this isnt in a bad way but why dont u use gojo when u talk about him? just curious!
hihi nonnie !! i just use satoru bc its his first name and it feels silly calling shoko utahime nobara megumi maki toji etc etc by their first names but not satoru i guess !! no deeper meaning
I'm curious to know what you think of the video and comments? I don't think gojo was 100% present on megumis childhood, but he tried and did loved the kid?? đ And he is not what ppl believe toji is? Let me know what you think even if you agree with the video, if you want to ofc lol.
hi anon! hell, ure throwing me into jjk discourse already u must want me dead huh đââïž unfortunately i donât really care too much about megumi thinkpieces to read all the interviews and extra lore bits gege has put out about him so i might be larping
but yeah i agree that satoru does care for megumi a little more than his other students if only bc of time and familiarity. imo though satoru being a âfatherâ to megumi might be a stretch⊠i also agree that satoru is definitely not who the fandom thinks toji is (toji is who the fandom thinks he is) and i donât believe he only saved megumi for his technique. satoruâs goal is to prevent teenagers from being put in the situations he was forced into during his childhood so itâd be awks if that was the case
i will say i like the fanon father and son dynamic satoru and megumi have regardless if its canon or not !! arguing abt the canon is a little redundant to me bc iâm not a big fan of the source material #laugh out loud
a/n: for all intents and purposes hinge dms will look like twt dms đââïž the next ch is so fun bc yes yes the rumours r true i downloaded hinge for this smau hehe :3 taglist will b tagged in reblogs bc of new tumblr settings or whatever đ€ make sure u have ur settings set to being tagged !!!
a/n: for all intents and purposes hinge dms will look like twt dms đââïž the next ch is so fun bc yes yes the rumours r true i downloaded hinge for this smau hehe :3 taglist will b tagged in reblogs bc of new tumblr settings or whatever đ€ make sure u have ur settings set to being tagged !!!
between a smug academic rival, a masked hero you cannot stop thinking about, and a symbiote threat getting closer by the day, your life is quickly becoming unmanageable. gojo satoru keeps ruining your peace, spiderman keeps stealing your heart, and neither of them seems willing to tell you the truth. as secrets pile up and the city tips further into danger, you begin to realise the person breaking your heart and the one trying to save it may not be two different people at all.
pairing: nerd!jo + spiderman!jo x reader
content: mdni, fluff + crack + angst + smut, academic rivals to lovers (a bit), college slop + coffee slop, a little miscommunication, secret identity reveal, friends with benefits kind of, satoru and reader are bad at feelings, satoru makes bad choices, foot job, p in v, cunnilingus, angst (?) with a happy ending !!, some action scenes 55k+
note: the old title was âthe end of the worldâ or smth so take a shot everytime the world ending is mentioned in the fic! thank you for reading and iâll see you at the end for more yap :3
Some people say the world ended December 12th, 2012 and that weâre all living in purgatory. The dead internet theory, Trisha Payta giving birth every time a significant member of society dies, that triangle in the middle of fuckass nowhere, there are pointers that this canât be the reality we live in.
Not that you care because for all you know, the world ended for you on March 15th at 10:12am when you first met Gojo Satoru.
It was impossible to not know him beforehand, not when heâs friends with your friends. And that distinction matters, their friend rather than your friend because you donât associate with him, not willingly. In fact, you would have been beyond overjoyed if he remained that unnamed face sitting back row of your neuropharmacology tutorial class, and not the persistent nuisance that heâs grown to be.
Because ever since the world has ended and youâve matched the elusive name to face, Gojo has managed to worm his way into your life. Heâs there, slinging his arm over Shokoâs shoulder as if you both arenât glaring into the side of his head for it, dragging his friend Geto over too, the long haired boy at least having the decency to smile apologetically though not enough decency to leave.
Shoko never tells him off, which you originally assumed was her one and only tragic personality flaw until you eventually learned theyâd been childhood best friends for almost twenty years. After that, it became easier to file her reactions away as a chronic, lifelong exasperation, the kind that slowly builds over decades until the only move left is to sigh and let the idiot sit down.
