think you’re doing the right thing, but you’re not. She chose to come here, can’t you give her a chance?” Suguru peers through the door window, the thick pane of glass, sighing and touching it longingly, while Shoko checks your vitals.

“Please, for the friendship we had, take care of her. The girl I love.” Satoru’s own emotions make his throat close, while Suguru realizes just how deeply he loves you, more than he even could admit. But he didn’t choose you, no matter how deeply you begged him to, no he left you alone in that bed.

He can’t forgive himself for it.

He is not sure he cares about any other casualties, he wishes he did care more for that - he still sees humans as pests, he does not share Satoru’s view and maybe never will. But you so clearly need him to, and he realizes he’s too far in his own hatred still, you were that exception, that bright spot. You were the one regret he now holds, and he knows he loves you enough to let you go.

“Please look after her for me, Satoru.”

“Jesus christ, Suguru.” He swipes a hand through his long white hair, looking at you in that room, sighing. “Of course I will take care of her and the baby. But it should not be me.”

“Thank you.” Suguru puts his hand on Satoru’s shoulder, and for a moment Satoru sees him - the best friend he ever had, making what he thinks is the best decision for a girl he loves. He loves and feels, still deep down, and something breaks Satoru down then. “I went too far.”

He scoffs at that, sighing. “Understatement of the century. I will not tell her goodbye for you, though. You need to at least explain your stupid decision.”

Satoru walks back into the room, looking down at you now, you’re weak but alive, and he still senses two energies with his powerful six eyes. He gently holds out his hands, and you take them, using his help to stand, shaky now. “Are you feeling okay, sweets?”

“I’m okay.” You nod a smile just a bit, turning to Shoko. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course. We’ll… give you two a moment.” She reads the room clearly, Satoru and Shoko have known each other so long it really just takes a look.

You watch curiously as they walk out, and Suguru has tears in his violet eyes, something you never thought you’d see, his face so serious and sullen it makes you panic. “Did they say the baby-”

“No, no, for now it all looks fine. Shh.” He pulls you against his strong chest, and you fall apart, sobbing now, shaking your head and shoving at him. “I know.”

“You know!? You know? You left me. You chose this over me.” You pull back, furious, chest heaving with the quickness of your breaths, your own cheeks covered in your tears now.

“I did. And that’s why I’m no good for you.”

You pause now, gasping. “What!?”

“It was selfish, so selfish not to let you run when you wanted to.” You’re shaking as he cups your face, thumb tracing your cheek, brushing aside the onslaught of tears, exhaling and leaning low. “I almost killed you.”

“You didn’t almost kill me, you almost killed everyone! Suguru, I’m fine.”

“Tch, are you!?” His grip on your waist draws you closer, while your head falls back, and you stare into a monster’s eyes - a monster you love. “Are you fine? You almost died.”

“I chose to come here, you can’t blame Satoru when I begged him to bring me. I had to try to save them, those innocent people!”

“It worked.”

You sigh, shaking further, burying your face against his chest, he’s covered in sweat and grime and blood from the battle, but you don’t care. “Are you done with this foolish effort?”

“I’m done.” You look up in shock, cupping his face now, and he leans so low, until your breaths mingle, hand shaking as it holds you.

“Thank God. Oh Suguru, thank God.” You pull him down for a kiss, full of all the relief in your heart. You’ve saved him, everyone is okay - glimpses of hope and something beautiful fill you with a light you’ve never had. He kisses you back so deeply, exhaling against your lips, deepening it and pulling you so tightly, his hard body enveloping yours.

“I should have told you.” He whispers, pulling back, lips almost against yours, nose brushing against yours.

You gulp, throat dry, in so much fear of what he’s going to say, what he’s going to do. “Told me what?”

“I love you. Fuck I love you, love when you hit me, love when you called me out, love the fire inside you.” His declaration makes your heart shatter, you want to be happy, but you feel it - his apprehension, his fear.

“Suguru…”

“I love you and don't deserve you.”

You glare now. “Don’t you do this, don’t you run.”

“Baby, this is how I can show how much I love you.” He cups your face with two big hands and long fingers, you’re glaring through your tears, gripping his wrists.

