26 | mainly writing for gojo. certified yapper. chronically online.
i also write for any other fandoms i'm currently hyperfixated on
rules
minors dni pls (18+)
pls do not copy or modify any of my works
not spoiler free
i do take requests! i'm always open to new ideas but pls be patient w me <3
masterlist
⋆˚✿˖° short series
orbital resonance | brother's best friend!gojo x reader [ongoing]
⋆˚✿˖° one shots
the strongest (fake) boyfriend | clan head!gojo satoru x reader
double overtime | uni au!gojo satoru x reader
his type & more | enjin x cleaner!reader
without a trace | spiderman!gojo satoru x black cat!reader
orbital resonance pt. 4: the summer after | gojo x reader [short series]
❀ pairing - brother's bestfriend!gojo x reader
❀ summary - orbital resonance: when orbiting bodies exert regular, periodic gravitational influence on each other. gojo satoru is always in your orbit. geto brings him around one day and he never leaves. the two of two will always drift back to each other. you will always write it off as “that's just how gojo satoru is" but there can only be so many “almosts” before it feels like there's something there.
or three times gojo almost kisses you. one time he does.
❀ warnings/tags - modern au, brother's bestfriend, 18+, fem!reader, fluff, crack, eventual smut, mutual pining, forbidden (kind of) love, profanity, slight age gap (2yrs), 3+1 trope (like 5+1 but 3 lol), fluff, comedy (kind of), idiots in love
❀ wc - 9k
a/n - hi guys ! hope u guys enjoy this read, it can be read as a standalone but there are other pts. this one is longer than the other chps, i got carried away lol see u at the bottom ! <3
masterlist | last chp | next chp
Kamakura is always nice in the summer.
There’s something about it that never really changes, no matter how much time passes everywhere else. The air is lighter here, filled with salt and heat that clings to your skin and settles in your hair.
Your grandparents' beach house smells the same way it always has, old wood baked from years under the sun, faint traces of seawater that carries in through the windows no one ever closes. The house itself sits a bit of a distance from the shoreline, separated by sand and grass, but close enough that the sound of the waves crashing is constant. The gravel path still crunches in that familiar way beneath your sandals. The porch wraps around the front, the dark faded wood railing has been worn smooth after all these years. The water is still as blue as you remember it to be, the volleyball net you and your cousins hung up all those years ago still stands strong in the sand.
You have cousins who are married, who have kids, who have moved to different parts of the country. The cabin feels a little bit more cramped like this. But warm, welcoming, alive with the chatter from multiple generations. It's nice to be back, to catch up with your relatives again after everyone's grown up and gone about their own lives.
Speaking of grown up and gone about their own lives, you think of Satoru. And his supermodel girlfriend. You're pretty sure she's actually a lawyer or something. But she definitely could've been a supermodel if she wanted to. The drive was nice, even though it was long and you were alone. It gave you lots of time to mentally prepare to see them again. You had pretty much come to terms with the fact that you'll likely never get over your feelings for Satoru and that it probably wasn't just some childish crush that you could never get over.
And you're not dumb. You understand now the way he looked at you, how he treated you, there's no way the two of you weren't flirting at some point. You weren’t that naive. At least not now.
So yes, it did hurt your feelings when he brought home his girlfriend and it even made you feel a little insecure at the time. But you’re both adults now and you’ve moved on with your life. It wasn’t fair of you to expect him to wait for you to grow up like you thought when you were a sixteen year old girl. You both had a life to live. It wasn’t like you spent your four years in college pining over him, you made the mistake–okay, multiple mistakes–of hooking up with some guy just to ghost them and you dated around, just as you’re sure he did. The love that you had (have) for him will always be there but it’s something you’ve decided to leave in the past. He has, so out of respect for him and his girlfriend, you should do the same.
Doesn’t make you any less nervous to see them though.
You bury the thought, along with your nose, in some romance novel your best friend–and college roommate–had recommended to you a few months back. You’re surprised she even had the time to read recreationally considering the amount of schoolwork the two of you were buried in last semester. It was a cheesy read, yes, but it was admittedly a guilty pleasure of yours to read corny rom-com novels and after the character development you’ve had in the last year, you deserved it.
It’s like a reward.
You’re stretched out on a beach blanket, sunglasses resting comfortably on your nose, the warmth of the sun soaking into your skin. You’d be sweating if it wasn’t for the occasional breeze from the ocean that cools you just enough to keep the heat from being unbearable.
The sound of the waves crashing becomes white noise as you read, rhythmic and steady and you hear the sound of kids laughing in the distance.
You’re so focused on the enemies-to-lover plot that you hardly realize the sun is suddenly blocked until a shadow is cast over you. You frown, brows knitting together as the warmth on your skin dulls slightly. Lowering the book onto your chest, you lift a hand to shield your eyes despite your sunglasses, tilting your head back to see what’s disrupted your little bubble of peace.
Gojo stands towering over you, tall enough that he blocks the sun almost entirely, a pair of dark sunglasses mirroring your own perched on his nose.
His smile is crooked, as it usually is, as he lifts a hand in a lazy wave.
You manage a half-hearted wave back, still a little startled from his sudden appearance. You push yourself up into a seated position.
He looks so casual and relaxed, sporting red swim trunks and a towel thrown haphazardly over one broad shoulder. Your gaze catches unintentionally on the lines of his body, the way his shoulders have broadened, the definition along his arms, outlines of muscles across his chest.
Did he start going to the gym since the last time you saw him or what?
You look away quickly, grateful your hand is still half-raised, shielding your face from the sun. And hiding the fact that you were ogling him a bit. He’s making you flustered and you can’t quite bring yourself to make eye contact with him or his abs right now.
“Hey kid,” he says easily, large hand coming down to rest lightly on your head.
You scowl at him, shifting away so his hand slips from your hair. “I’m not a kid,” you grumble, though there’s no real bite behind it. He drops his hand at his side and you suddenly feel self conscious in your bikini. You grab at the towel you were using as a pillow, pulling it around your shoulders.
His eyebrows shoot up behind his glasses, turning his head to look at the ocean as if suddenly very interested in something out there. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think his ears were turning a little pink.
“Geto’s looking for you,” he states after clearing his throat.
Your lazy ass brother would send someone to get you instead of doing it himself. You shift to stand, brushing sand from your legs before Gojo extends a hand, gesturing for you to take it. You do, hesitantly. He pulls you up and you nearly choke, feeling how strong he’s gotten over the last few years.
Now it’s your turn to look away from him.
You toss the book onto the beach blanket after dog-earing the page, then glance back up to find him still standing there aimlessly, waiting for you. You fall into step behind him, trailing along as the two of you make your way back to the house.
You’re not sure how much time had passed while you were relaxing on the beach but by the time you reach the house, it seems most of your family members have already arrived. Voices spill out through the back patio doors, loud and overlapping. Inside, your aunts are already crowding around Suguru, cooing over him. Your mom isn’t much better. It’s amazing that she still acts like she hasn’t seen either of you in years despite the fact that since both you and your brother have moved back to your hometown, she sees you daily and sees Geto every week at dinner.
You realize that among your cousins and aunts and uncles, Satoru is here and his girlfriend is not. You turn to him, ready to ask where she is until you realize he’s already looking at you, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He’s got this look in his eyes, like he’s thinking intensely and it weirds you out so you turn your attention from him again.
He’s so confusing.
You don’t have time to ask what he’s thinking about before Geto is coming over, pulling you into a hug.
“We were looking for you,” his arm comes up to nuzzle at your hair with his knuckles. After seeing your mom, the apple does not fall far from the tree.
“I see you every week,” you shove him off, pout on your face. Your hands fly up to tame the mess he’s made of your hair, “Where have you guys been?” You narrow your eyes at him accusingly, still annoyed at his aggressive affection.
Suguru is practically cackling at your expression.
“We damn near would’ve got here tomorrow,” he laughs full and unrestrained, slapping a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, “with Satoru’s time management skills.”
“Hey!” Gojo lets out an incredulous laugh, poking at Suguru’s cheek, “You said we could get here at any time.”
Suguru snorts in response, not even bothering to look at him as he gathers his hair, tying it back. “Yeah, any time today,” he drags his eyes over to Satoru, “It’s not my fault you had ‘prior engagements’.” His fingers come up in air quotations.
That earns him a half-hearted glare from Satoru and you end up tuning out the rest of their argument. The two of them fall into their usual bickering easily, voices overlapping and it’s familiar enough that you hardly register it anymore, though a stranger would probably think it’s some serious argument.
At least it didn’t escalate this time.
A few summers ago, a similar argument turned into a full-blown water gun fight that ended with both of them–and somehow, you–completely drenched. Turns out either of them using you as a shield was ineffective. Your mom was absolutely furious and somehow you always end up getting dragged into it despite being completely innocent.
By late afternoon, most of the family have migrated down to the beach.
The sun hangs a bit lower now, softer than earlier, casting everything in that warm, golden light that makes the water shimmer. The sand is cooler beneath your towel, still warm but no longer scorching. You’re stretched out on your stomach this time, book open in front of you, chin resting lazily in your hand as you flip through the next chapter.
As corny as the dialogue is, you’re eating it up to say the least. You’re a sucker for an enemies-to-lovers trope.
The sound of the waves blends with the distant shouts and laughter coming from the shoreline where your cousins–and of course, Satoru and Suguru–have roped themselves into a game of volleyball.
You’re determined to get through this book this weekend. Who knows when the next time you’ll be able to lounge and read without work deadlines will come. But you really can never fully enjoy anything with Satoru and Suguru around.
“Y/N!” Satoru’s voice cuts across the beach. It’s amazing how well his voice travels. “Play next round!”
You don’t move from your spot, “I’m good!” you call over your shoulder, flipping the page.
There’s a groan of protest from somewhere behind you, probably Suguru, but you tune it out, shiftling slightly on your towel.
You wonder if there’ll be some cute guy at your work that you initially find attractive but then find out he’s your CEO and he’s actually absolutely insufferable. Maybe you’ll spend a few months loathing him, like he’s super arrogant or something. Then there’ll be a lot of tension and banter, maybe a heated argument or something that turns into a moment. Then boom, enemies-to-lovers.
The sun sickness must be making you lose it. You make yourself giggle but your thoughts are interrupted by Suguru walking past you, making his way back to the house, muttering something about having to take a phone call.
That’s weird.
You can’t name the last time he’s taken a private phone call, normally very comfortable telling everyone his business on speaker phone.
Does he have a girlfriend?
You watch as he disappears behind the patio doors, snickering to yourself again, feeling sorry for whatever girl gets with him. You decide to take a break from reading, flipping over to your back to rest your eyes. You still have your sunglasses over your eyes, despite the fact that the sun is no longer beaming. The late afternoon sun still sits warm on your skin and all you can think is that this is so nice.
Nice only lasts so long around these two, as you may have mentioned before.
The sunlight on your skin shifts, a shadow falling across you. You let out a sigh, already knowing without opening your eyes.
“The water’s really nice,” Satoru states matter-of-factly.
You don’t bother moving or opening your eyes, book resting open against your stomach as the breeze lifts a few loose strands of your hair. “I’m sure it is,” you hum lazily, uninterested. There’s a pause but you can feel him still standing there, lingering in that way he always does.
“Let’s go swim.”
“Later.”
Another pause. You can practically feel him thinking. The thing about Satoru is he always keeps you on your toes. You quite literally never know what he’s going to say next.
“Don’t you wanna play mermaids?”
Your eyes open immediately, a laugh slipping out before you can stop it as you push yourself up onto your elbows. Your sunglasses slide down your nose slightly. You peer at him over the top of the frames, incredulous.
“You wanna play mermaids?”
He shrugs, completely serious, like this is a perfectly reasonable suggestion for two adults standing on a beach. “Yeah, that’s why I asked.” The sun sits low in the sky, catching on the light sheen of sweat he worked up from the volleyball game, turning him into something annoyingly picturesque.
You laugh again at his ridiculousness, shaking your head as you push your sunglasses back into place. You let yourself back into your reclining position, “Maybe later, Satoru.”
You don’t hear a response from him but you know better than to expect that he’s gone anywhere. When you finally glance back at him after a moment of silence, he looks like a kicked puppy, mouth pulling into a small pout. You let out a huff, about to ask where his girlfriend is–half because someone needs to entertain him now that Suguru’s gone, half because the question has been burning in the back of your mind–but you don’t get the chance.
He’s scooping you clean off your towel like you weigh nothing, book slipping from its spot on your stomach, landing somewhere in the sand as your hands instinctively come up to brace against him.
“Satoru–!” You shriek. You’re suddenly airborne, world tilting as he lifts you bridal style against his chest, one arm hooked securely beneath your knees, the other steady at your back. You slap at his sculpted shoulders, “Put me down!”
He darts toward the water, feet kicking up sand as he runs, maniacal laughter bubbling out of him. You bounce with each step, switching from slapping his shoulders to gripping them to keep from slipping. Your protests dissolve into breathless laughter despite yourself.
“Sa–Satoru, I’m serious–put me down–!” You manage between laughs, winded, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.
“Yeah?” he calls, wading straight into the water without slowing. “Put you down?”
You watch as the water climbs, your body jostling more as he struggles to push against the water lapping at his legs. Your grip tightens around him immediately, suddenly afraid for your life. “Wait, wait–do fucking no–”
You screech as he drops you. The ocean rushes up around you, cold and shocking, swallowing your words as you disappear beneath the surface. You come back up sputtering, pushing wet hair from your face, salt clinging to your lips and burning your eyes as you gasp.
“My hair!”
Gojo is already doubled over in laughter, gripping his stomach. “We’re at the beach, you have to get wet.” he states, obviously.
You splash him in retaliation, sending a spray of water straight into his chest but you’re laughing too, the irritation dissolving almost immediately. His much bigger and much stronger arms send a wave of water crashing toward you, completely drenching you again. Instead of continuing the water fight, you lunge forward, tackling him with more force than you probably should into an oncoming wave. It feels like you run into a brick wall, he barely moves at first but lets himself fall back anyway.
The two of you go under together, limbs tangling as the water folds over you. When you surface again, you’re both laughing, breathless, pushing water from your faces as the tide pulls gently at your bodies.
The water sits higher now, brushing your chest as the waves roll in slow, steady rhythms. You’re still holding onto him, hands braces against his shoulders to keep you steady as the water shifts beneath your feet. When you look up, he’s already looking at you, blue eyes locked on yours. The gold of the setting sun reflects in his eyes, softening the sharp blue into something more open. Like his eyes alone are trying to tell you words he won’t say.
Your bodies drift a little with the tide, the water lifting and lowering you in slow, steady motions. The small space between you feels thin, like it could shatter from the gentle waves. Your breath catches and you can feel his, warm and uneven, brushing lightly across your lips every time he exhales. The saltwater clings to your skin, eyes stinging around the edges and the sensation is heightened from the sun reflecting off the water.
Your lips part slightly, trying to steady your breathing and your gaze flickers down instinctively as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You’ve lived this moment before, many, many times with him. Like this is a memory that’s been hovering just out of reach for years and somehow, inexplicably, the two of you have found yourselves right back here again.
And even though you had an entire research project on the topic, you don’t think you’ve fully understood the concept of orbital resonance before today.
You and Gojo will always be like this.
“How do we always end up like this?” you huff out a quiet, breathy laugh but your voice comes out softer than you intended.
He exhales a small laugh in response, the sound brushes against your lips again. His grip shifts slightly at your waist, as if the sound of your voice reminded him where his hands have been this entire time.
“You just can’t get enough of me, huh?” he teases, voice low but he doesn’t make a move to increase the space between you. You roll your eyes but you’re smiling, fingers flexing lightly against his shoulders as you push away from him, floating backwards.
Your mind drifts to your earlier question. “Hey, where’s–”
“Y’know,” Gojo says, like the thought just crossed his mind, “I think Suguru has a girlfriend.”
It’s so abrupt it almost feels like whiplash but the news surprises you nonetheless.
“I knew it!” You gasp, your hand comes down against his chest with a splash, water spraying up between you. “I can’t believe he’s keeping it from me, he never tells me anything anymore!” You pout dramatically, leaning back slightly so your body lifts with the movement of the water. The waves carry you gently, pulling you back a bit. You feel his hand hovering at your waist, ready to steady you without thinking. Always without thinking.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” he chides, voice softer now, “He’s probably just waiting for the right time.”
You frown, your gaze drifting past him toward the horizon where the sun is starting to dip lower. The sky warms into softer shades of gold and orange.
“If it makes you feel better, he didn’t tell me either. I’m just putting two and two together.”
“I don’t know…” you murmur. “I feel like we all just kind of… stopped hanging out.” You hate how vulnerable you sound, like everything has bigger things to be worried about than their childhood friendships.
“I mean–” you correct quickly, forcing out a small laugh, “I know we’re all busy. With our own lives and everything.”
You splash at the water mindlessly, feeling suddenly awkward at the quiet that lingers.
“I miss it too,” he admits. You look at him, a little surprised. He shrugs, casually, but his gaze drifts somewhere past you again, toward the reflection of the sun rippling in the waves, eyes unfocused like he’s thinking about something. “It’ll be easier now,” he adds easily.
You nod slowly, not sure what he means but too exhausted to ask.
He exhales quietly, tipping his head back for a second before rolling his eyes. “My parents have been on my ass about growing up,” he mutters, running a hand through his damp white locks, “Stop messing around, it’s time to be serious.”
You blink at that. Because for as long as you’ve known him, as much as he jokes and acts immature, he’s never really felt… unserious. He always seemed to know exactly what he was doing, exactly where he was going. But now he just sounds tired.
You had always assumed the “Gojo shoes” were probably something big to fill but you didn’t think it got much bigger than Satoru.
He glances back at you after a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “C’mon,” he says lightly, “Let’s head back before the tide comes in and you drown.”
You gape at him, immediately offended. “Excuse me? You would drown.” You splash him with water again, just for the sake of doing it.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grins, ushering you towards the shore, “I’m a great swimmer. I’d try my best to save you.”
-
It turns out Suguru does have a girlfriend.
He doesn’t really make an announcement to everyone but instead, drops the information to you casually at breakfast the next day. You’re still half-asleep when he says it, hair still messy from sleep, barely awake enough to process anything beyond the bowl of cereal in front of you.
Apparently, he rekindled things with some girl from high school after he moved back home. You think you vaguely remember her from their senior prom photos. You were admittedly too focused on something else–or rather someone else–in that photo at the time. You’re actually a little touched when he mentions how he thinks it didn’t work out back then because it was the right person, wrong time.
You were starting not to believe right person, wrong time existed.
He also apologizes for not telling you sooner, explaining that he wanted to wait for them to be serious and “locked in” or whatever as to not get ahead of himself.
Everyone’s got someone but you.
Maybe you’ll turn into one of those old ladies who never get married and live a long, happy life by themselves. Maybe you can also get a couple cats. You like cats.
The thought of your impending life long loneliness doesn’t last long when the smell of food on the grill beckons you. Thankfully, by that time, you’re fully ready for the day, baring a bikini and shorts. The brightness of the late morning sun hits you first, warm and golden, followed immediately by the noise of your family. Voices layered over one another, laughter, the high-pitched shouting of kids running around, playing whatever game they seem to have made up. When did your family get so big?
You’re standing on the wooden deck, glancing around at the picnic tables that have been dragged out from storage. There’s an ice box set up on the corner of the back patio that you reach into, pulling out a water bottle. You wipe the condensation on the side of your shorts before slipping your sunglasses into place.
“y/n!”
You look up to see Gojo manning the grill, unzipped red hoodie hanging loosely over his shoulders, exposing the smooth stretch of skin beneath. He’s waving at you dramatically, tongs still in hand, whole arm swinging. You press your lips together, waving back at him. Your sunglasses are proving to be your best friend this trip, hiding from everyone the fact that you cannot stop ogling your brother’s best friend.
You make your way down the creaky wooden steps toward him, only to be intervened by one of your cousin’s sons, Kenzo.
“y/n y/n y/n,” he nags, tugging at the hem of your shorts, relentless.
You crouch down so you’re eye level with him. “Yes, sweetie?” you ask, voice softening.
“Can you play with us?” he looks up at you, eyes rounded and pleading. He really is just so cute, bottom lip jutting out in a pout much like someone else you know. Which gives you the bright idea of–
“Y’know who’s even more fun than me?” you respond with a sly smile, voice dropping conspiratorially. You lean in slightly, hand reaching out to gently pinch at the fat of his cheek.
“Who’s more funner than Auntie y/n?” he asks, brows knitting together in genuine curiosity. You peer over at Satoru, who is now fanning away the smoke rising aggressively from the old barbecue grill.
You point at his figure, Kenzo’s eyes squint as they follow the trail of your finger, “Riiiight there,” you snicker a bit to yourself, knowing Gojo probably has no real interest in being a personal jungle gym to Kenzo or the other rambunctious kids in your family. His face twists into one of confusion, clearly skeptical as his nose crinkles up like he can tell you’re lying but when he looks back over to you and you’re giving him a big (mischevious) smile, he lets out a little giggle and practically sprints over to Satoru, deciding to trust you anyway.
You nearly keel over in laughter when he immediately jumps onto Satoru’s back with no hesitation–as high as his little legs could take him considering Gojo practically towers over everyone–without any regard for the hot grill. Luckily for Kenzo, he’s also like a brick wall and hardly budges from the impact. You watch as he sets down the tongs and practically launches the little boy into the air. Suguru ends up taking over the grill, his shoulders lifting before settling as he let out a dramatic sigh. Leave it up to Satoru to make him fix his problems. There’s a moment of panic in you before he catches him and sets him down gently, the sound of his childish laughter and screeching filling the yard. You let out a breath of relief.
Maybe sending your cousin’s kid over there wasn’t your brightest idea but that thought is diminished when all of the other kids start running over, seemingly wanting their turn to be tossed around. He laughs through it easily, large hands wrapping around their small bodies before lifting them into the air.
The last time that you were here with everyone was when you were a teenager and you’re realizing there weren’t very many kids around. You realize that prior to this weekend, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him interact with any kids before and it almost warmed your heart to see how much they liked him. You’re also a little surprised that he actually doesn’t mind being climbed and clambered all over. You were initially expecting to be able to use little Kenzo to mess with him but he seems to actually be having a good time.
Gojo hobbles over to where you’re sitting at the picnic table as best he can, drawing out a short breath of laughter from you. He’s got one kid dangling off his arm–you choose to ignore the bulge of his bicep peeking through his hoodie–another hanging off his back and one fully wrapped around his leg, tiny arms and legs looping around like a koala on a branch.
“Having fun?” you tease, twirling the straw in the glass of freshly squeezed lemonade your mom set in front of you not too long ago.
“Oh yeah,” he grunts out, though there’s no real complaint in it. He’s still taking slow steps though you’re not sure if it’s because he’s struggling with the additional weight or if he’s trying to be mindful of their small fragile bodies, “lots of fun.”
When he finally reaches you, you’re still giggling. “Okay guys, let’s give Uncle Satoru a break,” you reach out, peeling them off his tall frame. There’s numerous whines of noo’s that ring out but they die down quickly when Suguru announces that the food is ready. The three of them immediately scamper over to the serving table, excited for the promise of ice cream once they finish their food.
Satoru slumps on the bench next to you dramatically, using your body as a back rest in faux exhaustion. He feels heavy on your side so you have to put in a bit of effort to remain upright. “Are all kids this energetic?” he exhales loudly, like he’s trying to catch his breath and even lets out a little phew sound.
“You looked like you could use a break from the grill,” you shrug, trying to justify your actions. Though in your defense, there was an abnormal amount of smoke coming from the barbecue when he was on the grill so maybe grilling was more Suguru’s forte.
“You just like messing with me,” he accuses, pushing himself up into a sitting position beside you. He leans backwards, back against the table as he props his elbows up on the surface to support him. The movement makes his unzipped hoodie fall open wider, baring more of his chest.
You nudge him with your shoulder. “Not any more than you do,” you fire back. Satoru’s been messing with you for as long as you could remember, it wasn’t until the two of you had gotten a little older that you started doing it back.
He, eventually, gets up from his seat to head over to the grill and you mindlessly tap around on your phone until Suguru approaches. You sigh dramatically as he plops down across from you, plate full of skewered meats and buttered corn on the cob. When he doesn’t react, you do it again which finally gets you a quirk of his eyebrow.
“What?” he grunts out, mouth full of barbecue beef.
“Everyone’s in a relationship now and I’m allll alone,” you complain in fake exasperation.
Suguru’s lip curls up in confusion, “Who’s everyone?”
“Our cousins… you… Satoru…” you list off casually. If your family was a ‘kid’s table’ family, you’d probably be there forever.
He presses his lips together, one eyebrow still raised and you don’t get the chance to ask what he’s making that face for before Gojo finds his seat beside you, holding two plates of food. You’re about to call him some variation of greedy until he pushes one of the plates over to you.
“Ooo,” you grab the plate, sliding it in front of you, “thank you.” As aloof as he always acts, you can appreciate that he’s always subtly looking out for you and you’re too engrossed in your meal to notice the look that he and your brother share.
-
The nap after the lunch barbecue seemed like a good idea at the time.
The heaping plate Satoru made for you essentially forced you into a food coma induced nap for the better part of that afternoon. And really, you can’t exactly complain. This weekend is turning out to be a lot better than you expected. Nothing like lounging on a hammock with the sound of the gentle waves crashing while you effectively knock out for about three hours.
The downside of that is by midnight, after your family’s all retired to their rooms for the night and the consistent sound of kids screeching and adult chatter, you’re stuck in your bedroom for the weekend, spread out star-style, staring at the ceiling. It’s rather dark at the beach house at night, only slight slivers of moonlight peeking in through the blinds to illuminate your room. The service out here isn’t great to say the least and there’s only so much patience you have in your body to wait for silly little internet videos to load.
Plus you had slept through dinner if the sound of your stomach grumbling loudly says anything.
It’s always quieter out here, more than you’re typically used to. Growing up, there was always that distant city noise that acted as white noise in your childhood home and in college, there was practically a party every night or the sound of students returning to their dorms, loud chatter bleeding in through your dorm windows. Here, it’s practically silent aside from the noise of the waves but it’s like even the ocean knows to be more gentle this late at night.
You huff, having an inner battle of whether you should have another try at forcing yourself to sleep by closing your eyes and pretending to sleep or if you should just suck it up and tredge down the creaky stairs to indulge in leftovers or whatever snacks your parents have loaded up the pantry with.
Sleep… Food… Sleep… Food… Try to fall into a deep slumber that will likely never reach you in the next two to three hours or a nice delicious snack provided for by your extremely Type A mother.
You throw the blanket from your body. You had been laying so still for the last few hours that the only evidence of you even being in bed is from the corner of the blanket folding over on itself. The faded wooden floors are creaky under your slippered feet as you sneak out of your room. Everything in this old house makes noise, including the bedroom door that protests softly as you push it open. In the quiet of the night it sounds like blaring alarms. Even the stairs practically groan with each step you take.
Ok, you weren’t some teenager sneaking out to a party anymore. At this point you’re a grown woman for fucks sake–er kind of grown–who just wants a snack but still, you can’t help but to creep around because it just feels wrong.
It’s not until you’re fully downstairs rummaging through the kitchen that you’re no longer tense, freely opening and shutting cabinets searching for anything that sounds good. Unfortunately for you, your mom’s been on some sort of almond mom kick lately that you entirely blame on yourself for introducing her to TikTok in the first place. A majority of the cabinets are empty, being your family’s only here for the weekend, aside from some granola bars and a basket of fruit on the table. There’s a container of desserts one of your older cousins must’ve made earlier but you don’t feel like dealing with the wrath of the kids when they find one missing.
You press your lips together before settling on a peach. You’ve barely taken your first bite of the juicy fruit, the sticky nectar dripping down your chin before you hear footsteps approaching, the telling sound of floorboards whining in response. You hastily rip a napkin from the stack on the island, wiping your chin before leaning back nonchalantly against the kitchen counter in slight embarrassment.
Satoru rounds the corner lazily, one hand stuffed in his plaid pajama pants while the other scrubs at his face, rubbing sleep from his eye. He hardly glances at you as he begins his rounds of scouring the cabinets and fridge. You stand there, half wondering if he’s sleepwalking and if even in his sleep he’s a glutton as you take another bite from the fruit. After he’s finished searching through every last cupboard, he too comes up empty handed and it’s not until he finds the container of desserts does he look up at you.