But did that idiot have to be Gojo?Â
Ever since he entered your orbit that horrible day in March, you canât seem to ignore his existence. You see those irritating thick-framed glasses around every corner on campus, his messy white hair sometimes tucked beneath the hood of his university jumper sometimes not, but always ruffled like he has just rolled out of bed. His laugh follows you around, a persistent soundtrack bleeding into every conversation you try to have with your actual friends. Heâs always there, hands in pockets, bulky backpack slung over both shoulders, slippers padding lazily against the pavement like heâs just walked straight out of his apartment and into your line of sight.
âRelax.â Shoko tells you one afternoon as you aggressively wiped down a table, the cafe quieter now the day was slipping into that evening quiet. âYou wonât have to see him ever again now that the semester is over. You can unclench.â
Her advice only makes you snort, giving the table one last swipe before straightening to look at her busied behind the counter. âNot true if you donât stop inviting him to everything. What made you even think of bringing him with us to the club last Friday?â
Your best friend opens her mouth as if to defend him and that alone is enough for you to gag.
âShoko, he showed up in a dress shirt. And a messenger bag. To the fucking club!â
âNot too much on him, he was coming straight from night classes.â
Like that helps his case. Like being top of the cohort, effortlessly breezing through the same exams that require endless all-nighters from you, isnât enough to satiate his greedy appetite. Like the universe hasnât already gift-wrapped him with endless talent, now he has to go above and beyond and take night classes too.
âYeah, well. You need to separate your personal life from your work life. Work-life balance.â
âI donât see how that makes sense,â Shoko retorts drily, speaking more to the sink than you as she washes up the last of the cups. âClubbing and Gojo are both my personal life. If anything, youâre the one bringing him into our work life right now.â
âYouâre the one that said being his friend is a full-time job.â
She sighs. âMinimal wage, too.â
You weave through the tables and duck behind the counter, tossing the rag into a discarded pile for the night staff to deal with, and squeeze Shokoâs shoulders as you pass behind her in the cramped space.
âHey,â you start, voice sweet. âLetâs cut him off.â
She shoves you off good-mannerly, pushing you again in the direction of the apron rack to help you with the knot. âCut him some slack, wonât you? Or donât. Just forget about him. Like I said, now that the semester is over, you wonât have any reason to see him ever again.â
âThatâs honestly up to you. Sure, I wonât see him in classes anymore but are you going to spontaneously invite him to lunch again? Heâs not coming to our Saturday cheese tasting plans, is he? What about that aquarium we wanted to check out?â
Her hands pause before she loosens the knot and turns so you can untie her apron in return. âIâll tell him no to both.â
âOh, so he asked?â
âYou have no idea.â As if sensing the rant already bubbling up your throat, Shoko quickly hands you your phone from under the counter. âBy the way, your phoneâs been buzzing the entire shift. Youâre not still talking to that guy, are you?â
You take it, dragging the screen down to scroll through missed notifications. âWho?â
âThe double texter.â
Thereâs the typical ones youâd expect, some Outlook emails about irrelevant study tips, some random Twitter notifications from the many inactive accounts youâve abandoned but never bothered logging out of, and miscellaneous app alerts you swipe away without reading. Buried beneath them though, is the familiar little red icon from that forum app you absolutely should have deleted months ago, a fresh reply sitting under the thread thatâs been irritating you all week.
Your mouth tightens and you swipe it away before you can be sucked away into the ragebait.
âY/N?â
âHm?â You look up, realising Shoko is still waiting for a response. âOh, no. This is⊠a guy from Hinge.â
The hesitation isnât lost on her but she gives you grace and doesnât press for the truth. âRight. Just be careful, alright? I donât know what is going on in this city anymore but thereâs been way too many incidents on the news about people going missing. You know itâs bad when all the news channels are all suddenly interviewing men in tight spandex suits.â
You snort, tucking your phone away to finish clocking out of your shift. ââMenâ like thereâs multiple. You mean that one spider guy, right? His superhero name is uncreative as hell.â
âHe shoots webs from his wrists and climbs walls, what else would he call himself?â
âAnything but the first thing a five year old could come up with. Thatâs like pointing to a man who can fly and calling him Flying Man.â
Shoko locks the cafe doors behind, the metal click satisfying after a long shift. She gives the handle two firm tugs just to be sure because the city is a mess apparently, then steps back so she can flip the sign to CLOSED, the glass catching a smear of gold from the streetlights outside.