“Don’t you dare.” You whisper, teeth clenched, you feel it then, you feel him pushing you away, when he’s just close enough.

“Satoru will take care of you both, better than I could, he’ll be good to you-”

“What!? You’re shoving me off on your fucking friend?” You shove at his chest now, but he doesn’t budge, even as you smack at it, he doesn’t move, doesn’t let go of his grip. “If you love me you’ll run away with me, we can start over.”

The desperation in your voice tempts him to no end, god he’d love it, but he knows how much you’d suffer, always. “I am leaving, starting over.”

“Not with me?” Your hurt pours through every word, and Suguru wants to bring you, god he does, but he knows it so clearly - he could never make you happy.

“You’ll be better off this way. You and the baby.”

“Bullshit, it’s such bullshit Suguru!”

“It’s the truth, I love you enough to finally do this.” He brushes your hair back tenderly, you smack his hand scowling up at him.

“You don’t get to do that, you don’t get to abandon me after not choosing me - just to not choose me again!”

“It’s not that,” your sobs wrack your body, as he steps back, brushing back his tangled dark locks. “I am choosing your happiness.”

“Why can’t it be with you?” Your broken whisper makes his heart break, but he loves you so much, he just knows.

This is right.

“I can’t look you in those beautiful eyes and know what pain I caused, I can’t have you looking at the monster I am.”

“You’re my fucking monster, okay? Mine!” You shove him again, he just sighs, defeated. “I love you Suguru Geto. I do, despite it all, despite how completely fucked in the brain you were, I love you dammit. You can’t just leave me now, like I’m some damn pet you can’t take care of. I love-”

He’s slammed his lips again, desperate and hungry, and you fall into him, as his kisses grow more and more ardent, pulling back just to take a breath, hand slipping up your spine. The contact alone makes you shiver, tongue meeting his stroke for stroke, so much emotion in this one kiss you wish it would last forever, fingers clinging to the silk of his robes.

“Don’t do this. I can only forgive so much.” He sighs at that, as you’re sniffling, eyes fucking burning.

“You’ll thank me one day, if we meet again - how happy you’ll be without me.” He breaks away then, as you crumble, holding your stomach while the sobs seem fucking endless.

“Don’t leave me, please, not again, I can’t take it.” He looks back at you as he stands by that door, pulled between being selfish and selfless.

But only for a moment.

“I’ll love you till I take my last breath. You’re not just human, you are the most special thing that’s existed.” You collapse to the floor while he walks out, the world collapsing around you, the hope you had for just a moment crushed.

He will never choose you.

“Suguru go the fuck back in there, stop feeling sorry for yourself, what are you doing to that girl?” Satoru shoves at him then, but Suguru knows it, he can’t live with himself let alone be with you, cause you pain, ruin you further.

“A moment of pain in order to be free of me. She thinks she’s in love with me now, but it’s because of her being trapped. She just thinks she does, but I don’t deserve it, not worthy of it.”

“You don’t think you deserve it, so earn it. Just stop this bullshit.” 

“Satoru, thank you for not… giving up. But I can’t live with what I did, seeing it in her eyes every day. Please, just care for her.” Satoru glares and crosses his arms.

“Running away. You’re just running away.”

“Good bye, Satoru.” Suguru is gone, just like that, leaving Satoru to punch the wall in anger, and of course it starts crumbling with his strength, you gasp out in shock at the sound and he curses, resting his head for a moment.

He almost had his best friend back.

He walks in to see you so small and helpless in the big room on the floor, holding yourself in a hug, devastating to look at, when your eyes meet his. Satoru walks up to you then, sitting right on the ground, his legs crossed, brushing his fingers comfortingly against your shoulder. You’re shaking so badly, skin hot to the touch, he can even hear how fast your heart was.

“Sit up, sweetheart.” You do it with his help, you feel weak and devastated beyond repair, while he pulls you against his chest, holding you to him, letting you cry against his dark jacket, rubbing your back up and down.