“Think they’ll be mad if I eat this?” he’s already starting to pry open the plastic lid as he shoots you a glance to which you just respond with a half shrug, mouth full of the sweet peach. He shrugs, seemingly not caring whether or not this will get him in trouble in the morning as he fishes out a daifuku.
The two of you stand in semi-silence for a moment, on opposite sides of the kitchen, the only sound being your teeth sinking through the thin skin of the fruit and Gojo’s muted chew of his dessert.
“So why didn’t your girlfriend come?” you ask between bites. Normally, you’d care a lot more about talking with your mouth full but it was just Satoru anyways. He’d seen you in much worse circumstances and you’ve stopped caring about being proper in front of him.
There was a time when he used to sleep over a lot when you were younger and you’d often find yourselves in a similar situation. Sharing snacks from your parents’ pantry even though they were technically yours and he always ate more than his half. Luckily, tonight you chose something healthy as your late night snack which spared you from the greed that is Gojo Satoru.
Satoru doesn’t respond right away so with a teasing smile, you follow up with, “Too busy being a supermodel?” It comes off a little more snarky and jealous than you had intended though in all fairness she really could’ve been a supermodel if she wanted to. And in hindsight, supermodel-lawyer suited Gojo.
“No,” he starts, setting his brownie down on a napkin. This might’ve been the longest you’ve ever seen him take to eat sweets. “We–uhh… actually broke up.”
You press your lips together in a thin line, mentally scolding yourself for the poorly timed joke. “Oh my god, I’m sooo sorry,” you manage to get out awkwardly, “I didn’t know.”
It’s quiet again, a little awkward even as the only sounds that fill the air is the crunch of your peach. Nobody tells you anything around here. You make a mental note to grill Suguru about it later.
“It’s okay,” he responds easily with a shrug of his shoulders, “I didn’t expect you to.”
You nod, not sure how to respond as you busy your mouth with the fruit in your hand. Once you reach the core, you shuffle past him, tossing the remaining pit into the trash. He side steps to let you move around him but instead of going over to where you stood before, you settle across from him, leaning against the island counter with your legs stretched out. He mirrors you, one leg crossed over the other, arms crossed over his chest making his biceps bulge.
There could not have been a worse time for you to stare at them.
“What happened?” You practically wince at yourself for asking such a direct question, knowing he’s never been exactly big on sharing his deepest, most sincere feelings and emotions.
He lets out a sigh as he settles back further into his leaning position, rolling his neck from one side to the other. You hear one side let out a little crack. How bad are these hospital shifts anyways?
“She said she didn’t feel like I loved her,” he practically groans, like he’s dreading saying it out loud.
“Oh.”
He presses his lips together, nodding slowly.
“Did you?” you ask, tilting your head to the side curiously. You figure it must be late at night and he’s tired and maybe feeling a little bit more open, call it nosey but you might as well ask if he’s already answered thus far.
“Yeah…?” he answers thoughtfully, tipping his head back, letting his eyes settle on the ceiling, “No? I’m not sure.”
You suck in a breath, half of you wants to berate him for leading this girl on but there’s also a tiny part of you that feels a little giddy they broke up. You’re nothing if not honest. And empathetic so you mostly feel bad for her.
Before you even can say anything, “I don’t know if I know what love feels like,” he admits with a chuckle, like he’s laughing at himself.
Something about Gojo’s laugh always makes you laugh, you never knew what it was. Like his laugh could make any situation–good or bad–ten times funnier and he’s definitely the type to laugh at the worst times. That habit got the three of you in trouble a lot. And so, you laugh too, pushing at his crossed arm to signal him to shut up before you both wake up the entire house from your incessant laughter.
That gets a scoff out of him, though he’s still chuckling. “Whaaat?” he asks defensively, voice high, “Do you know what it’s like? With your little college boyfriends?”
You think back to the flings you had in college. You didn’t really have a serious boyfriend in college unless you count your semester and a half long situationship so you guess you don’t really have anything to base your first hand knowledge off of.
“Wellll,” you start, also getting a bit defensive, “I imagine it’s like you’d do anything to make that person happy, right? Even if it means putting their happiness before yours?”
Satoru just nods, like he’s really thinking about the words leaving your lips but doesn’t respond so you continue. You look around the room, as if the furniture could give you ideas.
“Ooo and,” you think about the cheesy book you read earlier. A little bit embarrassing to be basing your knowledge of love on a fictional book about the relationship between some girl and the CEO of her company, “I was reading this book and the love interest saves her from getting hit by a car so I imagine you’d do anything to protect that person too, even if it means putting yourself in danger.”
A pause.
“Don’t make fun of me though.”
Gojo just huffs out a breath in response, laughing through his nose and when you finally finally look back up at him, he’s already looking at you and you hadn’t even realized he had gotten so close that you have to lean your head back to make eye contact with him.
You rub your elbow awkwardly, letting out a little heh noise, “Err I’m assuming,” your eyes darting around his face and then away toward the quiet house, “I… wouldn’t know…”
But you’re starting to think you know and do you love Gojo? All these years of tip-toeing around each other was it just because neither of you wanted to get in the way of the other’s happiness? Like you didn’t want to ruin what you already had if something more didn’t work out? Does Satoru have feelings for you or are you entirely misreading the way he’s looking at you right now?
You’re half convincing yourself this is all such a ridiculous thought because this is fucking Gojo Satoru, some kid that your brother brought home one day and he just happened to stick around, gave you a hard time and teased you relentlessly just for the sake of having someone to mess with. All those times he came to support you at your school events, your award ceremonies, was it all really just him tagging along with your brother? How naive are you really?
Are you so naive that you’ve read into every single little interaction you’ve had with him, writing him off as Suguru’s best friend? Or are you so naive that you’ve been ignoring every sign that presented itself, every time he got you an excessive bouquet of flowers?
You wonder if this is why things didn’t work out with your high school boyfriend–well that one, you know for sure was because of Gojo and your ex-boyfriend’s dislike for him–and why your flings always stayed just that, a fling. You’re almost kicking yourself at the thought that you’ve been subconsciously holding onto Satoru after all these years.
Your eyes widen when he slides his hands onto either side of the counter behind you, leaning in so your eyes are level. Your heart is pounding so hard and irregular in your chest, so much so that if a doctor measured your heart rate right now you’d probably have to get some sort of electrical cardioversion.
“You wanna know why we broke up?” his voice is low. Your brain is short circuitting and you’re having a hard time searching for answers with him so close to you that you can feel his body heat coming through his cotton long sleeve. The only thought that you have is that his shirt looks really soft.
“Uh–ye–” you’re starting to feel a little breathless although you’re sure he technically just told you the reason a few minutes ago. “Why?”
Suddenly, you hear footsteps shuffling down the stairs, the telltale sound of those old, wooden floorboards creaking under the person’s weight. There’s a second where you up at him in panic, eyes widened while his look more or less annoyed. You suck in a breath, realizing the rather compromised position you’re both in. He’s got you trapped between both of his toned arms, you’re so close that the two of you could practically kiss right now.
Instinctively, the two of you separate, pulling away from each other and retreating to opposite sides of the island in time for your stupid brother to trudge around the corner sleepily, rubbing at one eye with a closed fist. He barely acknowledges the two of you–much like Satoru when he first came down–grabbing a cup from the pantry then swinging the fridge door open. The three of you stand in silence as he pulls out a pitcher of water, filling the glass cup. It’s not until his cup is full that he finally turns to face the two of you.
“Why are you guys still awake?” he grumbles, half asleep. You and Gojo share a glance, neither of you speaking as he starts chugging his cup of water, gulping obnoxiously.
You see why they’re best friends.
When the cup is about halfway empty, he sets it down with a little ahh!, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.
Now you see how he’s your brother.
“You guys better not be down here arguing and fighting,” he complains with an eye roll. The grill must’ve really taken a lot of energy out of him, he’s slightly more sleepy and grumpy than he normally is. After a pause, with low eyes, he continues, “I thought we were past that age.”
You let out an awkward laugh, “You know Satoru,” you grit out, “just always messing with me.” You can practically see Gojo face-palming himself out of your periphery and you know you both are in absolute disbelief at what you just said.
Luckily, Suguru just rolls his eyes, shaking his head, clearly over it, and walks past the two of you, mumbling out a little, “Don’t stay up too late,” as he takes his half filled cup back to his room.
You’re starting to get the inkling that maybe Gojo was waiting for you subconsciously as much as you were for him. He always was righteous, always trying to do the ‘right thing’, be a good person, be there for others. You supposed you could understand how maybe he thought it was wrong to try something with you because he respected you and your brother too much and you’re not entirely sure how the two of you ended up like this. As respectful as he was, it never stopped him from flirting with you, how he doted over you just a little more than what was necessary.
You turn to him, sucking in a breath like you’re about to speak but he interrupts with a sigh.
“Yeah, it’s getting late,” he pushes off the counter, “let’s head to bed.”
“Uhh… right,” you state, a little confused because this is not where you were expecting this conversation to go. You start shuffling toward the stairs nonetheless as he trails behind you. That gut feeling is still gnawing at you and you’ve decided that since you’ve already been asking intrusive questions all night, what’s one more?
You spin on your heel the second you’re on the first step of the staircase and he nearly runs into you, catching himself on the railing and wall. Even on the staircase, you’re just barely eye to eye with him.
“Satoru,” you announce, your faces close to each other for the nth time in your lives. “Are you in love with me?”
“Huh?” his bright blue eyes are blown wide in surprise, clearly shocked at your pointed question.
You lean in a little closer, clearly enjoying the moment of power you have over him. “Did you… break up with your girlfriend,” you speak slowly and clearly, “because you’re in love with me?”
There’s a pause before he answers that trickles doubt into your mind and you find yourself regretting asking. Maybe ignorance really is bliss or however the saying goes.
You’re suddenly not sure the answer you want to hear and now you’re feeling a little embarrassed for even asking. You–who some people may call a pessimist–are unable to see a possible good outcome from this question.
He could either confess his undying love to you and that he’s been in love with you this entire time, then Suguru kills the both of you. Or at the very least kills Satoru, his absolute best friend and now you’ll technically be indirectly responsible for the death of Gojo and your brother’s likely lifetime sentence in prison with maximum security and no chance of parole in solitary confinement.
Or alternatively, he tells you that you’ve been reading way too much into anything and everything he’s ever done for you in the time you’ve known him and that he has absolutely no feelings for you whatsoever. In that case, you’ll have to move to some deserted island, go off the grid, live off the land forever and make friends with rocks, and even if you die there and only have your rock friends to attend your funeral, it still wouldn’t be long enough for you to get over your embarrassment.
He lets out a breath, which reminds you that you’ve been holding yours. Then the breath turns into laughter and you’re so sure he’s just laughing in your face to make fun of you and make you feel bad until he says, “I thought you knew,” in between his snickering.
Your jaw drops, gaping at his audacity to laugh. You can’t help but to slap at his arm as he laughs at you. “No, I didn’t know,” you grit out defensively, arm returning to cross over your chest. You turn your nose up at him, clearly irritated.
“Everyone knew.”
You roll your eyes at that, ready to sneer out something sharp along the lines of who’s everyone, but he grabs your shoulders to turn you back so your facing him, large, warm hands searing through the sleeves of your oversized tee.
“y/n, I have been irrevocably in love with you for as long as I’ve known you.” The sharpness of his bright blue eyes have softened around the edges, he’s looking at you so intensely and earnestly. You open your mouth to speak but he doesn’t let you, continuing his speech.
“You don’t have to tell me you love me back, you don’t have to say anything at all,” he continues, “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to be with me or to do anything you didn’t want to for the sake of our friendship but I’ve been so in love with you that it is unfair to anyone else that I’ve met because I cannot bring myself to commit to someone who’s not you.”
His chest is heaving by the time he’s finished, like he’s short of breath which is strange to you because you’ve seen this man run up and down a basketbal court without breaking a sweat. His eyes, that impossible shade of the sky, flicker with uncertainty, like he might die depending on what you say next. It’s so unfamiliar to you because as long as you’ve known Gojo, he’s always been so sure of himself but now he just seems so hesitant, uncertain. His words linger in the air.
You–much like him–are unsure of how to respond but the entire situation is so laughable to you. So you do. You laugh so hard that you’re almost bending over, breathless and giggly because this conversation is so sweet and funny and honest. He only makes you laugh more when he that familiar pout settles on his face, switching from the shocked look he had before.
“Ok, you don’t have to laugh…” he pouts, clearly offended and he straightens up a bit. He tugs on the collar of his shirt, stretching it out as he tries to find something to do with his hands.
Still giggling, you lean your body forward, stretching your arms to wrap around his neck. His hands are quick to move around your waist, holding you steady so you don’t fall off the step. The movement brings the two of you closer as your eyes lower to his lips, flicking back to his eyes. He still looks confused and uncertain, hands tense around your frame.
It’s not until you press your lips to his that he relaxes in your hold, letting out a pleasantly surprised sound hrough his nose that tickles your face. He practically melts into the kiss, lips warm against yours and simultaneously exactly what you had always imagined and insanely better. Your hands slide from their position around his neck until they’re resting on either of his shoulders. One of his hands at your hip slides to your lower back, pressing your smaller frame closer to his. Suddenly motivated, he captures your lips with a new kind of urgency, drawing out something of a whine from you.
You pull away for a second, hands still firmly planted on his shoulders and it seems like you both are catching your breath. His cerulean eyes are still blown wide, like he can’t believe what’s happening, but there’s something else in them now too.
“Satoru,” you say, voice steadier than it’s ever seemed to be before. His eyes search yours, like he’s desperate to drink in every word you say.
“I think I love you too.”
a/n - this chp is extra long bc i found a new love for this series during my break so i'm a little sad it's ending soon but next chp will be p much all smut lol, im thinking of writing drabbles for them after this too bc im not ready to say goodbye. i spent a lot of time figuring out how i wanted the confession to go and i feel like this was the best option out of what i came up with, hopefully it still feels very them, as always tysm for reading ! ily all
fanart creds [x]
border creds to @/cafekitsune
tag list: @sherizaraiyah @cc1306 @superstaargirl, @xqce , @scaraslover,
orbital resonance pt. 3: christmas | gojo x reader [short series]
❀ pairing - brother's bestfriend!gojo x reader
❀ summary - orbital resonance: when orbiting bodies exert regular, periodic gravitational influence on each other. gojo satoru is always in your orbit. geto brings him around one day and he never leaves. the two of two will always drift back to each other. you will always write it off as “that's just how gojo satoru is" but there can only be so many “almosts” before it feels like there's something there.
or three times gojo almost kisses you. one time he does.
❀ warnings/tags - modern au, brother's bestfriend, 18+, fem!reader, fluff, crack, eventual smut, mutual pining, forbidden (kind of) love, profanity, slight age gap (2yrs), 3+1 trope (like 5+1 but 3 lol), right person wrong timing, reader with someone else, gojo w someone else
❀ wc - 3.9k
a/n - see u at the bottom :3 hope u enjoy ! also not proofread srry
masterlist | last chp | next chp
You used to love the holiday season.
Your distant relatives would all come into town, your mom would make the same dishes she does every year but it always tastes just as good. Maybe after so many years it’s the nostalgia, memories of when you were young and carefree, of happier times.
But as the years passed, your relatives got older and their backs couldn’t handle the long plane rides and your cousins grew up and started their own holiday traditions, this time of year eventually got a little quieter. Especially after you started university, your seasonal college job took up your breaks and your brother and his best friend eventually graduated and started their big boy jobs that interfered with their visits home. You had begun to feel a little guilty for having missed the last two Christmases.
It felt like the stars aligned this Christmas.
It was your last one before you graduated this coming spring and somehow, the three of you managed to end up home at the same time. Suguru and Satoru have been out of school for two years now, firmly planted in what your parents now refer to as their real adult lives. Suguru seems to have slipped into adulthood without resistance, the same calm steadiness he’s always had translating easily into whatever corporate job he now spends his weekdays doing and apparently is being transferred to one of the locations in your hometown.
Satoru, on the other hand, is a little harder for you to picture as a functioning adult. In his defense, you really haven’t seen or heard much from him other than small updates here and there so maybe he’s really grown up in the last few years.
Something about being some sort of surgeon with ridiculous hours and all types of emergency calls and whatever hospital politcal jargon that you don’t fully understand and it all sounds very impressive from what you’ve gathered. And a little surreal, on second thought. You always knew he was smart and nerdy but he always had that unserious childish air about him, it was kind of silly to imagine him in a white coat.
So imagine your surprise when Gojo brings home a very serious girlfriend this Christmas. Serious in the sense that she’s so adult. And absolutely gorgeous in that composed and intentional grown woman way. Tall, slim, sleek hair cut into a very flattering blunt cut that stops just at her shoulders. Clothes that clearly seem expensive and sophisticated and probably tailored.
Your first thought is that she looks like someone who belongs in a magazine. On one of those pages with the perfume samples you used to sniff as a kid.
The second is that she seems very kind.
She greets your parents respectfully, as if they were the Gojo’s, laughs easily at all of your dad’s jokes, no matter how unfunny they are, compliments your mom’s Christmas decorations that she’s curated over the years and there’s this calmness in her that you can’t quite place. Like she’s completely comfortable in her own skin.
It makes you suddenly aware of how you still feel just a tad bit awkward in yours.
And Gojo–unsurprising to no one–is still exactly the same. Beelines straight to your parents’ pantry and returns with a snack like he’s still seventeen. Purposefully knocks into Suguru’s shoulder when he walks just to get a reaction out of him. Gives you a bear hug and tugs at your hair just to laugh at the scowl on your face afterwards.
You’re all a little older now, lived separate lives for years, you assumed there would be some sort of distance but he still exists like he always has.
Though, not everything is the same and the thought of his distinctly adult and put together girlfriend threatens to fill your gut with that feeling of dread and childish jealousy.
So you don’t think about it.
And you focus your attention on the simmering peaches in the saucepan, ever grateful that your mom ushered you into the kitchen to start on dessert. Your mom, ever the hostess, was adamant on the dessert being ready by the time dinner was over. You give the saucepan a gentle stir, folding the brown sugar in with the peaches before starting the batter. You get lost in your train of thought again, thoughts of life once you graduate and assumingly move back home since you still weren’t entirely sure on what you wanted to do post-grad. Things seemed to be so easy for your brother and Gojo, who both seemed to always have what they wanted figured out and here you were in your early twenty-somethings, still unsure.
You’re halfway through mixing, the kitchen now smelling warm and sweet from the peaches, when you hear footsteps behind you and you can only imagine there’s only one person who loves to bother you.
“Satoru,” you call out automatically, “do fucking not-”
You turn just in time to see his arm reach from behind you, swiping his index finger along the side of the bowl. You swat at his hand, like a mother reprimanding their child but he’s already licking the batter off his finger and grinning.
He hums with exaggerated satisfaction, clearly pleased with himself and you’re internally kicking yourself for letting him get a reaction out of you.
You glare at him, though it’s a little difficult to hold the expression when he looks exactly the same as he always does, grinning at you with his pearly white teeth, clearly finding amusement in you scolding him.
Even though, you have to admit he looks a little different now. Taller, a little sharper around the edges, broader around the shoulders, less boyish and even more like a man than the last time you saw him.
You turn back toward your bowl, hoping that in ignoring him, he’ll feel discouraged and leave.
He does not.
Instead, he leans over your shoulder, towering over you and casting a shadow over the bowl as he peers into it like a curious child.
“What’re you making anyways?”
“Peach cobbler.”
“Hmm,” he rubs his chin and looks up at the ceiling as if he’s deep in thought, “needs more sugar.”
You roll your eyes. You could dump the rest of the entire bag of sugar into the batter and it still wouldn’t be enough for his sugar addicted brain.
You had once seen on one of those late night hospital horror story shows that parasites use glucose as their primary energy source and high sugar consumption can accelerate their growth and reproduction within their host. If Gojo did have a parasite in his body, he’s probably kept it well fed over the years.
Letting out a very overemphasized sigh, you turn to face him, pointing the whisk at him. “The sweetness comes from the peaches,” you state, rolling your eyes again and then quickly returning the whisk to the bowl once the batter begins to drip from it. Hopefully none got on the floor, you’d never hear the end of it from your mom.
You’re still facing him when he dips another finger into the bowl.
“Satoru, what did I just s-” your berating gets interrupted when he reaches forward and taps your nose lightly. The cold batter sticks to your skin immediately.
You gasp, shocked from the coldness on your face, “Gojo Satoru!”
He bursts into laughter immediately, loud and bright and completely unbothered. It’s the same laugh he’s always had, albeit a bit deeper and from his chest. The one that’s somehow remained unchanged from childhood, that always makes it just a tiny bit harder for you to stay mad at him.
You grab a napkin and start dabbing at your nose gently, careful not to remove too much of your makeup. You shove at his shoulder with your free hand, unable to hold back your own fit of laughter.
Since he can never let you have the last word, he shoves you back as gently as he can muster and it still threatens to leave you off balance so with as much force as you have, you push him back. Your foot slips on the spilled batter on the floor, momentum from your shove and the batter sends you flying forward into the push.
The moment happens quickly–so quickly your brain barely processes it–and you’re sure you’re about to go crashing face first into the kitchen tiles. Which, unfortunately, would probably not be the most embarrassing thing to happen to you in front of Gojo.
But he moves just as fast as you fall. One arm catches your waist just before you go tumbling, large hand settling against the small of your back to steady you. His other hand braces against the counter against your shoulder, effectively trapping you between the kitchen island and his arm. The motion pulls both of you closer than intended.
Your hand grips the front of his shirt without thinking, using him to balance yourself. Batter smears across the crisp fabric of his blue dress shirt where your fingers press into it, leaving a pale streak across his chest.
Neither of you move and the laughter has died down into a silence.
You look up at him, eyes rounded with surprise from your near death experience and he’s already gazing down at you, insufferable sunglasses slipping to reveal those same piercing blue eyes that you’ve been looking into for the majority of your life.
His face is closer than it’s ever been before–aside from those few occasions you’ve chosen to forget–you can see and feel details you’re sure you’ve never noticed before. He’s close enough that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his sculpted chest with each breath, his heartbeat against your palm. Close enough that you can count his snowy white lashes as they brush against his cheek, each breath he takes fanning warm across your face.
His hand burns warm against your back, fingers spread like he’s making sure you won’t slip again. Your bodies aren’t quite pressed together but if you had leaned forward just slightly, the distance would disappear entirely, noses nearly touching.
You wonder briefly when exactly he started looking like this. You can admit, you always thought he was a little cute but that was when he was some gross boy who used to sit on your couch and play video games until the late night.
But now, he’s handsome.
Chiseled features, sharp jawline leading to his adams apple that bobs as he swallows. His white locks no longer curl at the back of his neck, replaced with a neat undercut. Thick muscle stretching beneath his shirt. You realize just how much bigger than you he’s gotten.
Your heart stutters in your chest and his gaze flickers down to your lips–quick, almost involuntarily–then back up to your eyes. Then he’s closing the space, nose fully nudged against yours now and you fear your heart may just burst out of your chest and land embarrassingly at his feet and you wouldn’t even care if it meant you were granted this one thing.
The oven timer goes off, loud shrill causing both you and Gojo to jump but his hand doesn’t move from your lower back.
“Oh! Chicken’s ready!” your mom’s voice comes through the kitchen entrance.
You step away from Gojo immediately, pushing him back with a little more force than necessary as you try to pretend the last thirty seconds didn’t happen. He clears his throat quietly while you wipe the batter from your nose with the napkin, just to give yourself something to do.
What the fuck are you thinking? Not only is this Gojo Satoru, your brother’s best friend, but he has a fucking girlfriend.
You want to scrub your face with your hand but decide against it, worried about messing up even more of your makeup. Your mom doesn’t notice anything strange as she pulls the tray from the oven and starts bustling around the kitchen.
But, it seems as though Satoru’s girlfriend does as she appears in the doorway, drawn by the noise. You wince as her gaze moves slowly between the two of you, taking in the small distance you’ve just created, the smear of batter across his likely very expensive dress shirt. You don’t even want to think of what it’d cost you to replace it.
Then she smiles and you don’t know what to think of it.
“Satoru,” she says gently as she steps into the kitchen, her tone is light and maybe slightly chastising, “you got batter on your shirt.”
You glance over at the cream colored smear across his chest and suddenly feel mortified.
“Oh–sorry,” you say quickly, “that was my fault.”
Gojo laughs it off easily, brushing his hand across the front of his shirt like it doesn’t matter and for a second, it’s tense between the three of you and you’re unsure of what to say.
“Oh shit, my peaches!”
-
Dinner itself is… normal.
Everyone settles around the table like the way you always have for the holidays, the familiar choreography of plates being passed around and scraped at. Satoru ends up taking the seat across from you, with his girlfriend settling in beside him with her perfect posture and table manners that make you feel young and sloppy.
You get irritated with yourself because you refuse to be a girl that steals someone’s boyfriend and now you feel guilty at the table with your gaze on your plate, knowing that she’s a very nice girl and that they’re very deserving of each other. And that you need to get over this stupid little childish crush you’ve been harboring all these years.
The conversation otherwise flows easily enough.
Your parents ask Gojo about his work, his shifts at the hospital and your mom asks him if he’s been sleeping enough, which gets a chuckle out of Suguru because apparently the answer is no. Turns out they met this year at the hospital he works at because her mother had to have some sort of surgery and Gojo treated her mother and they’ve been seeing each other since.
Now you feel even more guilty knowing she has a sickly mother.
Your parents ask you about your post-grad plans and you tell them the same thing you’ve been telling most people, that you plan to move back to your hometown, hopefully into your own place once you’ve found a job which prompts your mom to start her teary-eyed “they grow up so fast” speech even though you’re still not really sure what your plans are yet.
And then Suguru announces–almost off-handedly–that he’s planning to move back to your hometown this upcoming year since he’s been offered a job at the branch in town. He explains it all with a casual shrug and you’re a little surprised he hadn’t told your parents sooner since he texted you as soon as he got the news.
Your parents brighten immediately.
“That’s wonderful news!” Your mother is visibly pleased. “You’ll finally be closer again.”
Your dad nods approvingly and starts asking about his new job location and commute times and his future apartment.
And across the table, Gojo lifts one shoulder in a loose shrug. “I’m actually thinking about moving back too.”
Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.
“You are?” Both you and his girlfriend ask at the same time, which makes you wince.
Great.
You clear your throat and take a sip of water, nearly choking from the news and the fact that his girlfriend is just as shocked as you are.
“Yeah,” he responds simply, glancing up at you as if it were obvious, “if Suguru’s here, I might as well be.”
“I didn’t know you were planning on moving back home,” his girlfriend says with a tight smile, nudging him with her shoulder. “Is that why you were so hesitant on bringing me back?”
Her tone comes off as teasing but based on the look she shoots him, you’re not sure it’s all that funny to her.
Your father clears his throat, clearly trying to ease the tension and so he changes the topic and eventually your brother fills the table with ridiculous stories from work and the occasional complaint about office politics. Satoru chimes in here or there with a joke or comment that makes the table laugh but his girlfriend doesn’t add much to the conversation after that.
You train your eyes on your plate, on your parents, on anything but Gojo and his girlfriend.
After dinner, you’ve been assigned to wash the dishes and you’re nothing if not nervous once his girlfriend volunteers to help you despite your reassurance that you’re perfectly fine washing them yourself. You work a good system with her, you wash and rinse and she dries off before putting the dishes in their respective places.
“Y’know,” she starts after a few minutes of silence, “Satoru talks about you a lot.”
You nearly choke on your saliva.
You’re unsure of how to respond so you just let out a meek, “Oh?”
“Yeah,” she nods, smiling faintly as she works the towel against a serving plate, “all the time actually.” She glances at you briefly, the expression in her eyes warm but thoughtful. “Always talking about how brilliant you are, how he’s so proud of you and he knows you’ll go very far in life.”
Your ears suddenly feel warm.
“Uhh–yeah,” you focus on rinsing the plate, unable to maintain eye contact with her, “that sounds like him.”
She studies you for a moment and you feel small under her gaze.
“He cares about you,” she says after a pause, “a lot.”
You hum, nodding slowly. “Yea, we’ve known each other for a long time.”
You want to rip up the tiles of your mom’s kitchen and dig yourself deep into the ground so you’ll never have to speak to anyone ever again, not your brother, not Gojo, not his supermodel gorgeous girlfriend who is the epitome of grown.
“Mm,” she hums in response, “you’re very important to him.”
Her voice is still kind, gentle, but there’s something layered beneath it, like she’s speaking carefully and suddenly you’re not exactly sure where this conversation is going.