“You don’t have to take care of me, S-satoru okay, I c-can do it alone. I have family that may understand-”

“No.” His word is firm, precise, you tilt your head up and look into brilliant blue eyes, lips pressed together. “I promised him and I won’t break it.”

“I’ll just be some burden to you. It’s bullshit, him leaving, bullshit.”

“Yeah. I know. But I will take care of you. Okay?” You shake your head, sniffling now. “I will.”

“I believe you, but how could he? After… I told him I loved him.” Satoru tenderly brushes your cheek, swiping some of your tears.

“He doesn’t believe he deserves it from either of us.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Satoru sighs.

“I don’t know. But for now, come on.” He stands carefully, picking your still weak body in his arms.

“I can walk.”

“You’re stubborn, aren’t you?” Your lips barely twitch, as you hold onto his neck.

“I guess so. I’m sorry you’re just stuck with-”

“Shh, it’s fine. Let’s get you somewhere you can rest.”

*****

One year later

You lay your little girl Noa down in her crib for the night, smiling as you touch her precious cheek, and Satoru leans in the doorway, smiling at the two of you. Her dark locks resemble her father, but aside from that she’s a spitting image of you. You look up at Satoru as you put a finger to your lips, signaling for him to be quiet, and he crooks his two fingers, asking you to come out.

“You can have a little wine now, she’s on formula mostly now, right?” He murmurs, as he takes your hand in his, and you pause - because it feels too good lately. God, he looks too good, after a year of living with him, having him hold you, hold your baby.

Satoru was literally her father, he helped you constantly, and you never paid for a thing, despite your frequent protests. Satoru went above and beyond anything you assumed when he promised Suguru that day - and the two of you have never talked to him since. The last Satoru found out, he moved to another country with the two girls, and the rest of the cult silently disbanded.

You miss Suguru every day, but Satoru slowly fills the void, the huge black hole he left when he abandoned you that day, and though you’ll always love Suguru Geto, as well Satoru, clearly, you also feel more and more for the man taking care of you. Even though you’ve fought it, for months after the baby it changed, how attractive you find him, hating yourself for it.

How can you pine away for a man never coming back?

But how can you move on after a love like that?

But you don’t realize Satoru can’t stop craving you, aching for you - also feeling fucking horrible. Suguru asked him to take care of you, and it was like he knew he would also grow to love you, but for different reasons than Suguru. He loves how funny, sarcastic and sweet you are. He loves how much you adore your little girl, and he loves her too.

He loves how you smile, how your cheeks get warm when he presses a friendly kiss on them, how the lights hit your pretty face. How sweet your scent is, how easy it is to be with you. Cooking together, taking care of Noa, just existing, you bring peace he didn’t know existed, as Satoru feels like a real home to you.

Satoru can’t imagine not coming home to the two of you, sometimes missions can last weeks, but you’re ready with a perfect meal and his favorite dessert. You’re always so happy when he comes home, hugging him tightly. The two of you hold each other, talking about Suguru at times, and how much you miss him, how much Satoru misses him.

Once last week you were crying, he had you against his chest, tilting your chin up, whispering the sweetest words. You felt all those body changes, the stretch marks, the extra skin, but he told you - ‘you’re gorgeous, okay?’ and you’d faltered, you almost kissed him, if not for your little girl crying.

You both had avoided each other that night after, he’d blushed furiously, as had you, but that was when something shifted, and the need grew more and more. Now looking at your joined hands, longing breaks through, but along with that so much confusion.

Could you be with someone else?

His best friend, that he left you with, did Suguru… expect this? Or would he be devastated, or would he even care? Did he keep tabs on you and the daughter he abandoned - for what he felt were the right reasons - or was it something he shoved far back. At times you were furious at Suguru for it, at times distraught, but sometimes you realize your life has become happy.

“Sorry…” Satoru pulls back now, that pink on his high cheeks again, but you take his hand back, shaking your head.

“I can drink a little wine, I’d enjoy some.” You smile and he exhales in relief, leading you down just one set of his elegant staircase. Satoru lived in a whole mansion honestly. But it still felt homey, it wasn’t like Suguru’s…

Suguru.

You loved him.

He left you.

And the man across from you pouring wine in your glass is beautiful, with his soft sweater and freshly washed hair, tousled just so, blue eyes soft as they study you carefully, you’re falling more, day by day. It’s not the insane madness, the brutal craziness of Suguru, it was something soft and sweet and beautiful.

“Want to watch our show?” He asks, and you nod, taking the glass from his fingers, they softly brush each other, sending trembles through the both of you, while your eyes lock, fingers staying there a moment too long. “Taste it.”

You take a breath, putting the sweet red wine to your lips, moaning at how good it is, a little drop on the corner of your mouth that he swipes away gently. You pause, as he stands there, leaning low, the huge house so quiet, your heart pounding in your chest, blood rushing to your head.

“Sorry.” He says again, clearing his throat, but you set the glass down, stepping up to him, so close, too close. Satoru’s hands ache to touch you, his lips die to touch yours. “Everything okay?”

“No. It’s not.” You sigh, hands slipping up his soft sweater, under that material, touching his bare chest and feeling it tense, a soft growl from his throat, when his hand entangles in your hair then.

“Keep touching me like that, and I will lose it.” His firm words, when he’s usually so sweet, just make you more excited, tummy flipping, clenched with desire.

“Lose what?” You touch him again, and his breath quickens, as he leans even lower, stepping you back, bit by bit, lips so close while you’re being pressed until the back of your knees hit the couch.

“The control. I can’t take you touching me.” He grips your wrists, and you turn him then, pressing him on the couch, straddling him, he gasps, as your own control fades to nothing. “You’re pushing me around, huh?”

“Maybe I am, Toru.” The nickname ruins him, as your lips crash against his, for the first time - and it feels far too good.

You never knew if you’d feel good again, the endless nights of crying for the man that left you, not once but twice, that put so much ahead of you, only to not even choose his baby, his friend, you. But you don’t hold resentment, no you still love that man, the one who ran from you all, but you feel good, Satoru’s lips are perfect, and for once you can let it go.

Just in this moment, let it all go, nothing but how perfect Satoru’s tongue feels against yours, as he’s so gently holding back. You’re grinding on him, earning his throaty moan, soaking wet when you feel his length, god you want him. You can’t stop it anymore, wanting the man who does everything for you and Noa, despite knowing how deeply connected he is to Suguru.

“God, I’ve wanted you,” Satoru’s kissing up your neck, as a hand grips your breast so gently, like he’s scared to hurt you, lips hovering on the shell of your ear now. “Tell me to stop, tell me I’m a bad friend.”

You shake your head, taking a breath. “You’re not, look at how good you take care of…. mmm, us… ah!” He’s nipped your ear with his teeth, moaning as he does, the sound igniting something inside you laid dormant.

“He shouldn’t have asked me.” He pulls back, a serious look on his face. “Now I’ve fallen, and fuck if I can stop if we go any further.”

You cup his face now, arching your hips just so, making him whimper softly, snowy lashes lowered as your heat hits him, rushing across his cock in those sweats now. His hands slip down to them, as he presses kisses on your breasts, swollen just a bit still from the baby, tempting him to no end.

“I’ve only… with him.” He pauses, blinking up at you in surprise, and you feel yourself flustered at admitting it.

“Shit that makes it worse for me to do.”

“It’s not… I… just wanted to tell you. I’m not the most experienced at certain things.” He nods then, swallowing, pressing up and watching your head fall back, making him throb harder with need.

“It’s been a year for me, so it’s been a bit, okay?” You blink in shock.

“You haven’t with…”

“How can I?” You’re kissing him more desperately now, feeling your body respond to every touch, every kiss, every brush.

“Please.” Your whisper ruins Satoru, he’s felt himself lose the will to stop, to rationalize it, but he can’t find rationale with you.

“Then we take it slow for you.” He lifts you off him, laying your back on that couch now, fingers trailing so delicately, it’s not rough, angry, brutal, it’s like he’s softly mapping your body, inch by inch, until he runs them up your thigh, parting them. “But make your decision, sweetheart, I won’t be able to stop.” His desperation is felt with every quick breath of yours, cunt growing slicker.