“People like you don’t come around very often,” she continues softly, “the kind of people that grow up alongside you… who know all the different versions of you.”
You glance up at her and she’s smiling again, though her lips are pressed tightly together.
“Those relationships are so special,” she adds, “and I know Satoru really really appreciates your relationship with him, how you guys are, y’know? I mean I know that I wish I had someone in my life like you.”
“Right…” you nod apprehensively.
She plucks the next plate from your hand, drying it with the towel like nothing ever happened.
You have a very strange feeling sitting in your stomach now. You might throw up. Ripping up the tiles of your mom’s kitchen wouldn’t be enough. You think you’d have to hire one of those construction crews with the heavy machinery to rip through the foundation of the house and dig a hole so deep that sound wouldn’t even be able to travel that far and then and only then would you be satisfied.
You’re almost positive she just insinuated that your relationship with Satoru is–or should be–just that. But she said it in such a nice tone that it’s really giving you whiplash.
And in all fairness, maybe she’s a little right.
It wouldn’t be the first time you’re admitting your little crush is probably just that–a crush. And maybe the only thing that’s been keeping you seeing him like that is just the idea of “what if?” And it’s not like you both haven’t been with other people, it seems like he enjoyed his college career and you most certainly did too.
You definitely owed it to yourself to move on with your life and cut this childish orbital pull you seem to have on each other.
Satoru and his girlfriend leave earlier than expected, which saved them the same trip down memory lane your mom does as she lugs out the heavy photo albums from your childhood but your family seems to be understanding. They drove a long way and the roads aren’t very forgiving at this time of year. Goodbye’s are exchanged and as his girlfriend is ushering him out of the door, he throws you a lazy two finger wave and a simple see ya’ with that familiar warm grin that used to bring you comfort instead of a hug.
Not that you were expecting a hug after tonight’s events.
-
You graduate that spring.
The day itself is bright and warm in that early summer way that makes everything feel much more monumentous that it is. Your gown sticks to the back of your neck from the summer heat while you sit through speeches you’re hardly listening to, cap balanced precariously on your head.
You, admittedly, scan the stands more than once, just quick glances here and there, the way someone would search for a familiar landmark in a crowded place but you don’t see him.
Your parents are there–as they always are–documenting the event and you’re sure your mom is already tearing up before you’ve even had the chance to walk across the stage. Suguru is with them as well, fully settled into his new job and new apartment not too far from your childhood home and he’s tall enough that makes it easy to spot your family amidst the crowd. But there’s no familiar white mop of hair, no obnoxious sunglasses glinting in the sun.
You tell yourself that it doesn’t bother you, that he technically hadn’t promised you he’d come.
And after your ceremony, after you walk across the stage and shake hands with people you’ll likely never see again, Suguru explains that Gojo got called in for an emergency surgery and wasn’t able to get out of it.
And you get it.
Satoru Gojo will always be exactly where he’s needed.
Not always where you hope he’ll be.
Graduation melts into the strange in-between weeks where everything feels temporary—your childhood bedroom half-packed with boxes, your parents asking too many questions about your plans, relatives sending you congratulatory messages you politely respond to but don’t really read.
Your mom springs summer plans on the two of you over dinner one night, before you move out into your own place and since the distant relatives haven’t gotten together in so long that it might be a good idea to put the inherited beach house out in Kamakura to use.
Your dad and brother nod along emphatically, agreeing that it’s a great idea.
The beach house.
You haven’t thought about that place in a long time.
It’s strange how certain memories stay tucked away until someone says the right word and suddenly they’re right there again—the sound of waves crashing against the shore at night, the smell of salt clinging to everything, the long afternoons spent wandering the beach while Suguru and Satoru argued about something pointless behind you.
It’s been years since the three of you were all there together.
Years since anything felt that simple.
Then you get that feeling in your stomach again that you haven’t felt in months–since Christmas. Like you’re overstepping some boundary or ruining something that’s already perfectly fine as it is. It feels like everything in your life is slowly being pulled back into the same orbit again.
But you’re not entirely sure if that’s a good thing.
a/n - omfg guys this time i rlly am srry (i was srry last time too) but i fr was overly depressed the last month so i dont wanna promise when the next one will come out but i think i just need to hunker down and get to writing, ill do better i swear. as always, tysm for reading and pls lmk if you guys enjoyed <3 comment to be added to the tag list !
fanart creds [x]
border creds to @/cafekitsune
tag list: @sherizaraiyah @cc1306 @superstaargirl, @xqce , @scaraslover,
orbital resonance pt. 2: graduation | gojo x reader [short series]
❀ pairing - brother's bestfriend!gojo x reader
❀ summary - orbital resonance: when orbiting bodies exert regular, periodic gravitational influence on each other. gojo satoru is always in your orbit. geto brings him around one day and he never leaves. the two of two will always drift back to each other. you will always write it off as “that's just how gojo satoru is" but there can only be so many “almosts” before it feels like there's something there.
or three times gojo almost kisses you. one time he does.
❀ warnings/tags - modern au, brother's bestfriend, 18+, fem!reader, fluff, crack, eventual smut, mutual pining, forbidden (kind of) love, profanity, slight age gap (2yrs), 3+1 trope (like 5+1 but 3 lol), right person wrong timing, reader with someone else
❀ wc - 2.8k
a/n - hi srry for the late update, i thought id get this out a lot sooner than i did but life got busy )': hope u guys enjoy!
masterlist | last chp | next chp
Gojo Satoru is a nerd.
Always has been.
In every sense of the word.
Which is why you never understood it when girls your age would squeal whenever he’d walk past, cartoonish heart eyes practically bulging from their heads.
Gojo Satoru?
The same Gojo who was obsessed with Digimon. Who watched the anime religiously, collected the cards carefully tucked in bulky binders with plastic sleeves, and at one point tried (and failed) to rope you older brother into learning how to play the Digimon card game with him.
Suguru, who has the patience of a saint, stayed up until 3 AM in the morning with him before finally throwing his cards and swore to never play again.
You, thankfully, managed to dodge that bullet.
Mostly.
You still somehow spent an unreasonable amount of your youth sitting beside Gojo while he played Digimon on his Game Boy, pouting if you looked away even for a second. He never really grew out of it either.
In high school, he kept his favorite digimon card tucked into the back of his phone case. You teased him about it relentlessly. Unfortunately for you, he was immune to embarrassment. He used Digimon references for just about everything. Life lessons, sports, science even.
One time, you asked him for help with studying for your sophomore year chemistry exam. Because none of it was clicking and you were dangerously on the verge of tears and for some reason, everything always came naturally to Gojo. It only took him about five seconds of reading over the textbook section before he launched into some explanation about Digivolution.
“Okay, think of it like this,” he’d said, rubbing his chin with his fingers like he was in deep thought, “reactants and products are like Rookie and Champion forms. They’re different but still connected. When the reaction reaches equilibrium, it’s not that nothing’s happening–it’s just that the forward and reverse reactions are happening at the same rate. Like when Agumon’s ready to Digivolve but doesn’t–er–can’t because the conditions aren’t right yet.”
You blinked at him, unimpressed.
“Satoru, what the fuck.” you had told him flatly, unimpressed by his theatric comparison and entirely upset that he had somehow managed to make you more confused.
Though, he must’ve been a good teacher–annoyingly so–because you ended up getting an A on the exam.
Maybe his nerdiness rubbed off on you over the years. Everything about Gojo just stuck.
Even after he graduated that spring and moved off to university with Geto.
Even after the group chat slowly died as they got busy with classes and new friends and late nights that didn’t include you anymore.
And even after college prep swallowed your junior year and you got caught up with that cute senior.
Time stretched. The distance settled.
You still talked. Sometimes.
Geto came home during breaks when he could.
Gojo called when he remembered and you’d tell him about your life with your boyfriend and college entrance exams and he’d tell you about a girl he was talking to and his freshman year experience.
It was all enough to reassure the three of you that you were all still there, just a little farther away. That nothing had really changed.
But something of him always lingered.
And then somehow, you found yourself in your senior year of high school enrolled in one of the hardest physics class your school offered.
Maybe you had learned something from his endless rants about how all roads lead to Digimon. Or maybe your now-graduated boyfriend had convinced you the course would be easy since he had taken it the year before.
It was not.
It was hell to say the least.
Your independent research project was probably the most grueling assignment you’d ever done. It consumed weeks of your life and all of what was left of your motivation for the year. Blood, sweat, tears, and uncountable amounts of RedBull–certainly not safe for consumption by your still developing body–went into that lengthy presentation on orbital resonance ratios in planetary motion.
You had spent weeks buried in research–learning how two bodies influenced by the same gravitational force could become locked into repeating patterns. Never colliding, always maintaining a constant distance, even when their paths weren’t perfect circles. The pull between them is always exact, calibrated, inevitable.
Your teacher was so impressed by it that she urged you to submit it to pre-college panels and outreach programs, convinced you could go somewhere with it. She was always supportive like that. And you had presented it at a panel but you felt so out of place and you ultimately decided it wasn’t the direction you wanted to go in.
It was more of a passion project, something that you were just so fascinated in for some reason. Something that reminded you of someone.
Everyone seemed to be proud of you. Your mom posted a mortifying video of your presentation on Facebook. Geto texted you a string of congratulatory messages and of course, Gojo followed with his equally obnoxious praise and far too many emojis, briefly reviving the semi-dead group chat between the three of you.
Graduation day comes faster than you expect.
Graduation
You come bouncing down the stairs, brimming with that restless, youthful energy that tells you–this is it. The first day of the rest of your life. Or whatever it is that they say. You’d watched Suguru and Satoru walk across that same stage two years ago. Then you watched your boyfriend do it last year. And now, it’s finally your turn.
You remember you were a sniveling, whimpering little baby at Suguru and Satoru’s graduation. Mostly because your brother would be moving away for school. No other reason really.
After seeing everyone you were closest to leave so they could live their new college lives, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t absolutely ecstatic. You were beyond ready to finally move out of the house, be an adult, have your naivety crushed in college, underage drinking, stuff like that. It felt like you were finally close enough to their world that you had felt so excluded from–by no one’s fault really.
“Slow down, tiger,” Suguru’s voice calls after you just as you nearly miss the last step on the staircase, “before you hurt yourself.”
Seriously–you live in this house your entire life and suddenly there’s an extra stair at the bottom? Criminal. (You slipped)
Suguru catches you easily, hands settling on your shoulders as he stifles a laugh at your clumsiness.
“Don’t laugh!” you protest breathlessly, “We’re gonna be late!”
Which is, unfortunately, entirely your fault. You call out for your mom as you fumble with your heels–an impossible task when you’re panicking–only to nearly jump out of your skin when she answers from directly behind you. You press a hand to your chest in an attempt to soothe your heart, which only further wastes even more precious time as the clock is rapidly approaching when you need to be on that stage.
“We’re waiting on you, sweetheart,” your dad calls from the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table like he hasn’t a care in the world.
You curse under your breath, huffing out in frustration as you’re still fumbling with your heel, then immediately glance at your mom, hoping she didn’t hear that particular stress response. Suguru ushers you toward the car before you can spiral any further, and it’s only once you’re halfway down the driveway–wobbling slightly in your heels–that you realize something’s missing.
“Where’s Satoru?” you ask, glancing at Suguru over your shoulder as you’re sliding into the car. “Is he not coming with us?”
The car rumbles as it starts and you bite your tongue, resisting the urge to tell your parents to hurry.
Suguru shrugs casually, “He had to stop by his parent’s place first, he’s just gonna meet us there.”
You nod mindlessly, playing with the hem of your dress, needing to find something to do with your hands.
He rubs at his temples, “They’re not very happy with him. Something about him blowing off another date they set him up on.”
“Another?” You twist in your seat to face him, suddenly attentive.
You hear bits and pieces of his personal life here and there but nothing super important and personal. It leaves you with a strange feeling in your gut, like there’s a version of him that exists just out of your reach now.
But you guess Gojo was always a little secretive like that.
You knew his favorite Digimon. His comfort movie that he always insisted on for movie nights. The faces he made in his sleep–and then the faces he woke up with after discovering you and your brother had been drawing on his face while he slept. But you didn’t really know his family. You had met them a handful of times in passing. You knew they were filthy rich–as did most of Tokyo–and you knew things were … strained to say the least.
But you didn’t really know.
Suguru always had that warmth about him, that ease that just made people comfortable with him and open up to him.
That trait did not get passed on to you, unfortunately.
“Yeah,” Suguru continues, waving a hand, “they’ve been setting him up on dates since we graduated. He went to the first couple… and then he started sabotaging them on purpose,” he lets out a little chuckle, “you should ask him about it–honestly hilarious. And then he eventually just stopped showing up altogether so, y’know, you can imagine.”
It’s very like Satoru. Not taking anything seriously. Being rebellious when it comes to his parents. Guess some things don’t change.
And suddenly, you realize it’s been nearly two years since you last saw him in person at their graduation. You wept that night, like you’d always known your little trio was bound to split up eventually. You were glad he and Suguru stayed close through college–given they went to the same school–but there was that tiny bit of envy you felt, knowing they lived an entire world without you.
And now, it felt like you were closer to them than you ever have.
The graduation ceremony goes by fairly quickly. You split from your family–sans Gojo–and take your place on the stage, half-listening to the speeches about new beginnings, unforgettable years and bright futures. The same generic speech you had heard last year and the year before that. Then your name is called, slight feedback cutting into the mic.
You walk across the stage, gown brushing against your legs, cap perched precariously atop your head. You shake the dean’s hand, turning toward the crowd to pause for photos, eyes scanning the crowd for that unmistakeable flash of white hair.
You’re disappointed when you don’t see him at first until loud, obnoxious cheering erupts from the back.
You grin before you can stop yourself, cheeks aching from how hard you’re smiling as you accept your diploma. Turning to face the direction of the shouting, you wave though you can’t quite see them but you feel like you can hear their voices clearly and suddenly it feels like you’re kids again.
Like you’re back in grade school, covering your face in embarrassment as Suguru and Satoru–as supportive as ever–are cheering you on, louder than everyone else in the crowd.
After the closing ceremony, caps fly into the air and the crowd roars.
You don’t even bother searching for where yours may have landed before you’re darting off the stage, the uneven grass making it difficult as you weave through families until your parents meet you halfway, cameras already out. They pull you into a crushing hug, pride pouring off them. Suguru appears next, wrapping you up until you’re pressed between the three of them, breathless and overwhelmed and loved.
When they finally let you go–not without Suguru ruffling the hair that nearly made you late in the first place–you see him.
Gojo.
And in his hands are an enormous bouquet of flowers. Probably absurdly expensive just like everything else that he owns.
You’re absolutely positive that they’re your favorite flowers. The ones you proclaimed as your favorites when you (after lots of begging and pleading) went to see some sappy rom com with Satoru and Suguru back during freshman year.
You let out a squeal, overjoyed to see him after so long and this gorgeous assortment of flowers.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou-” you barely get your words out as you’re throwing your arms around him, hugging him tightly in complete disregard of the flowers you’re probably crushing.
He just laughs, arms wrapped around your frame, rocking you side to side as you ramble about everything and anything. How excited you are, how long it’s been, how much you’ve missed him, how boring last summer was without them.
When you finally pull back from him slightly, one hand pressed on his shoulder, one gripping the arrangement to your chest, you finally get a good look at him. And you realize he hasn’t heard a word you’ve said.
He’s just looking at you, sunglasses tilted low enough that the afternoon sun highlights the different flecks of blue in his eyes. There’s something in the way he’s looking at you, eyes soft and crinkling at the edges from his smile. You don’t quite recognize the look he’s giving you. It feels familiar. But it feels like it’s from a memory so distant, it feels foggy around the edges.
And he looks… different in a way. Still your Satoru, still familiar but he’s a little sharper around the edges, broader.
You don’t remember when he got this handsome.
You hardly notice how close he is until your noses nearly brush.
His cologne is warm and clean and you’d think you would remember if he had always smelled this good. His gaze flickers down to your lips and you can feel your eyes fluttering shut instinctively.
“Congrats!!”
A familiar voice pulls you from Satoru’s embrace and you pull away as your boyfriend cuts through the crowd, flowers in hand.
Your wide smile returns to your face as he hugs you, arms around your waist and spinning you around. You laugh, dizzy and distracted and your friends follow shortly after. You get caught up in the group photos and the congratulations and goodbye hugs.
But you don’t quite miss the way your boyfriend’s eyes flick to Gojo’s much larger bouquet that still sit tucked in your arms beside his smaller one.
And you don’t miss the way Gojo’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. If you didn’t know him any better, you probably wouldn’t have thought anything of it.
-
The summer before you leave for university turns out to be a lot more… mediocre than you had expected.
Not necessarily bad. Or good. Just painfully ordinary.
You had imagined daily hangouts with your friends before everyone moved, sneaking out with your boyfriend, doing silly high school things before you were officially gone but…
You and your boyfriend break up somewhere in the middle of it. Which you’d half-expected anyway. High school relationships aren’t exactly famous for surviving college. You’d just assumed you’d at least make it to college first.
Instead, exactly one month after graduation, you find messages on his phone–him flirting with other girls.
You’re surprised by how little it devastates you. More disappointed than anything.
And you’re more upset about the conversation afterward than the cheating itself. About the way he stumbles through excuses and somehow the blame lands on Gojo out of all people. Someone he’s only met once. You’re sure he’s pulling sticks out of his ass when he shifts blame onto him.
He tells you it’s because “he’s all over you,” because your relationship with Gojo is “weird,” because he’s “always in your space.”
And you’re left staring at him like he’s got three heads. And maybe, to some degree you could potentially understand how it may look from the outside–the lingering touches, the teasing, the way Gojo seems to gravitate toward you.
But that’s how it’s always been. He’s just like that–as you’ve already established.
Satoru has always just been around.
And plus, he’s like that with everyone. He’s been poking and prodding at Suguru for the majority of your lives. He’s constantly in their friend Shoko’s personal space in every picture you see from university. He has never understood the concept of boundaries and personal space.
And who’s your boyfriend–ex-boyfriend–to comment on it anyway?
You leave that relationship behind without much ceremony.
And by the time you move away for university, you finally understand.
The partie sthat blur into early mornings, all-nighters before midterms, the unholy combination of coffee and energy drinks–worse for your body than any amount of RedBull you’ve had in the past, boys who come and go.
Life gets busy.
Busier than you had ever expected.
Keeping up with Satoru and Suguru becomes increasingly difficult without you really noticing when it happens. Calls turn into texts, texts turn into reactions, and reactions turn into silence broken only by holidays and birthdays.
Your schedules never quite align during breaks. Or someone’s always working or studying or tired.
Years pass like that.
And somehow, you all manage to plan a Christmas home during your senior year of university.
You tell yourself it’ll be just like old times.
All of you together.
a/n - sooo srry it took me this long, i was expecting to drop a chp wkly since they're on the shorter side for me but ya girl been busy but i'll try to get better i promise! hope u guys liked it, pls lmk in the comments if u did & reblogs are always appreciated :3 comment to be added to the tag list !
orbital resonance masterlist | gojo satoru x reader
❀ pairing - brother's bestfriend!gojo x reader
❀ summary - orbital resonance: when orbiting bodies exert regular, periodic gravitational influence on each other. gojo satoru is always in your orbit. geto brings him around one day and he never leaves. the two of two will always drift back to each other. you will always write it off as “that's just how gojo satoru is" but there can only be so many “almosts” before it feels like there's something there.
or three times gojo almost kisses you. one time he does.
❀ warnings/tags - modern au, brother's bestfriend, 18+, fem!reader, fluff, crack, eventual smut, mutual pining, forbidden (kind of) love, profanity, slight age gap (2yrs), 3+1 trope (like 5+1 but 3 lol)
❀ status - ongoing [4/5(?) chp]
a/n - hhiii ! this is my first (short) series so i hope u guys enjoy!
orbital resonance pt. 1: sophomore year | gojo x reader [short series]
❀ pairing - brother's bestfriend!gojo x reader
❀ summary - orbital resonance: when orbiting bodies exert regular, periodic gravitational influence on each other. gojo satoru is always in your orbit. geto brings him around one day and he never leaves. the two of two will always drift back to each other. you will always write it off as “that's just how gojo satoru is" but there can only be so many “almosts” before it feels like there's something there.
or three times gojo almost kisses you. one time he does.
❀ warnings/tags - modern au, brother's bestfriend, 18+, fem!reader, fluff, crack, eventual smut, mutual pining, forbidden (kind of) love, profanity, slight age gap (2yrs), 3+1 trope (like 5+1 but 3 lol)
❀ wc - 2k
a/n - haii :3 this is the first installment to a short series im cooking up, will prob end up being a 5 pt series. hope u enjoy! <3
masterlist | next chp
Gojo Satoru is an enigma.
An enigma that somehow weaseled his way into your life and never left.
You’re not exactly sure where your older brother found him. Probably a dumpster. A really nice dumpster, on the rich side of town. Where the driveways are probably like a mile long and they have their own personal drivers. Either way, Gojo showed up one day attached to Geto’s hip and from there–without any discussion or input from you–they have been inseparable since.
He’s confusing like that. He only says about twenty percent of what he actually means, only ever shows the parts of himself he feels like showing, and only when he chooses to. The other eighty percent stays hidden behind those stupid sunglasses and that insufferable grin. Always effortlessly charming and letting off stupid jokes that distract people and get him out of just about every situation.
He’s your older brother’s super annoying best friend and somehow he’s become your problem. He spent a majority of your younger childhood relentlessly teasing you. You’re half convinced he was sent as karma for something you must have done horribly wrong in your past life. He ruffled your hair until it frizzed, stole food straight off your (and Geto’s) plate, rummaged through your fridge and snack pantry even though you knew the pantry as his house was probably the size of your entire kitchen.
He’s absolutely filthy rich and his family owns one of the largest conglomerates in the entire city. And yet he’s somehow always at your house, spending time with your family. Not that your family didn’t have money. Your parents had built a good life for themselves, especially as you and Geto got older. But nothing could compare to Gojo money. And so, every holiday, every family vacation to your mom’s childhood beach home, every graduation, every weekend, random school days. Sometimes for no reason at all. Gojo was just there. Permanently welded to your brother’s side, and inadvertently, to yours.
In middle school, the girls would always whisper about them–that they were older, hotter, cooler than the boys they knew. Gross. You never saw it, always wrinkling your nose in disgust whenever you’d hear the giggling. That was Geto and Gojo. Your annoying older brother and his even more annoying best friend. Two people who seemed to find genuine joy in tormenting you at every available opportunity.
And then, without any of you noticing, the three of you grew up together.
Gojo and Geto came to all of your school events, no matter how big or small. Geto grew into a supportive older brother and Gojo was always just there with him. At your seventh grade science fair, when you tried–and failed–to make biodegradable plastic out of banana peels. Your freshman year honors ceremony when you got some award. They were always there, embarrassingly loud, cheering the hardest like you’d won something as monumental as a Nobel Peace Prize instead of a laminated certificate that would just go on the fridge. The closer you got to Geto as you got older, the closer you got to Gojo too, until eventually the lines blurred and the three of you became inseparable. Three peas in a pod.
You never even considered the possibility of feeling anything more for Gojo Satoru.
Not even when it felt like maybe something had bloomed.
Sophomore year
You and Gojo were always somehow in each other’s orbit.
Even after he and Geto graduated high school and you were still stuck in middle school. Even when you finally joined them in high school and they were already upperclassmen, halfway out the door. You still went to all of their games and they still showed up to all of yours. Every basketball game when Gojo would point at you in the stands from across the court before sinking a shot with that goofy, lopsided grin. Every extracurricular event you had, they were there, embarrassingly loud and taking humiliating photos that would live forever on their social media.
Even when they’d both get detention for falling asleep in class and had to clean up the classroom as a punishment, you’d be sitting there, swinging your legs until it was time for the three of you to walk home. Or that one time they took your bike hostage and made you ride in the basket while Gojo sat behind Geto, the bike far too small for their overgrown bodies let alone yours too.
When you got your first “boyfriend” freshman year and they sized him up. Cornering him with a very polite, friendly (threatening) talk with him that scared him off within a week. You were mad at them for weeks after that. It took a lot of groveling and sweets for them to come back after that one.
And even now, at 16, you’re at home sitting on the couch in the dark–half watching whatever movie that autoplayed and scrolling mindlessly on your phone–while they’re away at senior prom with their dates.
Your phone pings, drawing your attention from your doom scrolling. It’s a message from Geto in the family group chat–spoiler alert, Gojo has somehow weaseled his way into that too. You tap the photo open.
It’s Gojo and Geto standing with their dates. Gojo’s in a tux, hair slightly less messy than usual, a bright grin splitting his face, eyes crinkled as he leans backwards mid-laugh. His hand is settled easily at his date’s waist. The prettiest, most popular girl in school is smiling beside him, posed perfectly, one hand placed on his chest. The flowers on her wrist match the one tucked neatly into his suit pocket.
She’s the only one really posing for the photo. Geto’s caught mid-laugh too, shoving at Gojo’s shoulder with a closed fist, his own date laughing along with their antics.
The photo feels candid and warm and real in a way that makes your chest tighten.
You don’t know what it is–just that it makes you feel small. Inadequate. You wonder, briefly, if things would be different if you were older. Two years feels like an eternity when you’re in high school. And the feeling seems childish and immature for some reason. That same little tug at your chest you felt last year when Gojo announced he had changed his phone wallpaper to Waka Inoue.
This is stupid.
It’s just Gojo Satoru.
You realize it must be late when your attention is torn from your phone screen by the sound of the front door opening quietly. You glance over to see Geto and Gojo slipping inside, looking tired from their night. Geto offers you his signature soft smile, eyes closed as he walks past you. He pauses only for his hand to briefly brush along the top of your head, patting gently before making his way to the stairs to retire to his bedroom.
“Don’t stay up too late,” you hear his voice calling from the staircase until his footsteps recede.
Gojo follows, his suit jacket long discarded somewhere. Your eyes trail him, stuck on the veins travelling up from his hands, as he tugs loose his tie, to his muscular forearms as they flex from the action until they disappear under the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt.
Whoa.
Where did that come from?
You’ve never noticed things like that about him before. That’s weird.
He collapses onto the other end of the couch and immediately steals your abandoned half-eaten box of Pocky from your lap.
The thought of his forearms vanish from the forefront of your mind.
“Hey!” you reach for the box half-heartedly but he lifts it just out of reach. You huff, rolling your eyes before retiring to your original spot.
“I’ve had a long night,” he says, just as pouty as you, “I deserve these.”
You kick at his legs that are reclining on your side of the couch and he just laughs at your effort, pulling them from the cushions–and your lap–to stretch out beneat the coffee table. He exhales, long and heavy before sinking back into the cushions, munching on the snacks you bought.
He could probably buy a whole truck full with the money his family has yet he’s always taking yours. So greedy.
After a moment of silence, you glance at him again.
A second of Gojo not speaking is… unusual. Peaceful. But very unusual.
“...Are you okay?”
He lets out a strange, huffy laugh. “Yeah. My date tried to leave with your brother.”
And then he actually laughs, shaking his head like it’s absurd, like it doesn’t bother him at all.
You blink at him, ignoring that reminder that you’ll always be Geto’s little sister.
Still, you get a kick out of messing with Gojo. It’s in your nature at this point.
“Well,” you say lightly, “I hear people say he’s better looking,” you glance up at the ceiling like you’re thinking, “and funnier.” You tack on, just because you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t kick him when he’s already down. Although, you don’t agree. Obviously. Mostly because Geto is your brother. No other reason.
Then Gojo laughs, loud and unabashed, and you smile, pleased that you managed to lift his mood, even just a little.
“Yeah…” His smile fades and he scrubs a hand down his face, confusion creeping in. “She said I wasn’t paying enough attention to her or something… I don’t know.” He shakes his head before running a hand through his hair. It falls messily around his face, how it usually does. “Girls…”
You roll your eyes at his grumbling and generalizing the entire female species.
Though, you have to admit, it is strange to hear. In some odd way, you always assumed he would be a good boyfriend. You can’t remember a time when Gojo wasn’t paying attention to you. Always opening doors, making sure you weren’t walking closest to the road, letting you have the last bite of whatever dessert he stole from you (that was the least he could do), letting you play music whenever you and Geto were in his car. Once, he even learned your favorite song on the guitar and performed with your brother at a birthday party. Although, that one was more embarrassing than endearing. And you’re fairly certain it was Geto’s idea.