“I want you, Satoru… I have for… a long time.” He exhales, sliding down your body, sweet kisses on your thighs, thumb pressing your panties, and you cry out, covering your face then.

“She can’t hear you from down here, let go. Feel.” He’s kissing your thighs higher, hungrier as he slips down your shorts, tossing them, lapping at your soaked panties with his tastebuds, while blue eyes look up under hooded lids.

“Satoru!” You’re gripping his hair, so tightly it hurts, while he tastes it, the sweetness he’s been dying to for most of the time you’ve lived here. He fought it, so hard, but how can he not want you? When you look like that, feel like that, taste like this, it’s making him fucking feral, losing his strong control. “Sorry!”

“No, pull it.” He pulls your panties aside, studying your pretty pussy, you shyly almost cover your tummy a bit when he pauses you. “You’re beautiful, you were beautiful pregnant too.”

“Oh I, ah!” He’s parted them now, pressing a kiss to your bare, glistening cunt, and your body relaxes, while his hand covers your tummy.

“I thought it was so sexy pregnant, couldn’t say it.” He shakes his head, while tears of emotion and desire fill, he makes you feel so beautiful, so desired then.

The only time Suguru had done that was the last time.

One last time.

It feels so far away, so different, but you feel it in your heart - you love Satoru, you still love Suguru - fuck, Satoru loves Suguru still. But you both have to finally let him go, just a bit, and together you both do, as he’s delving into your slick, gummy walls with his long, talented tongue, all while studying you, so careful, watching every movement of your body.

There are no ‘i hate yous’ and there is no anger.

You just want him, and want him so badly.

You hate yourself for it, but at the same time, you deserve to feel loved, to feel happy, devoted as Satoru worships you, freely. He’s flicking his tongue on your clit in quick, sure flicks, as his long fingers sink in your eager cunt, hitting your g spot with just enough pressure you feel your orgasm taking you over.

“Satoru, oh my god I’m…”

“Cum, let me sip you sweetheart, that’s it.” He encourages softly, and you do, gushing all over his pretty face, he kisses you then, your taste swathed on his lips, desperate as you slip off his pants, stroking his thick, long cock, watching him whine over you. “Are you still sure?” He asks once more, tip against your entrance.

“I want this.” He exhales in relief, a hand entwining with yours as he sinks inside of you, no pain just a delicious fucking stretch, that has you screaming out, so loud he kisses you.

“Maybe not that loud, hmm?” He smirks, and you giggle - fuck you giggle all the time with him, don’t you? A far cry from the sad, depressed girl you were.

“Sorry, f-feels s’good…” He moans now, feeling your walls grip his cock, and he can’t take it, shoving your thighs up high, you gasp as he does, sinking deeper, tip against your cervix. He’s slow, letting you feel every fucking inch, as you spasm around him so close again.

“I’d love to put a baby in you, don’t you see, I’m horrible.” He rests his head on yours as his huge hands press up your thighs, and you gasp, clinging to the couch desperately as he works you. “I want all of you. I shouldn’t.”

He shouldn’t, right?

But how can he not.

He loves you.

With every stroke, kiss and whisper, you fall apart, dropping the last of your barriers for him, feeling the peak closer and closer. “You want that, Satoru?”

“God yes. You are so p-pretty pregnant, fuck… I shouldn’t have thought all those things…”

“Tell me.” Your whisper ends him, he’s slamming his cock, covering your mouth as your eyes roll back.

“Wanted you then, tits swollen, tummy so full, all I could think of was how I wanted to suck these pretty nipples, drink up all that milk from them.” He lets your thighs fall, they squeeze his hips, when he kisses a breast, bowing his back to do so, and your hands press into his strong biceps, as you whine out. “I’ve wanted you, sweetheart. Now I want you to cum on me.”

You’re done, with one more roll of his hips, you’re cumming so hard you can’t keep quiet, he’s gotta put that hand back on your mouth, watching your eyes roll back in your skull. He whispers as the orgasm rides over you ‘that’s it, sweets, there you go, so pretty’ as he presses kisses, letting you cum down, until he fills you up himself, so much cum.

He hasn’t been with anyone in a year.

How could he be, when you lived here?

You’re cumming with him again, tears falling as you kiss him, and he pulls back, frowning with worry. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“I’m just really happy, Satoru.” Your tremulous smile ends him, and soon you’re in his bed, in his arms as he presses kisses on your shoulder. He sighs, addressing the silent thoughts while you both stare out his window at the night sky.

“Do you think he knew I’d fall in love with you?” You frown a bit, looking back at him now, your hand tightening over his.

“I don’t know. But Satoru, I love you too.” He kisses you softly, nuzzling your noses together. “You still love Suguru.”

“And so do you.” You nod then, and he swallows a bit, smiling now. “That’s okay, it’s okay to still love him.”

“Even though he’s an emo bitch?” Satoru snorts, as do you, through your emotions.

“Even though he’s emo enough for a whole 2006 band by himself.”

“With a god complex.”

“Well… I have that too.”

“I have curious taste.” He chuckles, and you turn in his embrace, brushing his soft white locks back, kissing him again, until the two of you fall back into each other, the entire night.

*****

Two years since you saw or heard from Suguru Geto

Suguru swallows nervously as he knocks on his old friend’s door - wondering if you still lived there. He was sure Satoru moved you in, why wouldn’t he? He knows you were in good hands, surely, but finally, he feels it - the draw to come back. He doesn’t expect you to forgive him, but he wants to see you, and to see his child for the first time.

He wonders, was it a boy or girl?

The door opens, and he expects his friend, only to have to look down at that face that’s haunted his dreams, his thoughts for two years. Your eyes are wide when you see him, as if you’ve seen a fucking ghost, and maybe he was to you, your mouth open wide as he hears giggling, tinkling like a little bell.

“Get here, you little brat!” Satoru’s laughing, running after a quick little girl with chubby arms flailing, and Suguru sees her then.

His daughter.

He looks back to you, opening his mouth to say something, anything, when he gazes at your body, and sees the changes.

You’re pregnant.

Satoru stops and picks up the little girl, grinning at you before he sees Suguru, then his own eyes widen, while the little girl just giggles waving at Suguru, not knowing who he was. How could she? His heart breaks into pieces when he sees her perfect face, she looks just like you, aside from already long black hair, silky and tied up in a cute little pony tail.

She’s precious, she’s perfect.

He feels it, what’s been missing, when he manages a little smile at her, and Satoru steps closer, while you’re still stunned, as you see him. You never thought you’d see him again, this past year has been spent living your life with Satoru and your daughter, and then you’d found out you were expecting. Satoru was oddly traditional, putting a ring on your finger one day.

‘You’re kind of married to my best frenemy but this will do for now’

He’d said it so casually you’d giggled, as he carried you to the room, the lovemaking was endless between you, but moreso it was the friendship- a beautiful friendship, truly. A partnership built on mutual love of Suguru at first, but of course it blossomed, until you were each other’s world, though you saw Suguru every day in your daughter.

Two years. No word.

He looks different, he’s slimmer and less buff, his hair is shorter and tied up, and he has some dark circles, but he’s as handsome as you remember. He clears his throat a bit now, rubbing the back of his neck, gone was the insanely commanding man, and replaced was one just a little unsure.

Your heart splits in half.

“Suguru, come in.” Satoru’s words surprise him, as he looks at you again, your hand on your tummy.

Is this how you looked pregnant with his daughter?

“Please come in, Suguru.” You whisper, and he nods, trying to placate a smile on his face as everything threatens him, to yank you in his arms, kiss you, press you against that wall. To tell you how badly he’s craved it, your taste, your moans, your pretty sighs, how he’s not stopped thinking of you.

But you’ve moved on, it’s clear as day with your bump growing, with how your daughter calls Satoru ‘papa’ then. He wants to be furious, but he caused it, he shoved you right into Satoru’s arms, and knew he’d fall for you, just like Suguru did. How could anyone not love you.

“Hi! Hi!” The girl says, and Suguru smiles at her, stepping closer, as she cups his cheek with her little hand.