Always treating you like you were something fragile.
On second thought, you suppose Geto would have killed him if he didn’t.
The couch shifts, pulling you from your thoughts as you watch Gojo sitting upright from your peripheral, leaning in close to stare at your profile like he has absolutely no idea what personal space is. Another spoiler–he doesn’t and never has.
“You thinkin’ about me?” he teases, shit eating grin on his face.
You scoff and turn to throw some creative insult at him but then suddenly you’re face to face.
Up close, he looks different. The TV casts a dim, flickering glow across his features, softening the sharp edges you’re used to. He looks almost unguarded, the usual cocky exterior faded away into the darkness of the living room. Your eyes round as you realize how close he is. Close enough that you can count his long, white lashes and then his eyes, every fleck of different shades of blue suddenly visible. You’ve never seen him this close.
He’s kind of beautiful.
His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back to your eyes. He’s so close that you can feel his breath fanning across your face, the warmth of his body. Something unfamiliar flashes across his face that you can’t quite put your finger on.
And then he blinks.
Whatever it was disappears, replaced by that familiar grin.
He leans back suddenly, hands lacing behind his head, elbows wide and relaxed as he settles back into the couch.
“Wouldn’t be the first girl to tell me that.”
You scoff again, kicking his foot. So arrogant.
“Yeah fucking right, your date tried to leave you for Geto.” You snort, getting up from your spot and walking towards the staircase.
His laughter echoes behind you, followed by an exaggerated “Ouch!”
When you finally make it to your bedroom and close the door behind you, you pause with your back pressed against the door, hand firmly against your chest like you can will your rattling heart from beating right out of your ribcage.
And then you tell yourself–firmly–that Gojo Satoru is just like that.
a/n - i hope u guys enjoyed ! i alr have the next few pts (mostly) planned out so should be coming out w quick updates. as always, if u liked pls feel free to reblog + like and comment! i love hearing what u guys think :33
without a trace | gojo satoru x reader [one shot] 18+
❀ pairing - spiderman!gojo x black cat!reader
❀ summary - gojo has always prided himself on being a hero- the kind who upholds the standard for justice. only one person has ever made him question that moral line: you. and when you disappeared, he thought that part of him disappeared with you, burying himself in this new title of your friendly neighborhood spiderman. but when you return, he realizes there's almost nothing he wouldn't risk if it meant keeping you this time.
❀ warnings/tags - 18+, ex situationship, spiderman canon violence, very bad flirting, banter, mutual pining, angst (ish), toxic (ish) situationship, self aware gojo, reader is a cat burglar, cheating (kinda sorta depending how you look at it), reader is the other woman, geto being the voice of reason as always, pistol whipping, author uses y/n, selfish gojo, gojo is hard on himself, edging, dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, possessive gojo
❀ wc - 13.8k
a/n - hi guys! this has been sitting in my drafts for a loooong time but i finally hunkered down and finished writing (instead of studying for my boards oopsies) funny how much u can accomplish when ur procrastinating sth else. anyways this is loosely based on some spiderman blackcat edits i saw on tiktok from the marvel video game. fanart creds here[x] also i didnt rlly proof read bc i was rushing to get it out so if you see typos, no u didnt. as always, hope u guys enjoy this absolute BEAST. see u at the end! <3
Gojo slips in through the skylight of the Tokyo National Museum, leaving it cracked open juuust enough for him to slide out later–in case he needs a quick escape. He makes an effort to creep through the shadows, though the flicker of moonlight that spills in from the windows catches the white of his hair occasionally.
There was a tip sent in that there’s supposed to be a break-in at the museum tonight. Something about some crown jewels–an irreplaceable artifact so he hears–that’s already being auctioned off on the dark web.
Every tiny sound echoes in the silence of the building–aside from the hum of electricity emitting from the silent alarm system he was careful not to trigger–including the sound of his footsteps. He moves along the polished marble flooring, conscious of the tapping of his boots on tile.
He stands out against the darkness of the building, blue light glowing faintly where the web pattern traces his muscles. The spider emblem across his chest pulses soft light–the spider-tech having been synced to his heartbeat.
Then, the faint static of a voice in his ear–Mei.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight. Don’t tell me you’re actually focused for once?”
The corner of his lip quirks under his mask as he side-steps around a display pedestal. “I’m always focused.”
“Mhm, sure. What’re you looking at?”
“Whole lotta nothing. Starting to think your tip was off.”
“It wasn’t my tip–”
He half-listens to her speech as his eyes scan the room. Nothing seems off, no spidey-senses tingling yet–he doesn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Either absolutely nothing is wrong or everything is about to go horribly terribly wrong. Like baby shower fireworks setting off a forest fire wrong. He continues his pace through the museum, moving methodically towards the next exhibit. His eyes flicker towards different display cases every now and then to ensure nothing is out of place.
But Gojo is by no means a history buff nor had he ever really cared about artworks created by a bunch of dead people or historical artifacts stolen from other countries so he can’t exactly say if something’s been replaced by a fake or a decoy. He’s just relying on that spider-induced sixth sense of his.
Then, something breaks his rhythmic stride. The hum of the silent alarm system he was so careful not to set off cuts out–silence–and then sound that doesn’t belong. A soft metallic clink of a vent or pipes or something from somewhere above him.
His entire body stills instantly, senses sharpening as his eyes track the sound, following the ceiling panels. Mei’s voice through the comms device in his ear continues but it’s mostly tuned out as he focuses his hearing.
The air shifts, the faintest whisper of movement behind him.
Gojo turns toward the sound instantaneously, catching a blur of black and silver in his peripheral vision.
A dark figure drops through an opening where the ceiling vent was, twisting midair in a controlled flip before landing in a crouch on top of a glass display case. Moonlight slides over the sleek black fabric of a skintight suit–leather he assumes. A pair of mask-covered eyes lift from the glass to lock on his cerulean ones from across the room.
You.
“...You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Gojo breathes out a sharp exhale. He’s not sure what the feeling curling through his chest is, something between bewilderment and curiosity.
The last time he saw you…
The memory is simultaneously fuzzy in his brain yet crystal clear.
“–What’s going on? Are you okay?” Mei’s voice cuts through the slight static in his earpiece, pulling his attention.
He’s staring up at you with rounded eyes, a little dumbfounded as you look down at him from your position.
“Uhh… I’m gonna have to call you back.”
“Wait–Gojo, what’s–”
He hangs up before she can finish.
The echo of the disconnected line fades into silence. The smile on your lips is dangerously sweet and he starts to feel that spidey tingling sensation in his fingertips screaming at him that something’s wrong.
You tilt your head, tone light and teasing. “Miss me, Spider?”
His jaw tightens at the sound of his alias on your tongue
“Black Cat.” His voice comes out low, rough–firm like your name is an announcement as opposed to an acknowledgement.
You hum in response, grinning as you propel yourself into a forward flip, dropping down from the display case. You land lightly only a few feet from him. Always showing off, if he recalls correctly. The sound of your boots hitting the floor is barely audible as you take another slow step toward him.
Your movements are cat-like, prowling toward him and invading his space. You’re close enough now that he can smell you, catching the sweet and sharp traces of your perfume. Like poison disguised as sugary syrup.
“You look good,” you murmur, gaze dragging down the lines of his chest, voice dripping with amusement. “You been workin’ out?”
He blinks. He wonders if you can sense his hesitation or the slight falter in his breathing before he’s chuckling awkwardly, “Oh, um, yeah… heh.”
His hand reflexively moves to rub the back of his neck.
“Mmm,” you hum as you circle him slowly, “And, uh… you got a girlfriend nowadays?”
The words come out like a purr, lazy and relaxed. He wonders if the question is a setup.
He hasn’t seen you in years.
Would you know if he has a girlfriend?
Do you keep up with his personal life?
Are you jealous?
The thought settles warm in his chest, scratching something deep and territorial (and possibly toxic masculine) inside his gut. Not exactly something he’d be proud to admit out loud to anyone.
You reach out to him, slow and deliberate with a gloved claw. The sharp nails of your suit drag against the thin material of his suit. The fabric catches as you trace the hard lines of his shoulder, then down the slope of his chest. You stop abruptly just under his sternum.
He inhales sharply, a quiet sound that betrays him more than he’d like. A chill runs down his spine.
“Uh… that’s a lot of questions,” he manages to get out finally, voice a touch higher than usual.
“What?” You feign genuine curiosity as smile at him, lips curling up mischievously. “I’m just curious…”
You look up at him through your lashes, batting your eyes with faux innocence. You continue drawing a path past his sternum, sharp claw moving along the defined muscles of his abdomen. You’re close enough now that he can see the reflection of the spider symbol glowing blue in your eyes.
Your eyes. Wow.
He forces a swallow, throat bobbing. His large hand closes gently around your wrist, stopping your gloved claw and pulls it away from his torso. He doesn’t drop your hand.
“Heard that’s bad for cats.” The amusement is audible in his tone, even through the mask.
Your grin fades for a split second when somewhere outside, the sound of sirens begins to rise. Still faint but approaching rapidly. His eyes drop to your lips and when they make their way back to your eyes, the cat-like smile is back on your lips. You take a step back from him and he releases his grip on your wrist easily.
“Still funny, I see.”
“Still stealing things that don’t belong to you, I see.”
The statement feels like it’s about more than just the multiple burglaries he’s caught you in.
“Are we still talking about these?” You reach into the small compartment of your suit, pulling the jewels into the slant of the moonlight. The gems catch the traces of lowlight, scattering color across your face. “Hmm,” you drag your gaze from the gems to meet his, “guess I’ve got a type.”
You say it like you’re going to shoot him a wink but it never comes.
He instinctively reaches for them and then you’re gone, sending yourself into a backwards flip with feline adjacent grace. The distance opens between you and him in an instant. You tuck the jewels back into your suit, smoothing the fabric over them, sealing them seamlessly. You launch yourself again, higher this time, to the top of a display case positioned directly beneath the skylight.
Gojo thinks you look beautiful with the moonlight framing your figure. Like something out of his dreams. He shamelessly lets his eyes trail over the curve of your ass in the catsuit.
“Thanks for keeping an escape route open for me,” you call down, teasing laced in your words.
He just stands there dumbly, staring up at you as his pulse thrums against his throat.
It’s been years but you’re still you, you talk the same, smell the same, move the same.
And then he’s struck by the sudden realization he doesn’t know where you’ve been. You just vanished one day without a trace. He told himself that you’d finally stopped stealing and that it’d be better if he stopped caring.
Maybe you found a better life for yourself.
Or maybe you stole the wrong thing from the wrong person and died.
Though there was never a body.
And Geto convinced him that he eventually had to stop calling the morgue to ask if any unidentified bodies showed up.
And now you’re here again.
He remembers how it used to be.
When he first became Spider-Man, before you had made the name Black Cat for yourself and you were just you. Just a girl who was trying to fill some void by being a Robin Hood of sorts.
When the two of you would play this game of cat and mouse. Sometimes he’d catch you, corner you mid heist and web you so he could take back whatever it was that you had stolen.
Sometimes, he’d catch you. Sometimes, you let him. Sometimes, he’d let you go. It became like a game to the both of you.
It happened once or twice when the two of you had to team up, unlikely allies with two different goals in mind. Something mutually beneficial. He sought justice and you sought whatever you could steal. Whether it was from a corrupt political figure or some yakuza affiliate. If it helped both of you, he’d sometimes turn a blind eye.
And somewhere in between all of that–the blurred lines and adrenaline rushes, the way you both stopped keeping track of who won last time—it got messy and addictive. And then turned unresolved.
You eventually disappeared and when he couldn’t track you down, he figured it was only right to move on. Kind of.
Sure, you were always in the back of his mind but whatever he had with you wasn’t right. It was morally incorrect, all things considered. But he had met Mei. And even though they aren’t really together, she was right. Someone good, safe, someone who doesn’t make him question which side he’s really on. Someone who keeps him on the right side of history. And it wasn’t like you and him were ever really together.
Maybe he really just has some strange non-commital thing going on deep in his psyche. He should really see a therapist about that.
And then, he looks up at you now, standing there in the glow of the moon, body silhouetted against the open skylight, light rain dripping through the opening.
His voice drops, quiet and almost hesitant. “Let’s… let’s talk.”
You glance down at him, eyes low and humor in your voice. “Little late for that, hmm, Spider-Man?”
You shoot him a wink then rise to your feet. Your arm reaches up, catching the edge of the skylight. In one smooth, quick motion, you pull yourself through and then you’re gone.
Gojo stands there for a moment, staring up at the space where you once were. He exhales, long and slow, debating his decision. He should move. He should have shot a web, closed that gap, and stopped you. But he couldn’t. He feels that same ache in his chest that he had years ago.
Does this begin the game of cat and mouse again?
Or will you disappear again like last time?
Outside, the sirens grow increasingly louder.
A beat.
He decides not to think and just moves. He shoots a web from his wrist, firing toward the ceiling. The thread sticks just beside the open skylight. The line draws tight as he launches upward, muscles tightening as he slips through the glass frame and into the Tokyo night.
The night air hits him cold and sharp as rain falls gently. The neon lights of the city paint colors across the wet skyline, reflecting the slick rooftops in flashes of blue and pink. The sound of the city folds into the wind rushing past his ears as he swings, trying to get to a higher position.
There you are, sprinting across the roofline. Your movements are smooth, each leap landing calculated like you’re floating across the rooftops despite the rain wetting the tiles.
With a newfound surge of energy, he slings himself through the city, desperate to catch up to you. He moves in short bursts, opting to propel himself rather than taking the leisurely swings he normally does. He watches as you glance over your shoulder, surprised at the pace he’s moving.
You vault over a railing, pushing yourself off of it to clear a gap between buildings, back arched and legs extending in perfect rhythm. He fires his web from both arms, shooting himself forward like a slingshot as he increasingly closes the gap.
He’s close behind you now and he can tell you’re panicked. Your movements are becoming more erratic as you try to lose him, cutting between buildings and making unpredictable turns.
He swings low, web stretching wide before he releases and fires another. The web lands right behind you as you backflip to dodge the web. You cut left, disappearing behind a building. It takes him a second to redirect his shot, pulling from his shoulder as he forces his body in the new direction. As he rounds the corner, he watches as you flip down another level, slipping through scaffolding.
In a juvenile way, the chase almost feels fun again.
He fires another web from both hands, pulling himself up and over instead of down to where you’ve just landed. You give him a glance over your shoulder, gauging where he is and he hopes his idea works.
He swings above the building, landing on the rooftop. He doesn’t give himself time to breathe before he’s sprinting to the other side, praying you’re not as unpredictable as you seem. He dives off the edge of the roof headfirst.
As he’s falling, he sees your form sprinting in his direction, though it doesn’t seem like you’ve realized he’s free-falling right in front of you. He fires another web from directly above you, the line whips through the air and catches your ankle mid-stride.
You stumble, momentum yanking your leg back to where it’s attached to the rooftop by his web. Your reflexes, fast and instinctual at this point, force your body to tuck and roll, twisting midair to break your fall. Your palms slide against the concrete and land on your feet in a crouch position.
He barely has time to launch a web to catch himself, catching onto a metal beam jutting from a half-finished construction site. He nearly pulls his shoulders from their sockets from the pure force of momentum.
When you finally get to your feet, Gojo is there, hanging upside down. The beam is a part of a rooftop renovation with scaffolding scattered around it. Orange safety lights blink weakly in the rain, illuminating your face as he’s suspended in front of you, the line holding him steady.
“Black Cat.” His mask glows blue, a stark contrast to the dark. “Now, can we talk… like normal people?” His tone is teasing and nonchalant, despite being upside down.
You tilt your head, eyes glinting in the rain, a smirk playing on your lips. “What’s not normal about this?”
Before he can muster a response, you take a step forward and tug his mask just past his mouth. He freezes. You lean in, lips brushing his in a quick, soft kiss.
It’s over before he can fully register it.
His heart catches in his chest, every thought blanking for half a second. He’s not exactly sure if you only kissed him to throw him off or because you actually wanted to.
Probably both.
“Soo…” you pull back with that same sly smile, voice sweet and taunting, “No girlfriend, huh?”
“Always worried about the wrong thing.” He exhales, half a sigh and half a laugh, as he drops down from the web and lands in front of you. “She’s just a friend.”
“Right.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Neither was I.”
So you have been keeping up with him.
He steps closer, hand brushing your waist as he starts feeling along the seams of your suit, searching. His hands travel from your hips, up past your waist and then wrap around your ribcage. You watch him, amused as his fingertips finally trace the outline of the jewels hidden beneath the thin material.
“Someone’s forward,” you purr, tone dripping with mischief. Your breath ghosts against his neck as your words seep under his skin. “Better watch out, I bet that girl has trust issues.”
His fingers find the clasp on your suit to open the compartment where you stashed the jewels. Before he can work it open, you place a hand on his chest. Your touch light at first then firmer, feeling the solid muscle beneath his suit. You push lightly, forcing him back half a step. Your touch lingers, even with the newfound distance between you, thumb tracing the seam across his collarbone.
He swallows hard, caught under the feeling of your hand on his body. His hands drop to his sides immediately, unconsciously following the silent direction of your touch.
Your eyes find his, low-lidded and seductive. “Don’t be a stranger, Spider.”
You take three quick steps backward toward the edge of the rooftop, giving him one last look before flipping backward off the ledge. Your body twists midair before catching a lower rooftop beam. In seconds, you’re gone.
Gojo stands there, rain beading down his mask, staring at the empty space where you’d just been. The night feels quieter without you in it.
Cat and mouse.
He lets out a strangled noise, the sound like a resigned huff.
“Mei’s gonna kill me…”
-
The sun is low, honey-gold rays spilling past the blinds in Gojo’s high-rise as he wanders into the living room from the kitchen, barefoot. The wrapper of his mochi crinkles obnoxiously as he tears it open with his teeth, stuffing the scraps in his pajama pants pocket. The TV is set to the news, something Mei had insisted would be beneficial to his alter ego.
Then, the voice of the newscaster–
“First Suspect to Escape Spider-Man in Years – Hero Losing His Edge?”
Geto snorts in response from his spot on the couch, one ankle over the other as his feet rest on the coffee table. The footage looks like something taken from a helicopter– no sound and horrible quality. A short clip of your flip over the ledge of that rooftop and him watching you leave. Not a good look.
Though, he has to admit he’s enjoying seeing how you look in your skin-tight suit from all angles.
Gojo takes a bite of his snack, tearing away at the chewy dessert.
Mei doesn’t look up from the tech setup as she scrolls through the TMPD liaison comm feed. “Losing your spark, Satoru?” Her tone is light, teasing, even a little flirty.
Gojo watches as Geto drags his eyes from the TV over to him, shooting him a knowing look after seeing the clip that they keep replaying. Mei finally twists in her chair to look and Gojo nearly winces as she squints, leaning in slightly to make out the dark figure in the blurry footage. Her spine straightens immediately, recognition evident in her face. She presses her lips together and turns back to the monitors.
It’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of the reporter moving onto the next segment fills the room.
Shoko breaks the heavy silence by clearing her throat, shuffling into the living room from the balcony. The faint smell of cigarette smoke follows her in. She slides the doors shut behind her. “Anyywaays…” She sings, “we have bigger things to be worried about.”
“Right. Okay,” Mei prepares to dive into her debrief as the four gather around the computer screen. “So there’s this arms broker. Arai Kenji. Geto’s been keeping up with him for months now and we think that we finally got a perfect window. Tonight.”
Arai Kenji has plans to meet with a transporter crew in the warehouse district. The crew is supposed to be handing off some new drug shipment that they’ve just cooked up in a lab. During the handoff, they’re also giving him a flash drive which is the most important part. The drive is supposed to have some highly classified, extremely valuable information.
Doesn’t seem like anyone knows exactly what it is.
It’s probably just regular bad guy stuff like buyer routes, illegal weapons blueprints, black-market contacts, stuff like that.
Gojo’s part of the plan is to trail Kenji from one of his hideouts to the meeting point. Lay low, stay out of sight until the trade happens. Swoop in, get the drive, get out. Tokyo Police is on standby until they get the go-ahead from him to move in.
Apparently, the drive is also supposed to be a secret from the police as well. Something about potential bad seeds in the force.
He agrees it’s probably for the better that he checks something like that out first anyway.
He’s also admittedly a little distracted from the mission breakdown with the thought of you. He wonders if he’ll see you again anytime soon. And if it’s ridiculous that he’s thinking about that at a time like this.
It’s just that–
He’s known you for years and sometimes it felt like he knew you more than he knew himself. But also like he didn’t know you at all.
You had become such an inconsistent constant in his life.
But somewhere in the ebb and flow of your relationship over the years, you became intertwined with him. Like there was no Spiderman, no Gojo Satoru without you.
Outside, the sky has turned into a deep shade of indigo.
Gojo stands at the center of the room, the lower half of his Spider suit resting on his hips. He’s shirtless still, messing with the mask of his suit to double-check the earpiece. He tucks the mask between his teeth as he continues to work on getting suited up. He pulls the upper half of the suit over his head, the nanofiber material molding to his chest and shoulders once its in place.
Across the room, Geto leans backwards lazily in his desk chair. He tosses a basketball between his palms then spins it on his pointer finger.
“Soooo…” Geto drags his voice, “What’re you gonna do bro?”
He starts tossing the ball up and then catching it with one hand.
“Right now,” Gojo starts tugging the thin fabric up over his torso, then his shoulder. The material molds to his biceps. “I’m gonna get this damn flash drive.”
“Can’t avoid the topic forever.”
“Yeah well,” Gojo sighs, slipping on the gloves one after another. He flexes his fingers once they’re on. “I can when I don’t know if she’ll be back forever.”
“Do you want her to be?”
He avoids eye contact as he tugs the mask down over his face, ignoring the question. He rubs his face exhaustingly over the mask then clears his throat. He brushes past Geto towards the open window, one leg after the other over the sill.
Then, he dives out the window, launching himself across the skyline.
He moves fast, wind biting at his sides through the suit. He shoots a web from his right wrist, pulling himself forward. His momentum arcs before he fires another line. The movements become a secondary thought as he makes his way through the city. The spider emblem across his chest glows light blue against the dark of night.
He angles down, landing on the neon-lit rim of a billboard. He crouches low, eyes focused on the warehouse compound a short distance away– Kenji’s reported hideout.
He’s almost surprised at his perfect timing.
A matte black SUV rolls out of a wide garage door. The tinted windows of the vehicle reflect the city lights. He watches as the car turns into the road, tires rough against the street.
He waits for some distance then drops from the billboard, firing a new line as he tails the van from above. He manuevers from rooftop to rooftop, creeping through the back streets at a safe distance from the SUV.
The car moves toward an older distract, neon lights fading out to dim street lights until it turns into a dead-end alley, tucked between two shuttered up shops and an old apartment complex.
Gojo slips onto a rooftop and tucks himself just behind the ledge. He’s high enough where he can blend into the darkness but close enough to be able to pick up on the interaction.
The comms device in his ear crackles with a flash of static.
“Yoo.”
Geto’s voice.
“Soo no Mei tonight, huh?”
“Mm, she’s not exactly feelin’ it tonight. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Gojo’s pretty sure that’s code for she’s mad at you. He really shouldn’t be thinking about you this much. He’s not exactly sure what he has going on with Mei but he knows she probably wouldn’t be very happy with him right now. He’s got this strange feeling in his stomach, one he can’t quite put his finger on. And he doesn’t think it’s guilt.
He forces out a huff of a laugh through his nostrils. “Just like old times.”
He’s been having a lot of thoughts about old times lately. He shakes his head as if he can physically shake the thoughts from his brain.
“Alright, quick rundown.” Geto tells him, “Two-part exchange, first the product, then the flash drive. Once they hand over the money and Kenji’s got the drugs, we’ll have police come in but you have to get the drive first. And don’t make any moves until the other group heads out.”
Gojo nods, forgetting that he can’t see him.
“Got it.”
He watches the alley as the van sits idly. He steadies his breath as he surveys the layout of the alley, peering to hopefully count the amount of people seated in the car but he’s too high up and it’s too dark. No luck.
“Y’know, we’d understaaand, right?” Geto’s voice is casual through the earpiece, like he’s shrugging as the words come out.
Gojo’s eyes narrow in confusion, “... Understand what… exactly?”
“If you… and Black Cat…” Geto’s voice trails off suggestively.
His brain stutters for a second, scrambling for a believable denial as heat slides up the back of his neck.
But before he can find one, a second car rolls into the alley. The wheels of a sleek silver sedan crunch quietly on the uneven pavement.
Flashy.
‘Wait– wait– shh…” Gojo’s voice comes out in a hushed whisper.
The SUV doors swing open, Arai Kenji climbs out and he’s followed by four men in some sort of tactical gear. They stand behind him in a pyramid-adjacent formation.
From the smaller car, two figures step out. They keep a safe distance from Kenji and his men, opting to only stand a few feet in front of their own car. Some words are exchanged but they’re speaking at a hushed volume. Gojo can’t pick up any specifics of the conversation so he relies on reading their body language.
They’re stiff, clearly tense. One person from each side cautiously moves toward their own vehicle, each pulling out a duffel bag. The drug transporters hand a bag over to one of Kenji’s henchmen, then a second– and a third bag follows. The bags seem heavy, sagging under the weight of the contents.
“Okay…” Gojo whispers into the comm, “They just handed off the duffels.”
He watches as one of Kenji’s men haphazardly throws one of their own duffels in front of the transporters’ feet. One of them slowly bends over, gradually tugging the zipper undone, revealing the wads of cash stuffed in the bag.
Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight.
That’s a lot of money.
His mind flashes to you.
How you’re the type to swoop in, steal the bag, leave it at the doorstep of an orphanage or homeless shelter or something.
The “wrong thing” feels like the right thing, sometimes, with you.
“And the flash drive?” Geto’s voice is also low, as if they’d somehow be able to hear him through Gojo’s earpiece.
The transporter zips the duffel bag back up. He takes the few small steps to the backseat of the vehicle, switching the duffel bag for a silver briefcase. Simultaneously, Kenji’s team is loading up the SUV with the new bags they’ve just received.
A briefcase.
Gojo’s voice dips impossibly lower, barely above a breath. “There’s a briefcase. Is that it?”
“Has to be.”
His eyes flicker around the alley, mapping it out. His eyes narrow behind the mask, focused. He counts the one– two– three– four men, paying close attention to their positioning. He’s trying to be tactful about it, picturing the approach. The big one to the right of Kenji might be the biggest immediate threat but he might move slower so Gojo’s got him there. Though the one right behind him looks a lot faster so he might beat him to it.
How can he get in and out quickly with the least amount of damage?
If he comes in at the right angle, he might get fast enough access to the case and he can hopefully swing out without having to fight anyone.
He’s visualizing his attack route– hopefully a quick drop in, web the briefcase, he should be able to use that fire escape rail for swing trajectory and if he comes in from the right angle, he may only need to knock out the guy standing in the back.
The drug transporters start to slide into their vehicle, preparing to leave.
His eyes dart around, imaginary diagrams of angles and lines fill his vision as he continues to map the battleground. The sequence of movements he comes up with feels familiar.
Familiar in that way that sinks into his bones, that sounds like your voice in his ear, that feels like your limbs clashing with his when you’ve fought, this had you written all over it.
He used to go into any situation, guns blazing, ready to fight his way through it. It was you who would always tell him to slow down, sneak around, find a way.
Quiet as a cat, sneaky as a spider.
The headlights from the smaller car flicker to life, washing over Kenji and his men as they stand with the briefcase in their possession.
Gojo flexes his fingers out of habit and slowly rises to his feet, ready to swing down. He forces the thought of you back into that deep part of his mind, where it’s been residing for the past two or three years.
The sedan starts reversing, slowly gliding out of the alley. He watches as it turns the corner and disappears.
Fuck it.
The whole sneaky thing looked better on you anyways.
He jumps from the ledge, webbing at a rusted pipe. He arcs through the alley as quietly as he can manage, the only sound being the wind that slides against his suit. He lands in a crouch a few feet from the front of the van, hiding in the shadows of the alley. The driver rounds from behind the van, keys in hand as he approaches the driver’s seat.
He shoots a web from his left wrist, the sound of the netting flying through the air cuts through the quiet night. The web wraps around the man’s torso and Gojo yanks the guy straight into the darkness. His right fist meets him halfway. The punch sinks deep into the man’s gut. He lets out a thick, choking wheeze as he folds over, heaving.