“Hi there. I’m your parents… very distant best friend.” His soft declaration eats you alive, as you and Satoru eye each other for a moment.

“Play! Play!” Suguru chuckles, you’re not sure you really ever heard that from him, unless it was dark, mocking.

“Let’s give them a minute to catch up, clean up for dinner. You staying for dinner, Suguru?” Satoru asks, so casually as if they were just old friends, and Suguru almost breaks down.

He doesn’t deserve to be invited in.

He didn’t deserve either of your love.

“If you’d like me to.” He directs the question to you, and you nod a little, smiling tremulously.

“Please do.”

“Then it’s settled, be back sweetheart.” Satoru plants a kiss right on your lips, and you melt just a bit, before tensing, glaring at Satoru as he grins. “What?”

“You’re ridiculous!” He just chuckles, winking as he takes her to get cleaned up, leaving you with Suguru, who’s scowling at his retreating figure.

“He’s as annoying as ever.” You burst into laughter, before it turns to tears, and Suguru falters, holding a hand up, hovering near your cheek. “Fuck, I… I am so sorry I left. I’m sorry for it all.”

“It’s okay, just please, stay for dinner. Let us see you again. Let her meet you, please.” You’re a mess, and he hugs you against his chest now, feeling your tummy nudge him, your breasts against his chest, a mix of fury and understanding, longing and loathing.

 “Are you happy?” His question is simple.

You are happy.

But you missed him, fuck you missed him. But now…

“Suguru um, I…” You sigh, holding his hand, stepping back just a bit, and his other hand brushes aside your tears. “I’m happy with Satoru. I love him. I know you must hate me for saying this-”

“No.” He puts a finger to your lips, pausing, looking just how beautiful they are, how beautiful you are, you always were. “I saw how he looked at you the day you met, I knew this would happen.”

“Then why!? Then why!” You pull back, shaking your head, and Suguru looks away, jaw clenching.

“I knew he’d make you happy and I couldn’t. And I loved you enough to let you have it.” Your heart is shattered into a million pieces, the baby kicks in response and you cry out just a bit. “Calm down, please…”

“I just don’t get it, I don’t get you Suguru, maybe I never will. Are you back or just… visiting?” You’re swiping at your own tears.

“I’m here for a bit. I came to see you both. Well… all three of you.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “Your daughter, she’s beautiful.”

“Her name is Noa.” You say, and Suguru can’t stop the smile from growing, brushing your hair off your shoulder.

“Love?”

“Love.” You touch his hand with a small smile. “Please stay for dinner, and… just talk.”

“I kind of want to kill Satoru even more than before.”

“Wanna take this outside then?” Satoru’s cocky grin meets Suguru’s eye roll - and you know this memory well from Satoru’s tales - of a basketball game with the two of them, over ten years ago now. But you see it.

They still love each other, even though Satoru has you against his side, possessive hand on your waist, and Suguru’s violet eyes glare a bit. “You took my wishes a little too far.”

“Should’ve been more specific, less emo.”

“Satoru I swear-”

“Hi, hi! Up, up!” Noa runs to Suguru, surprising Satoru and you both, as the little girl really only loves you two.

Suguru leans down, picking her up in his arms, grinning bigger than you’ve ever seen, as you barely hold it together, Satoru’s hand soothing on your back, pressing a kiss on your temple. “You’re mine, you know.” He whispers in your ear.

“Possessive, hmm?” You smile up at him, and he sighs, looking over at his friend and his daughter.

“Very, but… it’s nice to have him home.” Satoru’s words are only meant for your ears, as you glance at a man you loved, a toxic man - one who made horrible decisions - but you see it, his change, his genuine adoration of Noa then. And you look back at the other man you love, so deeply, and something about it…

Feels perfect.

Now if you read this after I warned you, I'll hear no complaining aha - if you're reading both, happy Suguru end will be VERY soon. If you just wanted the sad ending, I hope you enjoyed. It's bittersweet <3 This is how I intended it to end but so many ppl fell for our cult leader I'll have his own version. Ty for reading this~ if it's your chosen end, see you in my other ficsss!