Without missing a beat, Gojo anchors a web to the ground, sliding low under his nearly collapsing body. He lets out a grunt as he pivotes, using the momentum to shove upward at the guy’s chest as he pops up from underneath him, sending the guy sailing backwards like a ragdoll. The man crashes spine-first onto the concrete, crumpling upon impact.
Geto’s voice crackles through the comms in his ear. “Doin’ okay still, Satoru?”
“Oh yeah, doin’ fantastic,” tone dry, borderline sarcastic as he catches his breath.
Footsteps thunder from either side of the vehicle. Gojo’s head snaps up toward the sound. On the passenger side, a man approaches with a gun and on the other side, a metal bat.
Even though logic tells him his priority should be the gun, the guy white-knuckling the bat is much closer– sprinting towards him while yelling something incoherent.
Gojo fires a tight shot, the web zips through the air and attaches itself to the metal bat. He uses his web to whip the bat backward. It ricochets off the graffiti-tagged wall, clanking as it rolls away. The man doesn’t even flinch, continuing his charge towards Gojo. He dives towards him, ready to tackle but Gojo plants his foot, webbing the ground again and slides under him to dodge the attack. In the same breath, he fires another web at his torso and jerks him sideways mid-air. His redirected body slams into the goon holding the gun with full force.
The gun fires off wildly, a shot sparking off the concrete wall behind Gojo, missing him.
The two men smash into the wall together, disoriented, limbs tangled.
He turns on his heel, surging towards Kenji to get the briefcase. From his peripheral, he sees one of the men back on their feet, swinging at him full speed. Gojo uses the opening to sink a sharp right hook to his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He slides under him between his open legs, the reinforced material lining his suit helping him grind against the asphalt and then pops up behind him, delivering a reverse hook kick to the back of his skull.
That had to be concussive, he thinks.
The man’s head whips forward as a result and he goes flying forward, eventually landing some distance away.
The second guy lunges towards him. Gojo webs at his ankle, sending him stumbling. He catches him by shooting another web into his chest and yanks him into a kick–boot to sternum. He can almost hear the breathless wheeze the man lets out but the sound is drowned out by the sound of the stretch of his web-line. Web still attached to the man’s chest, Gojo pivots and slingshots the man over his shoulder into a stack of crates. The wooden boxes splinter, sending debris crashing down.
He uses a web to assist in a jump that has him right above the man then fires a final web downward, the material sticking to the pavement on either side of the man. The line goes taut and he uses it to slam himself feet-first onto the man below who was scrambling to get up from the debris. The man’s body goes limp under his feet.
Gojo barely has time to straighten himself, steady his breath before the sound of a machine gun spraying echoes within the narrow alley. The bullets carve sparks against the brick walls and the sound is nearly deafening.
Damn. So much for keeping a low profile.
Kenji’s voice is coming from somewhere behind the SUV, screaming something incomprehensible. Gojo’s body moves instinctively toward his voice until the sound of a boot scraping metal makes him freeze. His attention is pulled toward the sound, head snapping up just in time to catch the last one of Kenji’s men launching himself from the roof of the vehicle, diving straight for him.
Oh, come fucking on. Can he catch a break?
He fires a web at the wall, jerking his body upward hurriedly then, mid-swing, something flickers in his peripheral vision. A streak of black and silver. Just the slightest flash of familiarity but it’s enough to make his head turn.
You.
The slight head turn costs him. In his moment of unfocused, the man clamps onto Gojo’s calves mid-swing and they both go crashing down toward the concrete. The landing knocks the air out of his lungs and he’s gasping as they roll from the impact. The concrete scrapes against his suit and the guy manages to get on top of Gojo first, throwing punches wildly. He raises his arm in time to block the first one, the second clips his jaw and the third grazes his forehead.
He grits his teeth, using the millisecond he had while the man drew his fist back to plant his forearm across the guy’s throat, pushing up and over, using the momentum to flip them. Gojo throws one solid punch with his left fist and then brings his elbow down to his temple, knocking him out. The man’s eyes roll backwards until they close, his head hanging limply.
Gojo barely has a moment to push himself off the ground before a sharp, heavy crack explodes at the back of his skull. Metal on bone, the sound of metal and steel parts clanking against itself.
Searing white hot pain detonates behind his eyes as his knees buckle. He hits the ground with a grunt, palms scraping against the pavement as he tries to catch himself.
No fucking way he got pistol whipped with a semi-automatic gun. SMG-whipped? Is that even a thing? These new gen bad guys are coming up with all sorts of new things. This has to fall under the category of cruel and unusual. He’d probably be a lot more pissed if he wasn’t actively trying to get a hold of his senses.
Kenji’s voice booms from behind him. “Spider-Man,” he acknowledges, “Never thought I’d see the day–honestly, thought you were a myth.” His voice is taunting, like he had one up on him.
Gojo crawls, his hands shaky as he tries to scramble away from the direction of his voice but his body won’t–can’t coordinate. The alley spins harder with each breath he takes. His vision rebounds between flashes of bright white and complete darkness, the strobing makes it worse and then nausea, either from the sickening taste of iron in his mouth or his ears ringing. He tries to blink it away like it would help but everything is still blurry around the edges.
Fuck.
“Shit…” He manages to grit his teeth and mutter into the comm, “I take that back… not doin’ so hot.”
Geto’s voice comes through, crackled, alarmed, “Satoru–?”
The sound of boots scraping closer on pavement sends Gojo into a panic. He forces his body to move, dragging himself away from the sound. Fuck, he thinks he’s concussed. Is this what he usually does to the guys he fights? Damn, he’s starting to feel a little bad.
His stomach is churning and then he hears the sound of the SMG clicking, an empty mag being discarded on the ground and a new one being reloaded.
Gojo’s breathing hitches. His eyes would probably be blown wide right now if he could see out of them.
This is how I die, he’s thinking. He’s gonna get shot with this machine gun and die all because something in his fucked up brain hallucinated you and he got distracted. He can’t even be sure it was you in his hallucination but his brain cells must be completely fried at this point in his life. Probably from all the blunt force trauma that comes with the job.
He thinks he’s gonna throw up.
Then a sound–sharp and and heavy–draws his attention. Like a body smashing into metal. He can make out the sound of a crash, some heavy grunting, boots scraping against the pavement. It sounds like fist connecting to skin and bone.
Is this also a part of his hallucination or is the fight happening right next to him? Is he even hallucinating or is he just freaking himself out? His vision is still somewhat dark around the edges, everything comes through like skewed shapes and static-y lines.
He’s trying to focus himself and then the sound of who he can only presume is Kenji shouting and then a heavy thud follows. Then silence.
The only sound is Gojo’s ragged breathing as he’s on all fours, trying to push himself to his feet. He’s wobbly and can’t get himself fully upright, stumbling a bit but his vision begins to sharpen. Blurry figures becoming more solid forms, stabilizing a bit.
And then a pair of smaller hands sliding under his arm, tugging his body upright from his crouched position with surprising strength. His fight or flight kicks in, his body flinching violently as he fights against the hold. He shouts in protest and then–
“Easy, Spidey.” The voice of his dreams. Or his nightmares depending on how you look at it. “Just making sure you didn’t die on me.”
His pulse spikes. This has to be some sort of concussion-induced hallucination. Like a fever dream but from when you get hit in your head a little too hard. Is that a thing? He makes a note to look into that later. He’s also not sure he’s even able to get a concussion–what, with his spidey powers and everything.
He feels–who he’s pretty sure is–you haul his weight up. He’s heavy, nearly deadweight against your frame. He feels bad that he can’t offer you much help from his end but the little soft grunt you let out as you hook one arm around his waist has his mind reeling. The sound shoots straight down below the waist.
You shift against him and he feels you raise one arm and tighten the other around him. He hears the familiar little hissing noise from the miniature grappling hooks hidden in the fur at the wrists of your suit. Your shoulder stiffens as the hook latches onto something and the line tightens under your grip. There’s a jolt as both of your bodies lift.
Gojo’s stomach lurches as you both ascend the side of a building, head swimming. The second your feet hit the rooftop, your bodies jerk again as you hook onto the next building and you both go swinging at an angle.
He blinks hard, trying to focus his eyes. He can just barely make out the shape of your face, the features slowly coming into vision. His vision is starting to clear just enough to make out your silhouette, kneeling in front of him. The city lights behind you blur beneath his half-blind sight, his mechanical lenses in his mask doing absolutely nothing to help him.
There’s two—maybe three of you—dancing in front of him as his eyes slowly focus until the multiples of you merge into one.
And then like an absolute idiot with zero self-preservation instincts, he hears himself say:
“...have I ever told you that you’re gorgeous?”
Your snicker is soft, so soft he hardly catches it but he knows he missed the sound and he’d do anything to hear it on repeat.
Like those ASMR videos that Mei watches sometimes.
Fuck.
Mei.
Gojo knows he is absolutely fucked.
“Mmm,” you purr, leaning into him slightly, “so I’ve heard.”
The wind hits his face as you swing the two of you onto a rooftop a few blocks away from the alley. You land as gentle as you can with the added weight of his body and he hears the shhhk of the hook retracting back into your suit.
You set him down softly until his back meets the brick wall behind him and he slumps against it, legs splayed, breath uneven. His vision, now much clearer, can just make out your silhouette, kneeling in front of him.
You give his cheek a light pat, something almost affectionate. “You alright there, pretty boy?”
He pretends the pet name doesn’t fry every single neuron he has left.
Before he can find a response, the comm in his ear sputters with violent static and then Geto’s voice cuts through. It’s warped and barely audible.
“Sato–? Is th– Cat? Wha–” And then it cuts out entirely, the tiny speaker fried from his earlier beating.
He huffs out a breathless laugh, half-delirious and half-resigned, opting to completely ignore his best friend’s message. His voice comes out thick with exhaustion.
“Never better,” he fights through a groan as he tries to push himself upright.
You hum out a suspicious little mhmm, like you don’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. And rightfully so because he hardly manages to stand, hand braced on the wall for balance. You shuffle back a few steps, enough to give him room to collect himself. He’s wobbling but his balance is back enough. Though he kinda wishes he’d stumble just a tiny bit so you’d catch him.
Oh shit.
The hard drive.
“Fuuuckk,” he groans under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. His skull throbs with the movement. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”
A soft hum answers him from a few feet ahead.
“Looking for this?”
His head snaps toward your voice so fast, he gets a fresh spike of dizziness.
You’re standing there, one hand on your hip and the flash drive dangling from the claws of your other gloved hand.
He feels his stomach drop.
He pushes off the wall, crossing the short distance between you. He reaches out once he’s standing directly in front of you.
“Not happening.” You pull your hand back, just out of reach. Your voice comes out sharp, “I need this.”
“For what?” Gojo’s eyes narrow behind his mask.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Your head tilts like you’re messing with him, holding back a teasing laugh.
“Yes,” he deadpans. “That’s why I asked.”
You pause for the slightest moment and then turn to walk away, moving towards the edge of the rooftop.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He shoots a web, the sound of the synthetic material slices through the air. He follows it as soon as it leaves his wrist, sprinting toward you.
You twist your body out of pure instinct, narrowly dodging the web. It snaps right past your shoulder instead of your wrist where he had aimed. His eyes track your movement as you tuck the drive back into your suit in one smooth motion.
Then you launch a kick at him. He brings his forearm up and your boot collides with the guard on his suit. You swipe at him, once, then twice, steel claws glinting under the moonlight as they cut through the air. He leans back, weaving the first swipe then he pivots his shoulder, dodging the second swipe under your arm.
You’re pulling your punches. He can tell you’re not attacking him with the intent to cause him any real harm. Whether that’s because you don’t actually want to fight him or you’re just being mindful of his near concussion, he’s not sure. He also gets the idea you might just be trying to create enough of a gap to run.
But he’s not letting you go again.
You go for a punch this time, claws retracted, closed fist. He catches your wrist mid-punch and uses the momentum to pull you toward him. He steps in, meeting your body in the middle and slides an arm around your waist as a second anchor to pull you in. Your bodies collide and he can feel your chest rising rapidly as you catch your breath.
He says your name.
Your real name.
He can feel it when it hits you. See the shock crossing your face, eyebrows knitting together.
You go still in his arms, every inch of you goes taut. Your fingers curl in reflex against his suit, like every muscle in your body stiffened from the sound of a name you fought heaven and earth to forget.
He takes advantage of the moment. Dirty trick, he has to admit, it’s not his proudest moment but his hands move, patting along the lines of your torso. His fingers find the small, hidden compartment he remembers from the museum. He had replayed that moment in his head over and over and over again (for more reasons than one) trying to memorize the map of your suit. Though it may have done him more bad than good.
Your breath stutters when his fingers brush over the outline of the drive through the thin fabric. You jerk in his grip, half-heartedly pulling back. Like your body had to force itself out of something so comforting, something so deeply ingrained into your very being. His grip on your waist doesn’t falter.
“I-it’s my way out,” you manage to blurt out. The words sound like they’ve been ripped out of you.
He pauses. Your voice sounds so… desperate? The sound is so unfamiliar to him.
“Are you lying to me?” he asks, flat. His eyes narrow at you again through the mask lenses.
He watches your eyes flicker between his, eyebrows pinched together. You force down the lump in your throat before you speak, chin tilting to the side to avoid eye contact.
“No, I’m not.” You’re almost pleading. “I-I’m supposed to be done after this.”
Supposed to be.
He doesn’t necessarily trust it fully. He’s known you a long time which means that’s a long time of giving you the benefit of the doubt. While you’ve never exactly flat out lied to him, you’ve definitely skirted the truth.
Though you usually don’t sound this defeated.
“Yeah, I don’t believe you,” he answers after a pause, feeling a little guarded.
His fingers slide along the seam of your suit, finding the hidden lining. He slips past the hidden lining, pulling the flash drive free. He’s barely able to retract his hand when you grab his wrist, holding tightly.
“Satoru, I’m serious,” your voice steadies, “I need it.”
He turns it over between his fingers, cool metal pressing into his skin. Even though your bodies are still pressed together, you don’t move to snatch it from him.
“Why?” He asks, tentative, “What’s on it?”
He wants to know what you’re not saying, what’s got you this desperate–what kind of corner you’ve been backed into, and what he can do to get you out of it.
He’s asked you before–to leave with him to somewhere, anywhere. That he’d be so ready to forget everything that’s ever happened, everything you’ve ever done. That you didn’t have to live this life–cracking safes and running heists.
But you were always a girl with a vendetta, with something to prove. And you’d always tell him that you can’t.
But you can always do anything–breaking into vaults, stealing artwork, cat-burgling–anything but be his.
When you don’t answer, he takes his mask off, letting it hand limply from his fingers. His hair is ruffled from friction. A few loose strands stick to his damp forehead.
A second ago, you couldn’t seem to look at him but now, your eyes refuse to leave his.
“y/n, look me in the eyes,” he says, voice quiet but unwavering. “and tell me what’s on this drive.”
You hesitate.
His expression softens when he sees your face. The moonlight reflects in your eyes, painting them in pale silver. You hold his eye contact now, rounded eyes looking up at him.
For a second, he can’t seem to get a read on you. Like usual. You’ve always been so impossible to pin down, always ducking and dodging him.
But then, your shoulders drop a fraction and your lips part. Your voice comes out a little hoarse like you’re fighting yourself. “Everything,” you breathe, your words come out in a whisper, “It has identities, accounts, blackmail, leverage on… on everyone. Politicians, crimelords, weapons dealers.” You swallow, then drag in a shaky breath. “Me.”
He searches your eyes, aching to find the truth. He doesn’t speak, urging you to continue.
“I-it was supposed to go to some guy who was gonna use it against some politician, to control them to be able to pull strings from behind the scene,” you explain carefully, “All I know is that I needed it first, okay?” You break eye contact for a second, looking away, “I get rid of everything tied to me, my name, my identity, everything I’ve ever been involved in and then I’m finally out.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?” The question comes out firm but his voice is still gentle. He almost feels… bad for you.
You’re looking up at him now and you look tired. The most beautiful yet exhausted person he’s ever seen in his life. Your eyes are glassy and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you cry before but here you stand in front of him, eyes welling up.
“I swear,” your voice trembles like it’s your first time making a real promise, like you’ve never sworn anything out loud before in your life, “I heard this stupid drive existed and it’s the only reason I came back.”
He can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt knowing the only reason you came back was for the drive and not for him. Even though he knows it’s selfish because he’s (somewhat) moved on with his life so it’s only fair that you get to.
You tear your eyes from him again and sniffle.
The city lights glow behind you and around you, illuminating your face. The wind toys with loose strands of your hair, ruffling the fur at the collar of your suit. You’re standing here, in front of him, looking so guilty and defeated and so painfully, achingly beautiful that it physically hurts him to look at you.
And Gojo knows he’s supposed to be thinking about the mission, about Geto and Mei and Shoko, the good thing, the right thing.
But instead, all he can think is that you came back. And now he’s realizing you’re just someone who made a life altering decision too young, felt the weight of the world on your shoulders before you could even understand it, and suddenly he sees you. Really sees you.
Your eyes lock onto his, pleading in a way that makes his chest feel tight with too many emotions and too many memories. And before he can think about what’s right or morals or common sense, he steps in. His free hand slides up, fingers curling around the edges of your face, thumb grazing your cheek.
He leans in, until your noses are brushing. “We can go anywhere you want. Y’know that right? We can leave together. I’d do it for you.”
“I could never ask you to do that, Satoru,” your eyes flutter shut when his warm breath fans across your face, “you’re too good.”
He hates that. He’s good, you’re “not.” He doesn’t even know if that’s something he should care about anymore. Like that’s all subjective to him when you’re standing here, looking so small and fragile for the first time ever.
And he can’t even help himself when he closes the last inch between you, mouth crashing onto yours.
For a second it’s clumsy and awkward, both of your bodies tense but then something clicks. Like your bodies remember each other before your minds do. Your lips move together, seamlessly like muscle memory, coming together as naturally as breathing.
Gojo doesn’t even realize when he clumsily fumbles the drive into the pocket at his hip, using his now free hand to slide down your frame, splaying his large hand against the small of your back so he can push you flush against him. His grip is firm like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even the slightest.
Your fingers bury into his pale, silvery hair and it tears a deep sound from his chest before he can stop it.
“Satoru…” you breathe against his lips and he thinks he would spend every single last dime he had if it meant hearing the sound again.
He answers by kissing you harder, licking at your lower lip. Your lips part in response and he takes it as permission, slipping his tongue into your mouth. Your tongues dance against each other’s and his chest is burning from the lack of oxygen but he would much rather suffocate than be detached from you for a single second.
He uses his body to usher you against a brick wall, hand on the back of your head to protect you from the impact. The stone is rough against the smooth fabric of your suit, a stark contrast to how warm and steady his body is against yours. You’re both half-hidden, tucked behind a rooftop enclosure and hidden from sight from surrounding buildings by half-finished construction beams.
The hand on your lower back slips down, gripping at your thighs before he lifts you, muscles straining and stretching at the fabric around his biceps. Your legs lock around his waist, the movement rocking you against him. The sound that escapes your lips only sends more blood rushing to below his waist and he knows you can feel him pressing against you, solid through the thin material of his spider suit.
With his grip on the back of your head, he tugs at your hair gently, tilting your neck back enough to give him access. He swears under his breath against your lips before dragging his mouth down your jaw, leaving open wet kisses along the smooth skin. The kisses turn soft, his desperation melting away into begging, pleading for you to stay. Hoping his lips against your skin says more than he’s ever been able to say out loud. That this won’t be the last time he’ll see you.
He selfishly wants to keep you from getting the drive weighing heavy in his pocket. If it meant keeping you around. If you wouldn’t disappear from his life again, forever, without a trace.
There’s that little voice in the back of his head telling him that he shouldn’t be doing this with you. That it’s not fair to you–if you really did need the drive and if you really wanted to disappear from the face of the earth–not fair to his friends and to the city. He’s supposed to be a hero and he’s not doing anyone any good right now. But he also knows he can’t stop. That corny saying if it’s wrong, why does it feel so right?
“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, goosebumps raising as his breath fans over your collarbones, “tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
He knows he can’t stop himself, it’s beyond him at this point and maybe it’s selfish to fully burden you with the weight of that decision but he’s also beyond caring at this point. The feeling of you in his arms is just too right. He presses his forehead to yours, noses brushing, breath hot and uneven. His eyes search your face and for the first time ever, it’s like he’s really seeing all of you. Unsure and torn, scared and uncertain.
When he doesn’t get a response, his chest heaves. No answer.
A nervous laugh huffs out of him, unsure of what to do, “Heh… cat got your tongue?”
You exhale his name, again. He’s sure you meant to sound exasperated–maybe even a little annoyed as you usually are with him–but it comes out softer, needier.
He really wishes you’d stop because the sound of his name on your tongue is only pulling him out deeper and deeper like he’s lost at sea. His jaw is clenched and the pressure threatens to bring on his semi-automatic gun-induced headache again but instead he waits for you to tell him to stop, to say anything. He’s too far gone, too lost in you so he waits for the only command he’d ever obey–yours.
He kisses you again, slower this time, more cautious and when he feels your body go lax against his, he deepens the kiss as your body melts into his. Your fingers tighten in his hair like you’re trying to anchor yourself to him. Heat builds as your mouths part and find each other again and again, messy and desperate like he’s trying to pour every unspoken word, every almost confession into it.
His mind is absolutely reeling.
He thinks maybe he should’ve waited for you, should’ve looked harder when you disappeared and not given up. Instead of eventually telling himself maybe it was better this way. That maybe if he had been more patient, more understanding, more attentive, pushed himself harder to fix the corrupted city that you wouldn’t need some top secret, highly dangerous to obtain flash drive as your ticket out.
Maybe he could have gotten you out.
He thinks of every time he told himself that he could change you, that maybe you were bad for him, that he couldn’t be with you and be Spiderman. Even the him from three years ago didn’t believe that. He knew then and he knew now that he would always let you in, let you escape, put his superhero pride to the side if it meant he could see you, be with you even if it was only for a night.
And here he is again, years later, still thinking that–despite it all–you’re the one who was made for him.
It hits him all at once, a rush of regret and want and something so stupidly hopeful that it makes his chest tight. He pours all of it into his lips against yours because he doesn’t have the words to say to you.
His hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades as he presses your body impossibly closer to his, chest to chest, hip to hip. Your suit is thin enough that he can feel the lines of your body under his palms, the way your ribs expand with every sharp inhale against his lips. You arch into him without thinking and a quiet, broken sound slips out of you, lost against his mouth.
His mouth moves down again, dragging along your skin, along the line of your jaw, down the side of your neck. Each kiss lands hot and lingering, nearly reverent against your searing skin. He feels the small shiver that runs through you when his breath grazes the sensitive skin.
One of your hands slide down from his hair, fingers skating over the seams of his Spider suit then along his sculpted shoulders and the defined ridges of his back, like you’re memorizing him back.
He sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to see you again and something almost animalistic rips through him. His heart is slamming against his rib, breath hitching. Your lips are swollen from the kissing and biting, chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes travel down from your collarbones to the exposed skin of your chest, hardly hidden from your low-cut suit. He has to bite his tongue to keep in the guttural groan that nearly escapes at the sight. There’s just no way your suit can be fully secure in a fight. The urge to touch, to pull at the fabric, to see more flares hot in his stomach.
He slowly lowers you until you’re steady on both feet then one hand is creeping down, thumb toying with your clit through the fabric of your suit. Your jaw falls slack, head tipped back against the brick wall from the contact. You let out a whine and the sound shoots straight downwards, cock already straining against the tight material of his suit. His forehead falls against your shoulder, pressing kisses into your collarbone as he continues to rub gentle circles against the cloth.
“M-more,” you stammer, breathlessly. If he knows you well enough–and he does–he’d bet that your eyes are already rolling back and it brings back his air of confidence.
“Beg.”
“Do I look like I beg, Spidey?” you shoot back, trying to snap but your voice betrays you.
He smiles against your skin, shamelessly basking in how easily he can get you worked up, clearly pleased with himself. “That’s okay,” he shrugs casually, “I’m good here too.”
His thumb continues to work at your clit, painfully slow, feather-light touches. He feels your body shuddering against his, head still tipped against the wall. He noses closer, inhaling your achingly familiar scent. Gojo drinks in every single moment he has pressed against your skin, savoring your warmth like he’s trying to etch the feel of you into his memory.
You clamp your thighs around his hand, breaths coming sharp and fast. Your hand flies down, clutching at his wrist as you grind your hips against his thumb–almost frantically–searching for any friction.
“Pl-please–” you whine out, “fuck– Satoru–”
He figures that’s probably the closest he’s going to get knowing you and he doesn’t want to push you too far. He also doesn’t know how much longer he, himself, can hold out. While he normally is a lot more composed, something about you makes him lose all sense of self-control so he’s slipping past the waistband of your very tight (much to his dismay… or pleasure depending how you look at it) suit bottoms.
Your body all but jolts against his fingers working at your sensitive nub, no fabric separating you from the pad of his thumb. You’ve got one leg lifted up, wrapped around his hip to give him more access while the other is hardly stabilizing you, wobbling under your form.
He gathers your slick with one finger, bringing it up to work as lube against your swollen clit and he’s almost sure you’re about to cry from overstimulation already. He tears his lips from your nearly exposed chest, leaving a trail of kisses along the side of your neck before his lips are hovering right above yours.
Your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, eyes dark with desire as you stare into his. Gojo is almost certain he could cum just from the look in your eyes. He slips his middle finger past your slippery folds, curling it inside you until he feels that far too familiar gummy spot that has you instantly arching into him, moaning wantonly into the night air.
“Fuck, baby–” he groans against your lips, “so fucking wet,” emphasizing each word with a thrust of his finger. You roll your hips in tandem with his movements. It’s all so animalistic, so feral, it has him absolutely reeling. “You get this wet for anyone else, hmm?”
He feels you clench around his fingers at the sound of his words and he’s easily sliding a second finger in, scissoring you open. You shake your head dumbly, words unable to leave your mouth as you’re gasping for air, not breaking eye contact. You start bucking your hips against his fingers, hand sliding down from his hair to his toned shoulder to steady yourself.
“This pussy’s so tight–fuckkk,” he catches your lips in a kiss, “Bet you’d feel so good on my dick.”
He nibbles on your bottom lip, tongue swiping over the sensitive area. He can tell you’re close, between the way you hungrily lick behind his teeth, tongue against his, moaning into his mouth while your hips grinding in rhythm with his fingers working you. And as if he can read your mind:
“Sa–oh my god– Satoru, I-I’m close,” your chest bows into his, pressing against his front as your entire body presses against his.
“Gonna let me fuck you, baby?” His voice is barely above a whisper and he’s not sure if you can hear him over the sound of your impending orgasm but then you nod, quick and eager, face flushed. “Want me to fuck you right here, huh?” You’re still nodding eagerly, no thoughts in your brain other than him. He’s so hard and heavy that his free hand flies down to palm himself through his pants, hardly offering him any relief.
The heel of his palm presses against your clit as you fuck yourself on his fingers and then he feels your body tense, nails gripping into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent-marks along his skin. You throw your head back, exposing your neck to him and he’s quick to nose along your jaw right under your ear, nipping along the supple skin. Your back arches even more, pressing impossibly closer to him, eyes squeezing shut as you come undone, pulsing around his fingers.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” you whine aloud, climax leaking all over his large hand, “Satoruu–-oh my–Satoru.” You cry out his name, repeating it until your voice is a hoarse whisper as you ride out your high on his calloused digits.
He slowly pulls out his fingers, lifting from your jaw to see them glistening with your release in the dim city lights. The look in your eye is almost bashful when they lock onto his fingers, almost self-conscious.
“Open.”
Eyes lidded, clearly fucked out and pliant, you part your lips on his command. Your easy willingness sends heat shooting through his body, as if his cock wasn’t already straining against his suit. He’s sure the tight fabric is going to rip when you take his fingers in his mouth without restraint, tongue swirling around his knuckles. He finds a little pride in his chest knowing he can take you from your sharp mouth, all sass and bite to something unguarded and slack with want. His digits release from your mouth with a pop and now he’s far too eager to feel you pulsing around him.
And like you can read his mind–
“Satoru, fuck me please,” you plead, baby hairs along your forehead sticking to your skin despite the cool air of the night. He’s sure he’s not faring any better.
Gojo is quick to start tugging at the waistband of his suit pants, tugging them down just enough to pull his cock out. When he glances back up at you, your eyes are locked on his length, the tip red and flushed. Your eyes travel back up, locking onto his and then he’s got both hands planted low on your hips, spinning you around until you’re facing the brick wall. He presses one hand flush to your back, pressing you against the wall while the other hand hurriedly works at your painfully (for him) tight bottoms. Once he’s got your suitpants low enough, he’s sliding his cock along your slit, collecting your slick and using the remnants of your spit combined with your juices to pump himself.
“Holy shit,” he breathes out, mostly to himself. “Were you always this wet?” He did not mean to say that out loud and he half-hopes you ignore the comment.
You do not.
“Forgot already?” you suck your teeth, pushing your hips back and swaying your hips gently, clearly as impatient as him.
The words die on your tongue when he pushes into you, burying himself to the hilt. A moan escapes from both of you. He’s got one hand braced on the wall next to your head, the other gripping your hip, fingers digging into your flesh. He stays there for a second, forehead resting on your shoulder while you both adjust but then you’re clenching around him and he’s certain that he’s already on the verge of cumming.
He starts to move, pace slow as he unsheathes himself, save for the tip, and grinds into you, savoring the sensation of you tight and pulsing around his length. His hand moves from the wall, coming up to grip your left tit, thumb catching on the nub, hardened through the thin fabric. You let out a moan at the feeling, arching your back further.
“Fuuuckk,” he curses, voice low and ragged against your skin. You shiver in response, goosebumps erupting along the surface of your skin, “How are you this tight–fuckk, baby.”
“Satoru,” you keen, breath hitching as he starts to pick up his pace, “Oh my g– right there, right there.”
His right hand on your hip pulls you back into him until you start moving yourself, meeting his thrusts in the middle as he begins to drive his cock into you. He wishes he could see more of you, more of your skin, more of your face, he’s so painfully insatiable for you but he’s happy to take you however he can.
He presses around your pebbled nub with his forefinger and thumb, rolling it between his fingers, pinching and pulling and you respond with a moan, throwing your head back. He drags you backward until your back is pressed to his front. You’re limp against him, knees weak and fully reliant on him to keep you upright.
Gojo’s lips travel from nibbling at your neck, breath warm at your ear and you turn your head, colliding into his mouth. He shifts lower behind you, adjusting his stance to fuck up into you. The new position has your hand flying up to grip the back of his head, fingers buried in his white strands, tousled from your tugging. He grunts against your lips at the feeling, licking behind your teeth.
You let out a whine, pushing back to meet his muscular thighs, skin flushed from his hips snapping into yours. Your tongue slides against his, messy and clumsy. He can only hope that the sounds of your lips smacking and hips meeting aren’t carrying, hidden to the world. The feeling of you pulsating around him makes him weak in the knees and he has to push through the sensation, rutting into you at a new speed, just hoping and praying this moment you’re having with him is enough to make a difference.
The sound of his hips slapping into your ass and the squelch of your cunt is so pornographic, he’s hardly holding on and he can feel you’re right there with him. You’re moaning and gasping openly into the air, shuddering against his body as your walls flutter around his cock.
“Oh shiiittt, this pussy is mine right?” he pants, breath ghosting over your kiss-bitten lips, not convinced he wants to know the answer but the question slips out anyway. “You like that, baby?”
“Mmmmff–mhm mhm,” you mindlessly nod, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. His fingers move down to your clit, rubbing star patterns as he’s chasing his own climax. You suck in a sharp breath at the feeling, leaning back onto his broad chest for support. The muscles around his thighs tighten as he keeps up his unrelenting tempo, erratic and hungry to feel more of you.
“Fuuckk, feels like you were made for me, baby,” he groans, words stumbling out.
“Sa–oh fuck–” you clamp around him, walls spasming around him as you’re reaching your climax, “Satoru, I’m about to cum.”
The words come out broken and he’s seeing stars, pushing himself through it until you gush around him, driving him to his own climax, hips stuttering. With one last thrust, he’s spilling himself into you, warm release spurting into your cunt, fucking you through your orgasm as you milk him for everything he has.
You both go still for a moment, limp as he rests his forehead on the back of your shoulder, chest heaving. You lean forward into the wall, his hand wrapped around your ribcage holding you up. He feels your back rising and falling with each deep breath you take, aching to catch your breath. His other hand slides up from where it was gripping at your hips, sure to leave bruises there tomorrow and wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close to him.
He slowly pulls himself out of you, feeling you twitch at the loss of the fullness of him. Once he’s sure you’re able to stand on your own, he takes a half step back, tugging up his bottoms from where they haphazardly rested around his thighs. Your eyes are locked onto the ground as you work up your suit bottoms, fingers trembling.
The air between you is suddenly thin.
He didn’t exactly plan for after, didn’t really think of much beyond the heat of your mouth and the arch of your back. You won’t look at him. Your lashes stay fixed downward, eyes darting around, focused on anything but him.
He swallows.
Fuck, it’s awkward.
He can feel the shift in the air, in you. Like you’re withdrawing from him. He’s not sure if he can handle you disappearing from his life again, without a trace. He rubs his palm over the back of is neck, brain scrambling for something to say to ease the tension.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You freeze but you still can’t quite look at him. He steps closer, cautious like you’re a wounded animal and then he reaches out slowly, fingers brushing under your chin. You let him guide your face up, eyes lifting reluctantly until you’re looking straight at him. And the look in your eyes nearly knocks the wind right out of his chest.
You look so lost. And guilty.
And small.
“Let me make things right,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing into your chin lightly.
Your lips part, breath catching, “Satoru…”
He searches your face, memorizing each part of it in case he’ll never see it again. You look up at him, eyes rounded and it’s like he’s seeing every version of you–who you were, who you are, who you could’ve been if the world hadn’t fucked you over before you even had a chance, who you could be.
“I can’t let you go like this,” he tells you, voice soft and broken, “Let me help you, let me do something, anything. I’ll do anything you ask.”
He wonders if he got on his hands and knees if that would make it better. If that would make you stay. If that would change your mind.
“Let me go,” you whisper. Your hand lifts, fingers curling around his wrist where he holds your chin. You hand feels cool against his warmth. “I can’t stay here… and you can’t leave. They need you.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “What about you?”
Do you need him?
The question goes unspoken.
“It’s not about me,” you say, voice thinning.
“It is,” Gojo insists, “Everything’s always gonna be about you.” His voice comes out broken, gravelly as his throat feels tight, like he’s swallowing stones.
His heart beats a painful, reckless rhythm like it’s trying to fight its way out of his chest and to you, who his heart belongs to. If he didn’t know it before, he knows it now.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters, catching in your throat and your eyes widen at his (poorly-timed) confession. Your grip on his wrist tightens, just for a second, like you’re flinching as a reaction. Like he spat daggers at you instead of sweet saccharine words.
Fuck.
Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.
He searches your face, eyes darting between yours looking for any sign that you’ll say it back. He watches the fear and longing crash across your face like you’re at a crossroads.
But he knows it. Even though he tells himself not to assume, not to reach for something he’s not sure if he’s earned. And even though he knows there’s no logical explanation for it, there is no universe where this could be one-sided. There’s no way you could look at him like that, like he hung the moon and the stars, speak his name like it belongs to solely you, care the way you do in that strange way that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else–no one else would hear it, see it, understand it. But Gojo does.
He knows you. And because he knows you, he knows what you’ll say and it’s too late for him to take it back so he commits.
“Can you honestly say you don’t love me too?” His hand trails up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, so unbearably tender. He thinks he can see the tears begin to form along your lower lash line but for your sake, writes it off as a glare from the city lights. “If you can… then I’ll let you go.”
Your breath is uneven, lashes fluttering as your eyes close, resigned, like the weight of the truth is too heavy on your shoulders to look at him while carrying it. Your fingers tighten painfully around his wrist, nails digging into his skin.
“I…” your voice splinters before you swallow, throat working hard, “I don’t love you.”
The words spill from your kiss-bitten lips like they physically hurt you to say, hurt you far worse than they hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely audible.
He watches as the tears well even more along your waterline, threatening to spill as you refuse to look at him. Every part of him, every muscle and fiber in his being fights to scream liar.
You’re lying. You’re lying and he knows it. You know it. Every person in the world could look at the two of you right now, standing here with your smaller hand wrapped around his and would know that you’re lying. You’ve been a damn good liar your entire life but you’re not that good of a liar.
He wants to bargain with you. He wants to tell you that he could love you enough for the both of you. That you could spend the rest of your lives together not loving him back in the slightest bit and he would be happy. He would pour all of his love into you and the sheer amount of that alone would be enough, could spill and overflow from your cup.
But you said it.
There’s nothing else he can do.
He claws into his pocket, fishing out the flashdrive and slots it into your hand at his wrist. He clasps both of his hands around your trembling ones, manually wrapping your fingers around it and it feels like a heavy brick, weighing heavily in between both of your hands.
He holds you there, taking in a deep breath and savoring every second he has left of feeling your touch against his. So warm, so gentle. He’s almost certain that you could claw at him, punch him, scratch him for the rest of his life and your touch would still never be anything other than warm and gentle to him.
Then, he drops your hands and takes a step back once, slowly, like something inside him has gone numb and he just nods, something weak and dejected.
“Goodbye, y/n.”
a/n - ok srry for the angst, i rlly didnt think it was gonna go in this direction but it felt right )': (and i just love a man who yearns and pines srry) & srry if it was bad, im rlly trying to get into writing angst so we're working on it but in other news, im rlly starting to think srsly ab a long fic in the near future. hope ur all doing well & tysm for reading, pls lemme know what u think ! <3
a/n - hi guys ! been working on this little spiderman!gojo x black cat!reader one shot bc i've been getting a lot of spiderman/black cat edits on tiktoks and ofc spiderman gojo is just teewww sxccc
Gojo slips in through the skylight of the Tokyo National Museum, leaving it cracked open juuust enough for him to slide out later–in case he needs a quick escape. He makes an effort to creep through the shadows, though the flicker of moonlight that spills in from the windows catches the white of his hair occasionally.
There was a tip sent in that there’s supposed to be a break-in at the museum tonight. Something about some crown jewels–an irreplaceable artifact so he hears–that’s already being auctioned off on the dark web.
Every tiny sound echoes in the silence of the building–aside from the hum of electricity emitting from the silent alarm system he was careful not to trigger–including the sound of his footsteps. He moves along the polished marble flooring, conscious of the tapping of his boots on tile.
He stands out against the darkness of the building, blue light glowing faintly where the web pattern traces his muscles. The spider emblem across his chest pulses soft light–the spider-tech having been synced to his heartbeat.
Then, the faint static of a voice in his ear–Mei.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight. Don’t tell me you’re actually focused for once?”
The corner of his lip quirks under his mask as he side-steps around a display pedestal. “I’m always focused.”
“Mhm, sure. What’re you looking at?”
“Whole lotta nothing. Starting to think your tip was off.”
“It wasn’t my tip–”
He half-listens to her speech as his eyes scan the room. Nothing seems off, no spidey-senses tingling yet–he doesn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Either absolutely nothing is wrong or everything is about to go horribly terribly wrong. Like baby shower fireworks setting off a forest fire wrong. He continues his pace through the museum, moving methodically towards the next exhibit. His eyes flicker towards different display cases every now and then to ensure nothing is out of place.
But Gojo is by no means a history buff nor had he ever really cared about artworks created by a bunch of dead people or historical artifacts stolen from other countries so he can’t exactly say if something’s been replaced by a fake or a decoy. He’s just relying on that spider-induced sixth sense of his.
Then, something breaks his rhythmic stride. The hum of the silent alarm system he was so careful not to set off cuts out–silence–and then sound that doesn’t belong. A soft metallic clink of a vent or pipes or something from somewhere above him.
His entire body stills instantly, senses sharpening as his eyes track the sound, following the ceiling panels. Mei’s voice through the comms device in his ear continues but it’s muffled by the sound of his heartbeat.
The air shifts, the faintest whisper of movement behind him.
Gojo turns toward the sound instantaneously, catching a blur of black and silver in his peripheral vision.
A dark figure drops through an opening where the ceiling vent was, twisting midair in a controlled flip before landing in a crouch on top of a glass display case. Moonlight slides over the sleek black fabric of a skintight suit–leather he assumes. A pair of mask-covered eyes lift from the glass to make eye contact with him from across the room.
You.
“...You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Gojo breathes out in a sharp exhale. He’s not sure what the feeling curling through his chest is, something between bewilderment and curiosity.
The last time he saw you…
The memory is simultaneously fuzzy in his brain yet crystal clear.
“–What’s going on? Are you okay?” Mei’s voice cuts through the slight static in his earpiece, pulling his attention.
He’s staring up at you with rounded eyes, a little dumbfounded as you look down at him from your position.
“Uhh… I’m gonna have to call you back.”
“Wait–Gojo, what’s–”
He hangs up before she can finish.
The echo of the disconnected line fades into silence. The smile on your lips is sweet and he starts to feel that spidey tingling sensation in his fingertips screaming at him that something’s wrong.
You tilt your head, tone light and teasing. “Miss me, Spider?”
His jaw tightens at the name.
“Black Cat.” His voice comes out low, rough–firm like your name is an announcement as opposed to an acknowledgement.
You hum in response, grinning as you propel yourself into a forward flip, dropping down from the display case. You land lightly only a few feet from him. Always showing off, if he recalls correctly. The sound of your boots hitting the floor is barely audible as you take another slow step toward him.
Your movements are cat-like, prowling toward him and invading his space. You’re close enough now that he can smell you, catching the sweet and sharp traces of your perfume. Like poison disguised as sugary syrup.
“You look good,” you murmur, gaze dragging down the lines of his chest, voice dripping with amusement. “You been workin’ out?”
He blinks. He wonders if you can sense his hesitation, the slight falter in his breathing before he’s chuckling awkwardly, “Oh, um, yeah… heh.”
His hand reflexively moves to rub the back of his neck.
“Mmm,” you hum as you circle him slowly, “And, uh… you got a girlfriend nowadays?”
The words come out like a purr, lazy and relaxed. He wonders if the question is a setup.
He hasn’t seen you in years.
Would you know if he has a girlfriend?
Do you keep up with his personal life?
Are you jealous?
The thought settles warm in his chest, scratching something deep and territorial (and possibly toxic masculine) inside his gut. Not exactly something he’d be proud to admit out loud to anyone.
You reach out to him, slow and deliberate with a gloved claw. The sharp nails of your suit drag against the thin material of his suit, fabric catching as you trace the hard lines of his shoulder, then down the slope of his chest. You stop abruptly just under his sternum.
He inhales sharply, a quiet sound that betrays him more than he’d like. A chill runs down his spine.
“Uh… that’s a lot of questions,” he manages to get out finally, voice a touch higher than usual.
“What?” You feign genuine curiosity as smile at him, lips curling up mischievously. “I’m just curious…”
You look up at him through your lashes, batting your eyes with faux innocence. You continue drawing a path past his sternum, sharp claw moving along the defined muscles of his abdomen. You’re close enough now that he can see the reflection of the spider symbol glowing blue in your eyes.
Your eyes. Wow.
He forces a swallow, throat bobbing. His focus falters for a second before he pulls himself together, hoping he’s unreadable behind the mask. His large hand closes gently around your wrist, stopping your gloved claw on its course and pulls it away from his torso. He doesn’t drop your hand.
without a trace | gojo satoru x reader [one shot] 18+
❀ pairing - spiderman!gojo x black cat!reader
❀ summary - gojo has always prided himself on being a hero- the kind who upholds the standard for justice. only one person has ever made him question that moral line: you. and when you disappeared, he thought that part of him disappeared with you, burying himself in this new title of your friendly neighborhood spiderman. but when you return, he realizes there's almost nothing he wouldn't risk if it meant keeping you this time.
❀ warnings/tags - 18+, ex situationship, spiderman canon violence, very bad flirting, banter, mutual pining, angst, hurt/no comfort, toxic (ish) situationship, self aware gojo, reader is a cat burglar, cheating (kinda sorta depending how you look at it), reader is the other woman, geto being the voice of reason as always, pistol whipping, author uses y/n, selfish gojo, gojo is hard on himself, edging, dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, possessive gojo
❀ wc - 13.8k
a/n - hi guys! this has been sitting in my drafts for a loooong time but i finally hunkered down and finished writing (instead of studying for my boards oopsies) funny how much u can accomplish when ur procrastinating sth else. anyways this is loosely based on some spiderman blackcat edits i saw on tiktok from the marvel video game. fanart creds here[x] also i didnt rlly proof read bc i was rushing to get it out so if you see typos, no u didnt. as always, hope u guys enjoy this absolute BEAST. see u at the end! <3
Gojo slips in through the skylight of the Tokyo National Museum, leaving it cracked open juuust enough for him to slide out later–in case he needs a quick escape. He makes an effort to creep through the shadows, though the flicker of moonlight that spills in from the windows catches the white of his hair occasionally.
There was a tip sent in that there’s supposed to be a break-in at the museum tonight. Something about some crown jewels–an irreplaceable artifact so he hears–that’s already being auctioned off on the dark web.
Every tiny sound echoes in the silence of the building–aside from the hum of electricity emitting from the silent alarm system he was careful not to trigger–including the sound of his footsteps. He moves along the polished marble flooring, conscious of the tapping of his boots on tile.
He stands out against the darkness of the building, blue light glowing faintly where the web pattern traces his muscles. The spider emblem across his chest pulses soft light–the spider-tech having been synced to his heartbeat.
Then, the faint static of a voice in his ear–Mei.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight. Don’t tell me you’re actually focused for once?”
The corner of his lip quirks under his mask as he side-steps around a display pedestal. “I’m always focused.”
“Mhm, sure. What’re you looking at?”
“Whole lotta nothing. Starting to think your tip was off.”
“It wasn’t my tip–”
He half-listens to her speech as his eyes scan the room. Nothing seems off, no spidey-senses tingling yet–he doesn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Either absolutely nothing is wrong or everything is about to go horribly terribly wrong. Like baby shower fireworks setting off a forest fire wrong. He continues his pace through the museum, moving methodically towards the next exhibit. His eyes flicker towards different display cases every now and then to ensure nothing is out of place.
But Gojo is by no means a history buff nor had he ever really cared about artworks created by a bunch of dead people or historical artifacts stolen from other countries so he can’t exactly say if something’s been replaced by a fake or a decoy. He’s just relying on that spider-induced sixth sense of his.
Then, something breaks his rhythmic stride. The hum of the silent alarm system he was so careful not to set off cuts out–silence–and then sound that doesn’t belong. A soft metallic clink of a vent or pipes or something from somewhere above him.
His entire body stills instantly, senses sharpening as his eyes track the sound, following the ceiling panels. Mei’s voice through the comms device in his ear continues but it’s mostly tuned out as he focuses his hearing.
The air shifts, the faintest whisper of movement behind him.
Gojo turns toward the sound instantaneously, catching a blur of black and silver in his peripheral vision.
A dark figure drops through an opening where the ceiling vent was, twisting midair in a controlled flip before landing in a crouch on top of a glass display case. Moonlight slides over the sleek black fabric of a skintight suit–leather he assumes. A pair of mask-covered eyes lift from the glass to lock on his cerulean ones from across the room.
You.
“...You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Gojo breathes out a sharp exhale. He’s not sure what the feeling curling through his chest is, something between bewilderment and curiosity.
The last time he saw you…
The memory is simultaneously fuzzy in his brain yet crystal clear.
“–What’s going on? Are you okay?” Mei’s voice cuts through the slight static in his earpiece, pulling his attention.
He’s staring up at you with rounded eyes, a little dumbfounded as you look down at him from your position.
“Uhh… I’m gonna have to call you back.”
“Wait–Gojo, what’s–”
He hangs up before she can finish.
The echo of the disconnected line fades into silence. The smile on your lips is dangerously sweet and he starts to feel that spidey tingling sensation in his fingertips screaming at him that something’s wrong.
You tilt your head, tone light and teasing. “Miss me, Spider?”
His jaw tightens at the sound of his alias on your tongue
“Black Cat.” His voice comes out low, rough–firm like your name is an announcement as opposed to an acknowledgement.
You hum in response, grinning as you propel yourself into a forward flip, dropping down from the display case. You land lightly only a few feet from him. Always showing off, if he recalls correctly. The sound of your boots hitting the floor is barely audible as you take another slow step toward him.
Your movements are cat-like, prowling toward him and invading his space. You’re close enough now that he can smell you, catching the sweet and sharp traces of your perfume. Like poison disguised as sugary syrup.
“You look good,” you murmur, gaze dragging down the lines of his chest, voice dripping with amusement. “You been workin’ out?”
He blinks. He wonders if you can sense his hesitation or the slight falter in his breathing before he’s chuckling awkwardly, “Oh, um, yeah… heh.”
His hand reflexively moves to rub the back of his neck.
“Mmm,” you hum as you circle him slowly, “And, uh… you got a girlfriend nowadays?”
The words come out like a purr, lazy and relaxed. He wonders if the question is a setup.
He hasn’t seen you in years.
Would you know if he has a girlfriend?
Do you keep up with his personal life?
Are you jealous?
The thought settles warm in his chest, scratching something deep and territorial (and possibly toxic masculine) inside his gut. Not exactly something he’d be proud to admit out loud to anyone.
You reach out to him, slow and deliberate with a gloved claw. The sharp nails of your suit drag against the thin material of his suit. The fabric catches as you trace the hard lines of his shoulder, then down the slope of his chest. You stop abruptly just under his sternum.
He inhales sharply, a quiet sound that betrays him more than he’d like. A chill runs down his spine.
“Uh… that’s a lot of questions,” he manages to get out finally, voice a touch higher than usual.
“What?” You feign genuine curiosity as smile at him, lips curling up mischievously. “I’m just curious…”
You look up at him through your lashes, batting your eyes with faux innocence. You continue drawing a path past his sternum, sharp claw moving along the defined muscles of his abdomen. You’re close enough now that he can see the reflection of the spider symbol glowing blue in your eyes.
Your eyes. Wow.
He forces a swallow, throat bobbing. His large hand closes gently around your wrist, stopping your gloved claw and pulls it away from his torso. He doesn’t drop your hand.
“Heard that’s bad for cats.” The amusement is audible in his tone, even through the mask.
Your grin fades for a split second when somewhere outside, the sound of sirens begins to rise. Still faint but approaching rapidly. His eyes drop to your lips and when they make their way back to your eyes, the cat-like smile is back on your lips. You take a step back from him and he releases his grip on your wrist easily.
“Still funny, I see.”
“Still stealing things that don’t belong to you, I see.”
The statement feels like it’s about more than just the multiple burglaries he’s caught you in.
“Are we still talking about these?” You reach into the small compartment of your suit, pulling the jewels into the slant of the moonlight. The gems catch the traces of lowlight, scattering color across your face. “Hmm,” you drag your gaze from the gems to meet his, “guess I’ve got a type.”
You say it like you’re going to shoot him a wink but it never comes.
He instinctively reaches for them and then you’re gone, sending yourself into a backwards flip with feline adjacent grace. The distance opens between you and him in an instant. You tuck the jewels back into your suit, smoothing the fabric over them, sealing them seamlessly. You launch yourself again, higher this time, to the top of a display case positioned directly beneath the skylight.
Gojo thinks you look beautiful with the moonlight framing your figure. Like something out of his dreams. He shamelessly lets his eyes trail over the curve of your ass in the catsuit.
“Thanks for keeping an escape route open for me,” you call down, teasing laced in your words.
He just stands there dumbly, staring up at you as his pulse thrums against his throat.
It’s been years but you’re still you, you talk the same, smell the same, move the same.
And then he’s struck by the sudden realization he doesn’t know where you’ve been. You just vanished one day without a trace. He told himself that you’d finally stopped stealing and that it’d be better if he stopped caring.
Maybe you found a better life for yourself.
Or maybe you stole the wrong thing from the wrong person and died.
Though there was never a body.
And Geto convinced him that he eventually had to stop calling the morgue to ask if any unidentified bodies showed up.
And now you’re here again.
He remembers how it used to be.
When he first became Spider-Man, before you had made the name Black Cat for yourself and you were just you. Just a girl who was trying to fill some void by being a Robin Hood of sorts.
When the two of you would play this game of cat and mouse. Sometimes he’d catch you, corner you mid heist and web you so he could take back whatever it was that you had stolen.
Sometimes, he’d catch you. Sometimes, you let him. Sometimes, he’d let you go. It became like a game to the both of you.
It happened once or twice when the two of you had to team up, unlikely allies with two different goals in mind. Something mutually beneficial. He sought justice and you sought whatever you could steal. Whether it was from a corrupt political figure or some yakuza affiliate. If it helped both of you, he’d sometimes turn a blind eye.
And somewhere in between all of that–the blurred lines and adrenaline rushes, the way you both stopped keeping track of who won last time—it got messy and addictive. And then turned unresolved.
You eventually disappeared and when he couldn’t track you down, he figured it was only right to move on. Kind of.
Sure, you were always in the back of his mind but whatever he had with you wasn’t right. It was morally incorrect, all things considered. But he had met Mei. And even though they aren’t really together, she was right. Someone good, safe, someone who doesn’t make him question which side he’s really on. Someone who keeps him on the right side of history. And it wasn’t like you and him were ever really together.
Maybe he really just has some strange non-commital thing going on deep in his psyche. He should really see a therapist about that.
And then, he looks up at you now, standing there in the glow of the moon, body silhouetted against the open skylight, light rain dripping through the opening.
His voice drops, quiet and almost hesitant. “Let’s… let’s talk.”
You glance down at him, eyes low and humor in your voice. “Little late for that, hmm, Spider-Man?”
You shoot him a wink then rise to your feet. Your arm reaches up, catching the edge of the skylight. In one smooth, quick motion, you pull yourself through and then you’re gone.
Gojo stands there for a moment, staring up at the space where you once were. He exhales, long and slow, debating his decision. He should move. He should have shot a web, closed that gap, and stopped you. But he couldn’t. He feels that same ache in his chest that he had years ago.
Does this begin the game of cat and mouse again?
Or will you disappear again like last time?
Outside, the sirens grow increasingly louder.
A beat.
He decides not to think and just moves. He shoots a web from his wrist, firing toward the ceiling. The thread sticks just beside the open skylight. The line draws tight as he launches upward, muscles tightening as he slips through the glass frame and into the Tokyo night.
The night air hits him cold and sharp as rain falls gently. The neon lights of the city paint colors across the wet skyline, reflecting the slick rooftops in flashes of blue and pink. The sound of the city folds into the wind rushing past his ears as he swings, trying to get to a higher position.
There you are, sprinting across the roofline. Your movements are smooth, each leap landing calculated like you’re floating across the rooftops despite the rain wetting the tiles.
With a newfound surge of energy, he slings himself through the city, desperate to catch up to you. He moves in short bursts, opting to propel himself rather than taking the leisurely swings he normally does. He watches as you glance over your shoulder, surprised at the pace he’s moving.
You vault over a railing, pushing yourself off of it to clear a gap between buildings, back arched and legs extending in perfect rhythm. He fires his web from both arms, shooting himself forward like a slingshot as he increasingly closes the gap.
He’s close behind you now and he can tell you’re panicked. Your movements are becoming more erratic as you try to lose him, cutting between buildings and making unpredictable turns.
He swings low, web stretching wide before he releases and fires another. The web lands right behind you as you backflip to dodge the web. You cut left, disappearing behind a building. It takes him a second to redirect his shot, pulling from his shoulder as he forces his body in the new direction. As he rounds the corner, he watches as you flip down another level, slipping through scaffolding.
In a juvenile way, the chase almost feels fun again.
He fires another web from both hands, pulling himself up and over instead of down to where you’ve just landed. You give him a glance over your shoulder, gauging where he is and he hopes his idea works.
He swings above the building, landing on the rooftop. He doesn’t give himself time to breathe before he’s sprinting to the other side, praying you’re not as unpredictable as you seem. He dives off the edge of the roof headfirst.
As he’s falling, he sees your form sprinting in his direction, though it doesn’t seem like you’ve realized he’s free-falling right in front of you. He fires another web from directly above you, the line whips through the air and catches your ankle mid-stride.
You stumble, momentum yanking your leg back to where it’s attached to the rooftop by his web. Your reflexes, fast and instinctual at this point, force your body to tuck and roll, twisting midair to break your fall. Your palms slide against the concrete and land on your feet in a crouch position.
He barely has time to launch a web to catch himself, catching onto a metal beam jutting from a half-finished construction site. He nearly pulls his shoulders from their sockets from the pure force of momentum.
When you finally get to your feet, Gojo is there, hanging upside down. The beam is a part of a rooftop renovation with scaffolding scattered around it. Orange safety lights blink weakly in the rain, illuminating your face as he’s suspended in front of you, the line holding him steady.
“Black Cat.” His mask glows blue, a stark contrast to the dark. “Now, can we talk… like normal people?” His tone is teasing and nonchalant, despite being upside down.
You tilt your head, eyes glinting in the rain, a smirk playing on your lips. “What’s not normal about this?”
Before he can muster a response, you take a step forward and tug his mask just past his mouth. He freezes. You lean in, lips brushing his in a quick, soft kiss.
It’s over before he can fully register it.
His heart catches in his chest, every thought blanking for half a second. He’s not exactly sure if you only kissed him to throw him off or because you actually wanted to.
Probably both.
“Soo…” you pull back with that same sly smile, voice sweet and taunting, “No girlfriend, huh?”
“Always worried about the wrong thing.” He exhales, half a sigh and half a laugh, as he drops down from the web and lands in front of you. “She’s just a friend.”
“Right.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Neither was I.”
So you have been keeping up with him.
He steps closer, hand brushing your waist as he starts feeling along the seams of your suit, searching. His hands travel from your hips, up past your waist and then wrap around your ribcage. You watch him, amused as his fingertips finally trace the outline of the jewels hidden beneath the thin material.
“Someone’s forward,” you purr, tone dripping with mischief. Your breath ghosts against his neck as your words seep under his skin. “Better watch out, I bet that girl has trust issues.”
His fingers find the clasp on your suit to open the compartment where you stashed the jewels. Before he can work it open, you place a hand on his chest. Your touch light at first then firmer, feeling the solid muscle beneath his suit. You push lightly, forcing him back half a step. Your touch lingers, even with the newfound distance between you, thumb tracing the seam across his collarbone.
He swallows hard, caught under the feeling of your hand on his body. His hands drop to his sides immediately, unconsciously following the silent direction of your touch.
Your eyes find his, low-lidded and seductive. “Don’t be a stranger, Spider.”
You take three quick steps backward toward the edge of the rooftop, giving him one last look before flipping backward off the ledge. Your body twists midair before catching a lower rooftop beam. In seconds, you’re gone.
Gojo stands there, rain beading down his mask, staring at the empty space where you’d just been. The night feels quieter without you in it.
Cat and mouse.
He lets out a strangled noise, the sound like a resigned huff.
“Mei’s gonna kill me…”
-
The sun is low, honey-gold rays spilling past the blinds in Gojo’s high-rise as he wanders into the living room from the kitchen, barefoot. The wrapper of his mochi crinkles obnoxiously as he tears it open with his teeth, stuffing the scraps in his pajama pants pocket. The TV is set to the news, something Mei had insisted would be beneficial to his alter ego.
Then, the voice of the newscaster–
“First Suspect to Escape Spider-Man in Years – Hero Losing His Edge?”
Geto snorts in response from his spot on the couch, one ankle over the other as his feet rest on the coffee table. The footage looks like something taken from a helicopter– no sound and horrible quality. A short clip of your flip over the ledge of that rooftop and him watching you leave. Not a good look.
Though, he has to admit he’s enjoying seeing how you look in your skin-tight suit from all angles.
Gojo takes a bite of his snack, tearing away at the chewy dessert.
Mei doesn’t look up from the tech setup as she scrolls through the TMPD liaison comm feed. “Losing your spark, Satoru?” Her tone is light, teasing, even a little flirty.
Gojo watches as Geto drags his eyes from the TV over to him, shooting him a knowing look after seeing the clip that they keep replaying. Mei finally twists in her chair to look and Gojo nearly winces as she squints, leaning in slightly to make out the dark figure in the blurry footage. Her spine straightens immediately, recognition evident in her face. She presses her lips together and turns back to the monitors.
It’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of the reporter moving onto the next segment fills the room.
Shoko breaks the heavy silence by clearing her throat, shuffling into the living room from the balcony. The faint smell of cigarette smoke follows her in. She slides the doors shut behind her. “Anyywaays…” She sings, “we have bigger things to be worried about.”
“Right. Okay,” Mei prepares to dive into her debrief as the four gather around the computer screen. “So there’s this arms broker. Arai Kenji. Geto’s been keeping up with him for months now and we think that we finally got a perfect window. Tonight.”
Arai Kenji has plans to meet with a transporter crew in the warehouse district. The crew is supposed to be handing off some new drug shipment that they’ve just cooked up in a lab. During the handoff, they’re also giving him a flash drive which is the most important part. The drive is supposed to have some highly classified, extremely valuable information.
Doesn’t seem like anyone knows exactly what it is.
It’s probably just regular bad guy stuff like buyer routes, illegal weapons blueprints, black-market contacts, stuff like that.
Gojo’s part of the plan is to trail Kenji from one of his hideouts to the meeting point. Lay low, stay out of sight until the trade happens. Swoop in, get the drive, get out. Tokyo Police is on standby until they get the go-ahead from him to move in.
Apparently, the drive is also supposed to be a secret from the police as well. Something about potential bad seeds in the force.
He agrees it’s probably for the better that he checks something like that out first anyway.
He’s also admittedly a little distracted from the mission breakdown with the thought of you. He wonders if he’ll see you again anytime soon. And if it’s ridiculous that he’s thinking about that at a time like this.
It’s just that–
He’s known you for years and sometimes it felt like he knew you more than he knew himself. But also like he didn’t know you at all.
You had become such an inconsistent constant in his life.
But somewhere in the ebb and flow of your relationship over the years, you became intertwined with him. Like there was no Spiderman, no Gojo Satoru without you.
Outside, the sky has turned into a deep shade of indigo.
Gojo stands at the center of the room, the lower half of his Spider suit resting on his hips. He’s shirtless still, messing with the mask of his suit to double-check the earpiece. He tucks the mask between his teeth as he continues to work on getting suited up. He pulls the upper half of the suit over his head, the nanofiber material molding to his chest and shoulders once its in place.
Across the room, Geto leans backwards lazily in his desk chair. He tosses a basketball between his palms then spins it on his pointer finger.
“Soooo…” Geto drags his voice, “What’re you gonna do bro?”
He starts tossing the ball up and then catching it with one hand.
“Right now,” Gojo starts tugging the thin fabric up over his torso, then his shoulder. The material molds to his biceps. “I’m gonna get this damn flash drive.”
“Can’t avoid the topic forever.”
“Yeah well,” Gojo sighs, slipping on the gloves one after another. He flexes his fingers once they’re on. “I can when I don’t know if she’ll be back forever.”
“Do you want her to be?”
He avoids eye contact as he tugs the mask down over his face, ignoring the question. He rubs his face exhaustingly over the mask then clears his throat. He brushes past Geto towards the open window, one leg after the other over the sill.
Then, he dives out the window, launching himself across the skyline.
He moves fast, wind biting at his sides through the suit. He shoots a web from his right wrist, pulling himself forward. His momentum arcs before he fires another line. The movements become a secondary thought as he makes his way through the city. The spider emblem across his chest glows light blue against the dark of night.
He angles down, landing on the neon-lit rim of a billboard. He crouches low, eyes focused on the warehouse compound a short distance away– Kenji’s reported hideout.
He’s almost surprised at his perfect timing.
A matte black SUV rolls out of a wide garage door. The tinted windows of the vehicle reflect the city lights. He watches as the car turns into the road, tires rough against the street.
He waits for some distance then drops from the billboard, firing a new line as he tails the van from above. He manuevers from rooftop to rooftop, creeping through the back streets at a safe distance from the SUV.
The car moves toward an older distract, neon lights fading out to dim street lights until it turns into a dead-end alley, tucked between two shuttered up shops and an old apartment complex.
Gojo slips onto a rooftop and tucks himself just behind the ledge. He’s high enough where he can blend into the darkness but close enough to be able to pick up on the interaction.
The comms device in his ear crackles with a flash of static.
“Yoo.”
Geto’s voice.
“Soo no Mei tonight, huh?”
“Mm, she’s not exactly feelin’ it tonight. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Gojo’s pretty sure that’s code for she’s mad at you. He really shouldn’t be thinking about you this much. He’s not exactly sure what he has going on with Mei but he knows she probably wouldn’t be very happy with him right now. He’s got this strange feeling in his stomach, one he can’t quite put his finger on. And he doesn’t think it’s guilt.
He forces out a huff of a laugh through his nostrils. “Just like old times.”
He’s been having a lot of thoughts about old times lately. He shakes his head as if he can physically shake the thoughts from his brain.
“Alright, quick rundown.” Geto tells him, “Two-part exchange, first the product, then the flash drive. Once they hand over the money and Kenji’s got the drugs, we’ll have police come in but you have to get the drive first. And don’t make any moves until the other group heads out.”
Gojo nods, forgetting that he can’t see him.
“Got it.”
He watches the alley as the van sits idly. He steadies his breath as he surveys the layout of the alley, peering to hopefully count the amount of people seated in the car but he’s too high up and it’s too dark. No luck.
“Y’know, we’d understaaand, right?” Geto’s voice is casual through the earpiece, like he’s shrugging as the words come out.
Gojo’s eyes narrow in confusion, “... Understand what… exactly?”
“If you… and Black Cat…” Geto’s voice trails off suggestively.
His brain stutters for a second, scrambling for a believable denial as heat slides up the back of his neck.
But before he can find one, a second car rolls into the alley. The wheels of a sleek silver sedan crunch quietly on the uneven pavement.
Flashy.
‘Wait– wait– shh…” Gojo’s voice comes out in a hushed whisper.
The SUV doors swing open, Arai Kenji climbs out and he’s followed by four men in some sort of tactical gear. They stand behind him in a pyramid-adjacent formation.
From the smaller car, two figures step out. They keep a safe distance from Kenji and his men, opting to only stand a few feet in front of their own car. Some words are exchanged but they’re speaking at a hushed volume. Gojo can’t pick up any specifics of the conversation so he relies on reading their body language.
They’re stiff, clearly tense. One person from each side cautiously moves toward their own vehicle, each pulling out a duffel bag. The drug transporters hand a bag over to one of Kenji’s henchmen, then a second– and a third bag follows. The bags seem heavy, sagging under the weight of the contents.
“Okay…” Gojo whispers into the comm, “They just handed off the duffels.”
He watches as one of Kenji’s men haphazardly throws one of their own duffels in front of the transporters’ feet. One of them slowly bends over, gradually tugging the zipper undone, revealing the wads of cash stuffed in the bag.
Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight.
That’s a lot of money.
His mind flashes to you.
How you’re the type to swoop in, steal the bag, leave it at the doorstep of an orphanage or homeless shelter or something.
The “wrong thing” feels like the right thing, sometimes, with you.
“And the flash drive?” Geto’s voice is also low, as if they’d somehow be able to hear him through Gojo’s earpiece.
The transporter zips the duffel bag back up. He takes the few small steps to the backseat of the vehicle, switching the duffel bag for a silver briefcase. Simultaneously, Kenji’s team is loading up the SUV with the new bags they’ve just received.
A briefcase.
Gojo’s voice dips impossibly lower, barely above a breath. “There’s a briefcase. Is that it?”
“Has to be.”
His eyes flicker around the alley, mapping it out. His eyes narrow behind the mask, focused. He counts the one– two– three– four men, paying close attention to their positioning. He’s trying to be tactful about it, picturing the approach. The big one to the right of Kenji might be the biggest immediate threat but he might move slower so Gojo’s got him there. Though the one right behind him looks a lot faster so he might beat him to it.
How can he get in and out quickly with the least amount of damage?
If he comes in at the right angle, he might get fast enough access to the case and he can hopefully swing out without having to fight anyone.
He’s visualizing his attack route– hopefully a quick drop in, web the briefcase, he should be able to use that fire escape rail for swing trajectory and if he comes in from the right angle, he may only need to knock out the guy standing in the back.
The drug transporters start to slide into their vehicle, preparing to leave.
His eyes dart around, imaginary diagrams of angles and lines fill his vision as he continues to map the battleground. The sequence of movements he comes up with feels familiar.
Familiar in that way that sinks into his bones, that sounds like your voice in his ear, that feels like your limbs clashing with his when you’ve fought, this had you written all over it.
He used to go into any situation, guns blazing, ready to fight his way through it. It was you who would always tell him to slow down, sneak around, find a way.
Quiet as a cat, sneaky as a spider.
The headlights from the smaller car flicker to life, washing over Kenji and his men as they stand with the briefcase in their possession.
Gojo flexes his fingers out of habit and slowly rises to his feet, ready to swing down. He forces the thought of you back into that deep part of his mind, where it’s been residing for the past two or three years.
The sedan starts reversing, slowly gliding out of the alley. He watches as it turns the corner and disappears.
Fuck it.
The whole sneaky thing looked better on you anyways.
He jumps from the ledge, webbing at a rusted pipe. He arcs through the alley as quietly as he can manage, the only sound being the wind that slides against his suit. He lands in a crouch a few feet from the front of the van, hiding in the shadows of the alley. The driver rounds from behind the van, keys in hand as he approaches the driver’s seat.
He shoots a web from his left wrist, the sound of the netting flying through the air cuts through the quiet night. The web wraps around the man’s torso and Gojo yanks the guy straight into the darkness. His right fist meets him halfway. The punch sinks deep into the man’s gut. He lets out a thick, choking wheeze as he folds over, heaving.
Without missing a beat, Gojo anchors a web to the ground, sliding low under his nearly collapsing body. He lets out a grunt as he pivotes, using the momentum to shove upward at the guy’s chest as he pops up from underneath him, sending the guy sailing backwards like a ragdoll. The man crashes spine-first onto the concrete, crumpling upon impact.
Geto’s voice crackles through the comms in his ear. “Doin’ okay still, Satoru?”
“Oh yeah, doin’ fantastic,” tone dry, borderline sarcastic as he catches his breath.
Footsteps thunder from either side of the vehicle. Gojo’s head snaps up toward the sound. On the passenger side, a man approaches with a gun and on the other side, a metal bat.
Even though logic tells him his priority should be the gun, the guy white-knuckling the bat is much closer– sprinting towards him while yelling something incoherent.
Gojo fires a tight shot, the web zips through the air and attaches itself to the metal bat. He uses his web to whip the bat backward. It ricochets off the graffiti-tagged wall, clanking as it rolls away. The man doesn’t even flinch, continuing his charge towards Gojo. He dives towards him, ready to tackle but Gojo plants his foot, webbing the ground again and slides under him to dodge the attack. In the same breath, he fires another web at his torso and jerks him sideways mid-air. His redirected body slams into the goon holding the gun with full force.
The gun fires off wildly, a shot sparking off the concrete wall behind Gojo, missing him.
The two men smash into the wall together, disoriented, limbs tangled.
He turns on his heel, surging towards Kenji to get the briefcase. From his peripheral, he sees one of the men back on their feet, swinging at him full speed. Gojo uses the opening to sink a sharp right hook to his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He slides under him between his open legs, the reinforced material lining his suit helping him grind against the asphalt and then pops up behind him, delivering a reverse hook kick to the back of his skull.
That had to be concussive, he thinks.
The man’s head whips forward as a result and he goes flying forward, eventually landing some distance away.
The second guy lunges towards him. Gojo webs at his ankle, sending him stumbling. He catches him by shooting another web into his chest and yanks him into a kick–boot to sternum. He can almost hear the breathless wheeze the man lets out but the sound is drowned out by the sound of the stretch of his web-line. Web still attached to the man’s chest, Gojo pivots and slingshots the man over his shoulder into a stack of crates. The wooden boxes splinter, sending debris crashing down.
He uses a web to assist in a jump that has him right above the man then fires a final web downward, the material sticking to the pavement on either side of the man. The line goes taut and he uses it to slam himself feet-first onto the man below who was scrambling to get up from the debris. The man’s body goes limp under his feet.
Gojo barely has time to straighten himself, steady his breath before the sound of a machine gun spraying echoes within the narrow alley. The bullets carve sparks against the brick walls and the sound is nearly deafening.
Damn. So much for keeping a low profile.
Kenji’s voice is coming from somewhere behind the SUV, screaming something incomprehensible. Gojo’s body moves instinctively toward his voice until the sound of a boot scraping metal makes him freeze. His attention is pulled toward the sound, head snapping up just in time to catch the last one of Kenji’s men launching himself from the roof of the vehicle, diving straight for him.
Oh, come fucking on. Can he catch a break?
He fires a web at the wall, jerking his body upward hurriedly then, mid-swing, something flickers in his peripheral vision. A streak of black and silver. Just the slightest flash of familiarity but it’s enough to make his head turn.
You.
The slight head turn costs him. In his moment of unfocused, the man clamps onto Gojo’s calves mid-swing and they both go crashing down toward the concrete. The landing knocks the air out of his lungs and he’s gasping as they roll from the impact. The concrete scrapes against his suit and the guy manages to get on top of Gojo first, throwing punches wildly. He raises his arm in time to block the first one, the second clips his jaw and the third grazes his forehead.
He grits his teeth, using the millisecond he had while the man drew his fist back to plant his forearm across the guy’s throat, pushing up and over, using the momentum to flip them. Gojo throws one solid punch with his left fist and then brings his elbow down to his temple, knocking him out. The man’s eyes roll backwards until they close, his head hanging limply.
Gojo barely has a moment to push himself off the ground before a sharp, heavy crack explodes at the back of his skull. Metal on bone, the sound of metal and steel parts clanking against itself.
Searing white hot pain detonates behind his eyes as his knees buckle. He hits the ground with a grunt, palms scraping against the pavement as he tries to catch himself.
No fucking way he got pistol whipped with a semi-automatic gun. SMG-whipped? Is that even a thing? These new gen bad guys are coming up with all sorts of new things. This has to fall under the category of cruel and unusual. He’d probably be a lot more pissed if he wasn’t actively trying to get a hold of his senses.
Kenji’s voice booms from behind him. “Spider-Man,” he acknowledges, “Never thought I’d see the day–honestly, thought you were a myth.” His voice is taunting, like he had one up on him.
Gojo crawls, his hands shaky as he tries to scramble away from the direction of his voice but his body won’t–can’t coordinate. The alley spins harder with each breath he takes. His vision rebounds between flashes of bright white and complete darkness, the strobing makes it worse and then nausea, either from the sickening taste of iron in his mouth or his ears ringing. He tries to blink it away like it would help but everything is still blurry around the edges.
Fuck.
“Shit…” He manages to grit his teeth and mutter into the comm, “I take that back… not doin’ so hot.”
Geto’s voice comes through, crackled, alarmed, “Satoru–?”
The sound of boots scraping closer on pavement sends Gojo into a panic. He forces his body to move, dragging himself away from the sound. Fuck, he thinks he’s concussed. Is this what he usually does to the guys he fights? Damn, he’s starting to feel a little bad.
His stomach is churning and then he hears the sound of the SMG clicking, an empty mag being discarded on the ground and a new one being reloaded.
Gojo’s breathing hitches. His eyes would probably be blown wide right now if he could see out of them.
This is how I die, he’s thinking. He’s gonna get shot with this machine gun and die all because something in his fucked up brain hallucinated you and he got distracted. He can’t even be sure it was you in his hallucination but his brain cells must be completely fried at this point in his life. Probably from all the blunt force trauma that comes with the job.
He thinks he’s gonna throw up.
Then a sound–sharp and and heavy–draws his attention. Like a body smashing into metal. He can make out the sound of a crash, some heavy grunting, boots scraping against the pavement. It sounds like fist connecting to skin and bone.
Is this also a part of his hallucination or is the fight happening right next to him? Is he even hallucinating or is he just freaking himself out? His vision is still somewhat dark around the edges, everything comes through like skewed shapes and static-y lines.
He’s trying to focus himself and then the sound of who he can only presume is Kenji shouting and then a heavy thud follows. Then silence.
The only sound is Gojo’s ragged breathing as he’s on all fours, trying to push himself to his feet. He’s wobbly and can’t get himself fully upright, stumbling a bit but his vision begins to sharpen. Blurry figures becoming more solid forms, stabilizing a bit.
And then a pair of smaller hands sliding under his arm, tugging his body upright from his crouched position with surprising strength. His fight or flight kicks in, his body flinching violently as he fights against the hold. He shouts in protest and then–
“Easy, Spidey.” The voice of his dreams. Or his nightmares depending on how you look at it. “Just making sure you didn’t die on me.”
His pulse spikes. This has to be some sort of concussion-induced hallucination. Like a fever dream but from when you get hit in your head a little too hard. Is that a thing? He makes a note to look into that later. He’s also not sure he’s even able to get a concussion–what, with his spidey powers and everything.
He feels–who he’s pretty sure is–you haul his weight up. He’s heavy, nearly deadweight against your frame. He feels bad that he can’t offer you much help from his end but the little soft grunt you let out as you hook one arm around his waist has his mind reeling. The sound shoots straight down below the waist.
You shift against him and he feels you raise one arm and tighten the other around him. He hears the familiar little hissing noise from the miniature grappling hooks hidden in the fur at the wrists of your suit. Your shoulder stiffens as the hook latches onto something and the line tightens under your grip. There’s a jolt as both of your bodies lift.
Gojo’s stomach lurches as you both ascend the side of a building, head swimming. The second your feet hit the rooftop, your bodies jerk again as you hook onto the next building and you both go swinging at an angle.
He blinks hard, trying to focus his eyes. He can just barely make out the shape of your face, the features slowly coming into vision. His vision is starting to clear just enough to make out your silhouette, kneeling in front of him. The city lights behind you blur beneath his half-blind sight, his mechanical lenses in his mask doing absolutely nothing to help him.
There’s two—maybe three of you—dancing in front of him as his eyes slowly focus until the multiples of you merge into one.
And then like an absolute idiot with zero self-preservation instincts, he hears himself say:
“...have I ever told you that you’re gorgeous?”
Your snicker is soft, so soft he hardly catches it but he knows he missed the sound and he’d do anything to hear it on repeat.
Like those ASMR videos that Mei watches sometimes.
Fuck.
Mei.
Gojo knows he is absolutely fucked.
“Mmm,” you purr, leaning into him slightly, “so I’ve heard.”
The wind hits his face as you swing the two of you onto a rooftop a few blocks away from the alley. You land as gentle as you can with the added weight of his body and he hears the shhhk of the hook retracting back into your suit.
You set him down softly until his back meets the brick wall behind him and he slumps against it, legs splayed, breath uneven. His vision, now much clearer, can just make out your silhouette, kneeling in front of him.
You give his cheek a light pat, something almost affectionate. “You alright there, pretty boy?”
He pretends the pet name doesn’t fry every single neuron he has left.
Before he can find a response, the comm in his ear sputters with violent static and then Geto’s voice cuts through. It’s warped and barely audible.
“Sato–? Is th– Cat? Wha–” And then it cuts out entirely, the tiny speaker fried from his earlier beating.
He huffs out a breathless laugh, half-delirious and half-resigned, opting to completely ignore his best friend’s message. His voice comes out thick with exhaustion.
“Never better,” he fights through a groan as he tries to push himself upright.
You hum out a suspicious little mhmm, like you don’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. And rightfully so because he hardly manages to stand, hand braced on the wall for balance. You shuffle back a few steps, enough to give him room to collect himself. He’s wobbling but his balance is back enough. Though he kinda wishes he’d stumble just a tiny bit so you’d catch him.
Oh shit.
The hard drive.
“Fuuuckk,” he groans under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. His skull throbs with the movement. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”
A soft hum answers him from a few feet ahead.
“Looking for this?”
His head snaps toward your voice so fast, he gets a fresh spike of dizziness.
You’re standing there, one hand on your hip and the flash drive dangling from the claws of your other gloved hand.
He feels his stomach drop.
He pushes off the wall, crossing the short distance between you. He reaches out once he’s standing directly in front of you.
“Not happening.” You pull your hand back, just out of reach. Your voice comes out sharp, “I need this.”
“For what?” Gojo’s eyes narrow behind his mask.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Your head tilts like you’re messing with him, holding back a teasing laugh.
“Yes,” he deadpans. “That’s why I asked.”
You pause for the slightest moment and then turn to walk away, moving towards the edge of the rooftop.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He shoots a web, the sound of the synthetic material slices through the air. He follows it as soon as it leaves his wrist, sprinting toward you.
You twist your body out of pure instinct, narrowly dodging the web. It snaps right past your shoulder instead of your wrist where he had aimed. His eyes track your movement as you tuck the drive back into your suit in one smooth motion.
Then you launch a kick at him. He brings his forearm up and your boot collides with the guard on his suit. You swipe at him, once, then twice, steel claws glinting under the moonlight as they cut through the air. He leans back, weaving the first swipe then he pivots his shoulder, dodging the second swipe under your arm.
You’re pulling your punches. He can tell you’re not attacking him with the intent to cause him any real harm. Whether that’s because you don’t actually want to fight him or you’re just being mindful of his near concussion, he’s not sure. He also gets the idea you might just be trying to create enough of a gap to run.
But he’s not letting you go again.
You go for a punch this time, claws retracted, closed fist. He catches your wrist mid-punch and uses the momentum to pull you toward him. He steps in, meeting your body in the middle and slides an arm around your waist as a second anchor to pull you in. Your bodies collide and he can feel your chest rising rapidly as you catch your breath.
He says your name.
Your real name.
He can feel it when it hits you. See the shock crossing your face, eyebrows knitting together.
You go still in his arms, every inch of you goes taut. Your fingers curl in reflex against his suit, like every muscle in your body stiffened from the sound of a name you fought heaven and earth to forget.
He takes advantage of the moment. Dirty trick, he has to admit, it’s not his proudest moment but his hands move, patting along the lines of your torso. His fingers find the small, hidden compartment he remembers from the museum. He had replayed that moment in his head over and over and over again (for more reasons than one) trying to memorize the map of your suit. Though it may have done him more bad than good.
Your breath stutters when his fingers brush over the outline of the drive through the thin fabric. You jerk in his grip, half-heartedly pulling back. Like your body had to force itself out of something so comforting, something so deeply ingrained into your very being. His grip on your waist doesn’t falter.
“I-it’s my way out,” you manage to blurt out. The words sound like they’ve been ripped out of you.
He pauses. Your voice sounds so… desperate? The sound is so unfamiliar to him.
“Are you lying to me?” he asks, flat. His eyes narrow at you again through the mask lenses.
He watches your eyes flicker between his, eyebrows pinched together. You force down the lump in your throat before you speak, chin tilting to the side to avoid eye contact.
“No, I’m not.” You’re almost pleading. “I-I’m supposed to be done after this.”
Supposed to be.
He doesn’t necessarily trust it fully. He’s known you a long time which means that’s a long time of giving you the benefit of the doubt. While you’ve never exactly flat out lied to him, you’ve definitely skirted the truth.
Though you usually don’t sound this defeated.
“Yeah, I don’t believe you,” he answers after a pause, feeling a little guarded.
His fingers slide along the seam of your suit, finding the hidden lining. He slips past the hidden lining, pulling the flash drive free. He’s barely able to retract his hand when you grab his wrist, holding tightly.
“Satoru, I’m serious,” your voice steadies, “I need it.”
He turns it over between his fingers, cool metal pressing into his skin. Even though your bodies are still pressed together, you don’t move to snatch it from him.
“Why?” He asks, tentative, “What’s on it?”
He wants to know what you’re not saying, what’s got you this desperate–what kind of corner you’ve been backed into, and what he can do to get you out of it.
He’s asked you before–to leave with him to somewhere, anywhere. That he’d be so ready to forget everything that’s ever happened, everything you’ve ever done. That you didn’t have to live this life–cracking safes and running heists.
But you were always a girl with a vendetta, with something to prove. And you’d always tell him that you can’t.
But you can always do anything–breaking into vaults, stealing artwork, cat-burgling–anything but be his.
When you don’t answer, he takes his mask off, letting it hand limply from his fingers. His hair is ruffled from friction. A few loose strands stick to his damp forehead.
A second ago, you couldn’t seem to look at him but now, your eyes refuse to leave his.
“y/n, look me in the eyes,” he says, voice quiet but unwavering. “and tell me what’s on this drive.”
You hesitate.
His expression softens when he sees your face. The moonlight reflects in your eyes, painting them in pale silver. You hold his eye contact now, rounded eyes looking up at him.
For a second, he can’t seem to get a read on you. Like usual. You’ve always been so impossible to pin down, always ducking and dodging him.
But then, your shoulders drop a fraction and your lips part. Your voice comes out a little hoarse like you’re fighting yourself. “Everything,” you breathe, your words come out in a whisper, “It has identities, accounts, blackmail, leverage on… on everyone. Politicians, crimelords, weapons dealers.” You swallow, then drag in a shaky breath. “Me.”
He searches your eyes, aching to find the truth. He doesn’t speak, urging you to continue.
“I-it was supposed to go to some guy who was gonna use it against some politician, to control them to be able to pull strings from behind the scene,” you explain carefully, “All I know is that I needed it first, okay?” You break eye contact for a second, looking away, “I get rid of everything tied to me, my name, my identity, everything I’ve ever been involved in and then I’m finally out.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?” The question comes out firm but his voice is still gentle. He almost feels… bad for you.
You’re looking up at him now and you look tired. The most beautiful yet exhausted person he’s ever seen in his life. Your eyes are glassy and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you cry before but here you stand in front of him, eyes welling up.
“I swear,” your voice trembles like it’s your first time making a real promise, like you’ve never sworn anything out loud before in your life, “I heard this stupid drive existed and it’s the only reason I came back.”
He can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt knowing the only reason you came back was for the drive and not for him. Even though he knows it’s selfish because he’s (somewhat) moved on with his life so it’s only fair that you get to.
You tear your eyes from him again and sniffle.
The city lights glow behind you and around you, illuminating your face. The wind toys with loose strands of your hair, ruffling the fur at the collar of your suit. You’re standing here, in front of him, looking so guilty and defeated and so painfully, achingly beautiful that it physically hurts him to look at you.
And Gojo knows he’s supposed to be thinking about the mission, about Geto and Mei and Shoko, the good thing, the right thing.
But instead, all he can think is that you came back. And now he’s realizing you’re just someone who made a life altering decision too young, felt the weight of the world on your shoulders before you could even understand it, and suddenly he sees you. Really sees you.
Your eyes lock onto his, pleading in a way that makes his chest feel tight with too many emotions and too many memories. And before he can think about what’s right or morals or common sense, he steps in. His free hand slides up, fingers curling around the edges of your face, thumb grazing your cheek.
He leans in, until your noses are brushing. “We can go anywhere you want. Y’know that right? We can leave together. I’d do it for you.”
“I could never ask you to do that, Satoru,” your eyes flutter shut when his warm breath fans across your face, “you’re too good.”
He hates that. He’s good, you’re “not.” He doesn’t even know if that’s something he should care about anymore. Like that’s all subjective to him when you’re standing here, looking so small and fragile for the first time ever.
And he can’t even help himself when he closes the last inch between you, mouth crashing onto yours.
For a second it’s clumsy and awkward, both of your bodies tense but then something clicks. Like your bodies remember each other before your minds do. Your lips move together, seamlessly like muscle memory, coming together as naturally as breathing.
Gojo doesn’t even realize when he clumsily fumbles the drive into the pocket at his hip, using his now free hand to slide down your frame, splaying his large hand against the small of your back so he can push you flush against him. His grip is firm like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even the slightest.
Your fingers bury into his pale, silvery hair and it tears a deep sound from his chest before he can stop it.
“Satoru…” you breathe against his lips and he thinks he would spend every single last dime he had if it meant hearing the sound again.
He answers by kissing you harder, licking at your lower lip. Your lips part in response and he takes it as permission, slipping his tongue into your mouth. Your tongues dance against each other’s and his chest is burning from the lack of oxygen but he would much rather suffocate than be detached from you for a single second.
He uses his body to usher you against a brick wall, hand on the back of your head to protect you from the impact. The stone is rough against the smooth fabric of your suit, a stark contrast to how warm and steady his body is against yours. You’re both half-hidden, tucked behind a rooftop enclosure and hidden from sight from surrounding buildings by half-finished construction beams.
The hand on your lower back slips down, gripping at your thighs before he lifts you, muscles straining and stretching at the fabric around his biceps. Your legs lock around his waist, the movement rocking you against him. The sound that escapes your lips only sends more blood rushing to below his waist and he knows you can feel him pressing against you, solid through the thin material of his spider suit.
With his grip on the back of your head, he tugs at your hair gently, tilting your neck back enough to give him access. He swears under his breath against your lips before dragging his mouth down your jaw, leaving open wet kisses along the smooth skin. The kisses turn soft, his desperation melting away into begging, pleading for you to stay. Hoping his lips against your skin says more than he’s ever been able to say out loud. That this won’t be the last time he’ll see you.
He selfishly wants to keep you from getting the drive weighing heavy in his pocket. If it meant keeping you around. If you wouldn’t disappear from his life again, forever, without a trace.
There’s that little voice in the back of his head telling him that he shouldn’t be doing this with you. That it’s not fair to you–if you really did need the drive and if you really wanted to disappear from the face of the earth–not fair to his friends and to the city. He’s supposed to be a hero and he’s not doing anyone any good right now. But he also knows he can’t stop. That corny saying if it’s wrong, why does it feel so right?
“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, goosebumps raising as his breath fans over your collarbones, “tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
He knows he can’t stop himself, it’s beyond him at this point and maybe it’s selfish to fully burden you with the weight of that decision but he’s also beyond caring at this point. The feeling of you in his arms is just too right. He presses his forehead to yours, noses brushing, breath hot and uneven. His eyes search your face and for the first time ever, it’s like he’s really seeing all of you. Unsure and torn, scared and uncertain.
When he doesn’t get a response, his chest heaves. No answer.
A nervous laugh huffs out of him, unsure of what to do, “Heh… cat got your tongue?”
You exhale his name, again. He’s sure you meant to sound exasperated–maybe even a little annoyed as you usually are with him–but it comes out softer, needier.
He really wishes you’d stop because the sound of his name on your tongue is only pulling him out deeper and deeper like he’s lost at sea. His jaw is clenched and the pressure threatens to bring on his semi-automatic gun-induced headache again but instead he waits for you to tell him to stop, to say anything. He’s too far gone, too lost in you so he waits for the only command he’d ever obey–yours.
He kisses you again, slower this time, more cautious and when he feels your body go lax against his, he deepens the kiss as your body melts into his. Your fingers tighten in his hair like you’re trying to anchor yourself to him. Heat builds as your mouths part and find each other again and again, messy and desperate like he’s trying to pour every unspoken word, every almost confession into it.
His mind is absolutely reeling.
He thinks maybe he should’ve waited for you, should’ve looked harder when you disappeared and not given up. Instead of eventually telling himself maybe it was better this way. That maybe if he had been more patient, more understanding, more attentive, pushed himself harder to fix the corrupted city that you wouldn’t need some top secret, highly dangerous to obtain flash drive as your ticket out.
Maybe he could have gotten you out.
He thinks of every time he told himself that he could change you, that maybe you were bad for him, that he couldn’t be with you and be Spiderman. Even the him from three years ago didn’t believe that. He knew then and he knew now that he would always let you in, let you escape, put his superhero pride to the side if it meant he could see you, be with you even if it was only for a night.
And here he is again, years later, still thinking that–despite it all–you’re the one who was made for him.
It hits him all at once, a rush of regret and want and something so stupidly hopeful that it makes his chest tight. He pours all of it into his lips against yours because he doesn’t have the words to say to you.
His hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades as he presses your body impossibly closer to his, chest to chest, hip to hip. Your suit is thin enough that he can feel the lines of your body under his palms, the way your ribs expand with every sharp inhale against his lips. You arch into him without thinking and a quiet, broken sound slips out of you, lost against his mouth.
His mouth moves down again, dragging along your skin, along the line of your jaw, down the side of your neck. Each kiss lands hot and lingering, nearly reverent against your searing skin. He feels the small shiver that runs through you when his breath grazes the sensitive skin.
One of your hands slide down from his hair, fingers skating over the seams of his Spider suit then along his sculpted shoulders and the defined ridges of his back, like you’re memorizing him back.
He sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to see you again and something almost animalistic rips through him. His heart is slamming against his rib, breath hitching. Your lips are swollen from the kissing and biting, chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes travel down from your collarbones to the exposed skin of your chest, hardly hidden from your low-cut suit. He has to bite his tongue to keep in the guttural groan that nearly escapes at the sight. There’s just no way your suit can be fully secure in a fight. The urge to touch, to pull at the fabric, to see more flares hot in his stomach.
He slowly lowers you until you’re steady on both feet then one hand is creeping down, thumb toying with your clit through the fabric of your suit. Your jaw falls slack, head tipped back against the brick wall from the contact. You let out a whine and the sound shoots straight downwards, cock already straining against the tight material of his suit. His forehead falls against your shoulder, pressing kisses into your collarbone as he continues to rub gentle circles against the cloth.
“M-more,” you stammer, breathlessly. If he knows you well enough–and he does–he’d bet that your eyes are already rolling back and it brings back his air of confidence.
“Beg.”
“Do I look like I beg, Spidey?” you shoot back, trying to snap but your voice betrays you.
He smiles against your skin, shamelessly basking in how easily he can get you worked up, clearly pleased with himself. “That’s okay,” he shrugs casually, “I’m good here too.”
His thumb continues to work at your clit, painfully slow, feather-light touches. He feels your body shuddering against his, head still tipped against the wall. He noses closer, inhaling your achingly familiar scent. Gojo drinks in every single moment he has pressed against your skin, savoring your warmth like he’s trying to etch the feel of you into his memory.
You clamp your thighs around his hand, breaths coming sharp and fast. Your hand flies down, clutching at his wrist as you grind your hips against his thumb–almost frantically–searching for any friction.
“Pl-please–” you whine out, “fuck– Satoru–”
He figures that’s probably the closest he’s going to get knowing you and he doesn’t want to push you too far. He also doesn’t know how much longer he, himself, can hold out. While he normally is a lot more composed, something about you makes him lose all sense of self-control so he’s slipping past the waistband of your very tight (much to his dismay… or pleasure depending how you look at it) suit bottoms.
Your body all but jolts against his fingers working at your sensitive nub, no fabric separating you from the pad of his thumb. You’ve got one leg lifted up, wrapped around his hip to give him more access while the other is hardly stabilizing you, wobbling under your form.
He gathers your slick with one finger, bringing it up to work as lube against your swollen clit and he’s almost sure you’re about to cry from overstimulation already. He tears his lips from your nearly exposed chest, leaving a trail of kisses along the side of your neck before his lips are hovering right above yours.
Your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, eyes dark with desire as you stare into his. Gojo is almost certain he could cum just from the look in your eyes. He slips his middle finger past your slippery folds, curling it inside you until he feels that far too familiar gummy spot that has you instantly arching into him, moaning wantonly into the night air.
“Fuck, baby–” he groans against your lips, “so fucking wet,” emphasizing each word with a thrust of his finger. You roll your hips in tandem with his movements. It’s all so animalistic, so feral, it has him absolutely reeling. “You get this wet for anyone else, hmm?”
He feels you clench around his fingers at the sound of his words and he’s easily sliding a second finger in, scissoring you open. You shake your head dumbly, words unable to leave your mouth as you’re gasping for air, not breaking eye contact. You start bucking your hips against his fingers, hand sliding down from his hair to his toned shoulder to steady yourself.
“This pussy’s so tight–fuckkk,” he catches your lips in a kiss, “Bet you’d feel so good on my dick.”
He nibbles on your bottom lip, tongue swiping over the sensitive area. He can tell you’re close, between the way you hungrily lick behind his teeth, tongue against his, moaning into his mouth while your hips grinding in rhythm with his fingers working you. And as if he can read your mind:
“Sa–oh my god– Satoru, I-I’m close,” your chest bows into his, pressing against his front as your entire body presses against his.
“Gonna let me fuck you, baby?” His voice is barely above a whisper and he’s not sure if you can hear him over the sound of your impending orgasm but then you nod, quick and eager, face flushed. “Want me to fuck you right here, huh?” You’re still nodding eagerly, no thoughts in your brain other than him. He’s so hard and heavy that his free hand flies down to palm himself through his pants, hardly offering him any relief.
The heel of his palm presses against your clit as you fuck yourself on his fingers and then he feels your body tense, nails gripping into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent-marks along his skin. You throw your head back, exposing your neck to him and he’s quick to nose along your jaw right under your ear, nipping along the supple skin. Your back arches even more, pressing impossibly closer to him, eyes squeezing shut as you come undone, pulsing around his fingers.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” you whine aloud, climax leaking all over his large hand, “Satoruu–-oh my–Satoru.” You cry out his name, repeating it until your voice is a hoarse whisper as you ride out your high on his calloused digits.
He slowly pulls out his fingers, lifting from your jaw to see them glistening with your release in the dim city lights. The look in your eye is almost bashful when they lock onto his fingers, almost self-conscious.
“Open.”
Eyes lidded, clearly fucked out and pliant, you part your lips on his command. Your easy willingness sends heat shooting through his body, as if his cock wasn’t already straining against his suit. He’s sure the tight fabric is going to rip when you take his fingers in his mouth without restraint, tongue swirling around his knuckles. He finds a little pride in his chest knowing he can take you from your sharp mouth, all sass and bite to something unguarded and slack with want. His digits release from your mouth with a pop and now he’s far too eager to feel you pulsing around him.
And like you can read his mind–
“Satoru, fuck me please,” you plead, baby hairs along your forehead sticking to your skin despite the cool air of the night. He’s sure he’s not faring any better.
Gojo is quick to start tugging at the waistband of his suit pants, tugging them down just enough to pull his cock out. When he glances back up at you, your eyes are locked on his length, the tip red and flushed. Your eyes travel back up, locking onto his and then he’s got both hands planted low on your hips, spinning you around until you’re facing the brick wall. He presses one hand flush to your back, pressing you against the wall while the other hand hurriedly works at your painfully (for him) tight bottoms. Once he’s got your suitpants low enough, he’s sliding his cock along your slit, collecting your slick and using the remnants of your spit combined with your juices to pump himself.
“Holy shit,” he breathes out, mostly to himself. “Were you always this wet?” He did not mean to say that out loud and he half-hopes you ignore the comment.
You do not.
“Forgot already?” you suck your teeth, pushing your hips back and swaying your hips gently, clearly as impatient as him.
The words die on your tongue when he pushes into you, burying himself to the hilt. A moan escapes from both of you. He’s got one hand braced on the wall next to your head, the other gripping your hip, fingers digging into your flesh. He stays there for a second, forehead resting on your shoulder while you both adjust but then you’re clenching around him and he’s certain that he’s already on the verge of cumming.
He starts to move, pace slow as he unsheathes himself, save for the tip, and grinds into you, savoring the sensation of you tight and pulsing around his length. His hand moves from the wall, coming up to grip your left tit, thumb catching on the nub, hardened through the thin fabric. You let out a moan at the feeling, arching your back further.
“Fuuuckk,” he curses, voice low and ragged against your skin. You shiver in response, goosebumps erupting along the surface of your skin, “How are you this tight–fuckk, baby.”
“Satoru,” you keen, breath hitching as he starts to pick up his pace, “Oh my g– right there, right there.”
His right hand on your hip pulls you back into him until you start moving yourself, meeting his thrusts in the middle as he begins to drive his cock into you. He wishes he could see more of you, more of your skin, more of your face, he’s so painfully insatiable for you but he’s happy to take you however he can.
He presses around your pebbled nub with his forefinger and thumb, rolling it between his fingers, pinching and pulling and you respond with a moan, throwing your head back. He drags you backward until your back is pressed to his front. You’re limp against him, knees weak and fully reliant on him to keep you upright.
Gojo’s lips travel from nibbling at your neck, breath warm at your ear and you turn your head, colliding into his mouth. He shifts lower behind you, adjusting his stance to fuck up into you. The new position has your hand flying up to grip the back of his head, fingers buried in his white strands, tousled from your tugging. He grunts against your lips at the feeling, licking behind your teeth.
You let out a whine, pushing back to meet his muscular thighs, skin flushed from his hips snapping into yours. Your tongue slides against his, messy and clumsy. He can only hope that the sounds of your lips smacking and hips meeting aren’t carrying, hidden to the world. The feeling of you pulsating around him makes him weak in the knees and he has to push through the sensation, rutting into you at a new speed, just hoping and praying this moment you’re having with him is enough to make a difference.
The sound of his hips slapping into your ass and the squelch of your cunt is so pornographic, he’s hardly holding on and he can feel you’re right there with him. You’re moaning and gasping openly into the air, shuddering against his body as your walls flutter around his cock.
“Oh shiiittt, this pussy is mine right?” he pants, breath ghosting over your kiss-bitten lips, not convinced he wants to know the answer but the question slips out anyway. “You like that, baby?”
“Mmmmff–mhm mhm,” you mindlessly nod, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. His fingers move down to your clit, rubbing star patterns as he’s chasing his own climax. You suck in a sharp breath at the feeling, leaning back onto his broad chest for support. The muscles around his thighs tighten as he keeps up his unrelenting tempo, erratic and hungry to feel more of you.
“Fuuckk, feels like you were made for me, baby,” he groans, words stumbling out.
“Sa–oh fuck–” you clamp around him, walls spasming around him as you’re reaching your climax, “Satoru, I’m about to cum.”
The words come out broken and he’s seeing stars, pushing himself through it until you gush around him, driving him to his own climax, hips stuttering. With one last thrust, he’s spilling himself into you, warm release spurting into your cunt, fucking you through your orgasm as you milk him for everything he has.
You both go still for a moment, limp as he rests his forehead on the back of your shoulder, chest heaving. You lean forward into the wall, his hand wrapped around your ribcage holding you up. He feels your back rising and falling with each deep breath you take, aching to catch your breath. His other hand slides up from where it was gripping at your hips, sure to leave bruises there tomorrow and wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close to him.
He slowly pulls himself out of you, feeling you twitch at the loss of the fullness of him. Once he’s sure you’re able to stand on your own, he takes a half step back, tugging up his bottoms from where they haphazardly rested around his thighs. Your eyes are locked onto the ground as you work up your suit bottoms, fingers trembling.
The air between you is suddenly thin.
He didn’t exactly plan for after, didn’t really think of much beyond the heat of your mouth and the arch of your back. You won’t look at him. Your lashes stay fixed downward, eyes darting around, focused on anything but him.
He swallows.
Fuck, it’s awkward.
He can feel the shift in the air, in you. Like you’re withdrawing from him. He’s not sure if he can handle you disappearing from his life again, without a trace. He rubs his palm over the back of is neck, brain scrambling for something to say to ease the tension.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You freeze but you still can’t quite look at him. He steps closer, cautious like you’re a wounded animal and then he reaches out slowly, fingers brushing under your chin. You let him guide your face up, eyes lifting reluctantly until you’re looking straight at him. And the look in your eyes nearly knocks the wind right out of his chest.
You look so lost. And guilty.
And small.
“Let me make things right,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing into your chin lightly.
Your lips part, breath catching, “Satoru…”
He searches your face, memorizing each part of it in case he’ll never see it again. You look up at him, eyes rounded and it’s like he’s seeing every version of you–who you were, who you are, who you could’ve been if the world hadn’t fucked you over before you even had a chance, who you could be.
“I can’t let you go like this,” he tells you, voice soft and broken, “Let me help you, let me do something, anything. I’ll do anything you ask.”
He wonders if he got on his hands and knees if that would make it better. If that would make you stay. If that would change your mind.
“Let me go,” you whisper. Your hand lifts, fingers curling around his wrist where he holds your chin. You hand feels cool against his warmth. “I can’t stay here… and you can’t leave. They need you.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “What about you?”
Do you need him?
The question goes unspoken.
“It’s not about me,” you say, voice thinning.
“It is,” Gojo insists, “Everything’s always gonna be about you.” His voice comes out broken, gravelly as his throat feels tight, like he’s swallowing stones.
His heart beats a painful, reckless rhythm like it’s trying to fight its way out of his chest and to you, who his heart belongs to. If he didn’t know it before, he knows it now.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters, catching in your throat and your eyes widen at his (poorly-timed) confession. Your grip on his wrist tightens, just for a second, like you’re flinching as a reaction. Like he spat daggers at you instead of sweet saccharine words.
Fuck.
Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.
He searches your face, eyes darting between yours looking for any sign that you’ll say it back. He watches the fear and longing crash across your face like you’re at a crossroads.
But he knows it. Even though he tells himself not to assume, not to reach for something he’s not sure if he’s earned. And even though he knows there’s no logical explanation for it, there is no universe where this could be one-sided. There’s no way you could look at him like that, like he hung the moon and the stars, speak his name like it belongs to solely you, care the way you do in that strange way that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else–no one else would hear it, see it, understand it. But Gojo does.
He knows you. And because he knows you, he knows what you’ll say and it’s too late for him to take it back so he commits.
“Can you honestly say you don’t love me too?” His hand trails up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, so unbearably tender. He thinks he can see the tears begin to form along your lower lash line but for your sake, writes it off as a glare from the city lights. “If you can… then I’ll let you go.”
Your breath is uneven, lashes fluttering as your eyes close, resigned, like the weight of the truth is too heavy on your shoulders to look at him while carrying it. Your fingers tighten painfully around his wrist, nails digging into his skin.
“I…” your voice splinters before you swallow, throat working hard, “I don’t love you.”
The words spill from your kiss-bitten lips like they physically hurt you to say, hurt you far worse than they hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely audible.
He watches as the tears well even more along your waterline, threatening to spill as you refuse to look at him. Every part of him, every muscle and fiber in his being fights to scream liar.
You’re lying. You’re lying and he knows it. You know it. Every person in the world could look at the two of you right now, standing here with your smaller hand wrapped around his and would know that you’re lying. You’ve been a damn good liar your entire life but you’re not that good of a liar.
He wants to bargain with you. He wants to tell you that he could love you enough for the both of you. That you could spend the rest of your lives together not loving him back in the slightest bit and he would be happy. He would pour all of his love into you and the sheer amount of that alone would be enough, could spill and overflow from your cup.
But you said it.
There’s nothing else he can do.
He claws into his pocket, fishing out the flashdrive and slots it into your hand at his wrist. He clasps both of his hands around your trembling ones, manually wrapping your fingers around it and it feels like a heavy brick, weighing heavily in between both of your hands.
He holds you there, taking in a deep breath and savoring every second he has left of feeling your touch against his. So warm, so gentle. He’s almost certain that you could claw at him, punch him, scratch him for the rest of his life and your touch would still never be anything other than warm and gentle to him.
Then, he drops your hands and takes a step back once, slowly, like something inside him has gone numb and he just nods, something weak and dejected.
“Goodbye, y/n.”
a/n - ok srry for the angst, i rlly didnt think it was gonna go in this direction but it felt right )': (and i just love a man who yearns and pines srry) & srry if it was bad, im rlly trying to get into writing angst so we're working on it but in other news, im rlly starting to think srsly ab a long fic in the near future. hope ur all doing well & tysm for reading, pls lemme know what u think ! <3
a/n - hi guys ! been working on this little spiderman!gojo x black cat!reader one shot bc i've been getting a lot of spiderman/black cat edits on tiktoks and ofc spiderman gojo is just teewww sxccc
Gojo slips in through the skylight of the Tokyo National Museum, leaving it cracked open juuust enough for him to slide out later–in case he needs a quick escape. He makes an effort to creep through the shadows, though the flicker of moonlight that spills in from the windows catches the white of his hair occasionally.
There was a tip sent in that there’s supposed to be a break-in at the museum tonight. Something about some crown jewels–an irreplaceable artifact so he hears–that’s already being auctioned off on the dark web.
Every tiny sound echoes in the silence of the building–aside from the hum of electricity emitting from the silent alarm system he was careful not to trigger–including the sound of his footsteps. He moves along the polished marble flooring, conscious of the tapping of his boots on tile.
He stands out against the darkness of the building, blue light glowing faintly where the web pattern traces his muscles. The spider emblem across his chest pulses soft light–the spider-tech having been synced to his heartbeat.
Then, the faint static of a voice in his ear–Mei.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight. Don’t tell me you’re actually focused for once?”
The corner of his lip quirks under his mask as he side-steps around a display pedestal. “I’m always focused.”
“Mhm, sure. What’re you looking at?”
“Whole lotta nothing. Starting to think your tip was off.”
“It wasn’t my tip–”
He half-listens to her speech as his eyes scan the room. Nothing seems off, no spidey-senses tingling yet–he doesn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Either absolutely nothing is wrong or everything is about to go horribly terribly wrong. Like baby shower fireworks setting off a forest fire wrong. He continues his pace through the museum, moving methodically towards the next exhibit. His eyes flicker towards different display cases every now and then to ensure nothing is out of place.
But Gojo is by no means a history buff nor had he ever really cared about artworks created by a bunch of dead people or historical artifacts stolen from other countries so he can’t exactly say if something’s been replaced by a fake or a decoy. He’s just relying on that spider-induced sixth sense of his.
Then, something breaks his rhythmic stride. The hum of the silent alarm system he was so careful not to set off cuts out–silence–and then sound that doesn’t belong. A soft metallic clink of a vent or pipes or something from somewhere above him.
His entire body stills instantly, senses sharpening as his eyes track the sound, following the ceiling panels. Mei’s voice through the comms device in his ear continues but it’s muffled by the sound of his heartbeat.
The air shifts, the faintest whisper of movement behind him.
Gojo turns toward the sound instantaneously, catching a blur of black and silver in his peripheral vision.
A dark figure drops through an opening where the ceiling vent was, twisting midair in a controlled flip before landing in a crouch on top of a glass display case. Moonlight slides over the sleek black fabric of a skintight suit–leather he assumes. A pair of mask-covered eyes lift from the glass to make eye contact with him from across the room.
You.
“...You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Gojo breathes out in a sharp exhale. He’s not sure what the feeling curling through his chest is, something between bewilderment and curiosity.
The last time he saw you…
The memory is simultaneously fuzzy in his brain yet crystal clear.
“–What’s going on? Are you okay?” Mei’s voice cuts through the slight static in his earpiece, pulling his attention.
He’s staring up at you with rounded eyes, a little dumbfounded as you look down at him from your position.
“Uhh… I’m gonna have to call you back.”
“Wait–Gojo, what’s–”
He hangs up before she can finish.
The echo of the disconnected line fades into silence. The smile on your lips is sweet and he starts to feel that spidey tingling sensation in his fingertips screaming at him that something’s wrong.
You tilt your head, tone light and teasing. “Miss me, Spider?”
His jaw tightens at the name.
“Black Cat.” His voice comes out low, rough–firm like your name is an announcement as opposed to an acknowledgement.
You hum in response, grinning as you propel yourself into a forward flip, dropping down from the display case. You land lightly only a few feet from him. Always showing off, if he recalls correctly. The sound of your boots hitting the floor is barely audible as you take another slow step toward him.
Your movements are cat-like, prowling toward him and invading his space. You’re close enough now that he can smell you, catching the sweet and sharp traces of your perfume. Like poison disguised as sugary syrup.
“You look good,” you murmur, gaze dragging down the lines of his chest, voice dripping with amusement. “You been workin’ out?”
He blinks. He wonders if you can sense his hesitation, the slight falter in his breathing before he’s chuckling awkwardly, “Oh, um, yeah… heh.”
His hand reflexively moves to rub the back of his neck.
“Mmm,” you hum as you circle him slowly, “And, uh… you got a girlfriend nowadays?”
The words come out like a purr, lazy and relaxed. He wonders if the question is a setup.
He hasn’t seen you in years.
Would you know if he has a girlfriend?
Do you keep up with his personal life?
Are you jealous?
The thought settles warm in his chest, scratching something deep and territorial (and possibly toxic masculine) inside his gut. Not exactly something he’d be proud to admit out loud to anyone.
You reach out to him, slow and deliberate with a gloved claw. The sharp nails of your suit drag against the thin material of his suit, fabric catching as you trace the hard lines of his shoulder, then down the slope of his chest. You stop abruptly just under his sternum.
He inhales sharply, a quiet sound that betrays him more than he’d like. A chill runs down his spine.
“Uh… that’s a lot of questions,” he manages to get out finally, voice a touch higher than usual.
“What?” You feign genuine curiosity as smile at him, lips curling up mischievously. “I’m just curious…”
You look up at him through your lashes, batting your eyes with faux innocence. You continue drawing a path past his sternum, sharp claw moving along the defined muscles of his abdomen. You’re close enough now that he can see the reflection of the spider symbol glowing blue in your eyes.
Your eyes. Wow.
He forces a swallow, throat bobbing. His focus falters for a second before he pulls himself together, hoping he’s unreadable behind the mask. His large hand closes gently around your wrist, stopping your gloved claw on its course and pulls it away from his torso. He doesn’t drop your hand.