âSuperhero names are hardly creative these days.â
âWeâre losing the ancient texts.â
By now, evening has settled in properly, the campus washed in that dusky blue-orange light that makes everything look prettier than it is. You stop to take a few photos of the sunset, then slip your phone away and breathe in the cool breeze as Shoko falls into step beside you, the two of you cutting across campus out toward the busier street.
âWhat ancient texts? Thereâs literally someone called Superman because heâs super.â
You roll your eyes. âThat is so not helping your case.â
âIt is helping my case because it proves people like straightforward names. Also, it helps with making merch.â
âHow can you be so confident and be so wrong?â
Shoko bumps your shoulder lightly as you walk, enough to make you sway half a step before you right yourself and return the gesture.
Cars hiss past at the intersection ahead, headlights briefly washing over the footpath. Somewhere behind you, someone shouts a name across the road and is followed by a burst of noisy laughter. Thereâs a kind of peace at this twilight, a sense of calm that feels despairing.
âAre you sure you donât want a lift?â Shoko asks as you both slow to a step, effectively dragging you out of a potential spiral. âI canât imagine the bus being your favourite form of transport.â
You blink at her before shaking your head, reorganising your thoughts. âItâs fine. Besides, I know you have that thing with Utahime later.â
âItâs not a thing. Weâre just going to a jazz bar.â
âSure, okay. But just the two of you.â
âWe did invite you,â Shoko reminds you with an unimpressed look. âYouâre the one that declined.â
âI wasnât going to third wheel again.â
âUtahime would kill you for saying that.â
âIâd be more worried that sheâd kill herself if she found out youâre not labelling it as a date.â
Shoko kicks a loose rock on the pavement, avoiding your eyes. âThatâs because itâs not a date. Itâs a jazz bar outing.â
âJazz is like, inherently romantic. Havenât you heard âCareless Whispersâ?â
âThatâs the dumbest thing youâve said all day. âCareless Whispersâ is about a man cheating,â
âWait, are you serious?â You shake your head to dispel the song from playing in your mind, reining in the conversation before she can successfully deflect. âAnd I doubt thatâs the dumbest thing Iâve said all day. I think Iâve had some better bangers.â
âTrue, the dumbest thing that left your mouth was probably Gojo. You know, for someone who claims to hate him, you sure do talk about Gojo a lot. Donât groan at me, Iâm just saying.â
âIâm complaining about him. That has to be different.â
Shoko tilts her head, studying you up and down as she considers your words. She ends her evaluation with a hum. âI donât know, people usually donât spend that much time thinking about someone they actually donât care about.â
The implications are so frankly absurd the only thing you can do is wish her well. âIâm going to kill you.â
She raises her hands in surrender, already backing away in the direction of the parking lot.âAnyway! Thereâs no reason to complain about him anymore. Live a little!â
âPlease,â you scoff. âLike Iâd ever willingly think about Gojo ever again. You donât need to tell me that.â
She laughs softly, catching the words just before they disappear with the wind. You watch her back for a few seconds longer before blinking out of your thoughts. For some reason, the sound follows you all the way to the bus stop.
Realistically, Shokoâs words have some truth to them. It is rather easy to forget all about Gojo and his crimes against humanity (you) when you donât see him over the two-week break. Instead, you go to concerts with Utahime, visit art museums with Nanami and gossip and giggle over brunch with Shoko.
There's a peaceful monotony as days blend into each other, until one morning when your alarm rings at an hour once familiar to you and you get up to start another semester.
Checking your timetable one more time, you sigh at your misfortune. It was inevitable that your courses wouldnât always align with the rest of your friends. In fact, it was a miracle that you even had classes with Shoko last semester considering she wasnât even doing the same degree. You shouldnât be too disappointed after all, when you posted a story asking if anyone else was taking this course, a few people you vaguely recognised had swiped up. They're mostly acquaintances, people youâve met once from parties and events, but itâs miles better than being alone.
You double-check the lecture hall number one last time outside the building, hoping the extra second will magically give you the cure to the brewing headache at your temples, before you finally push open the door.
The buzz of conversation hits you immediately. Rows of students fill the lecture hall, voices overlapping as people reunite after the break, bags dropping onto chairs and laptops snapping open performatively. A few heads turn when you walk in, not unusual unfortunately, but you pretend not to notice, adjusting the strap of your tote as you scan the room.
You spot some familiar faces sitting toward the back, relief loosening the tight knot in your chest as you begin to climb the steps.
The smile on your face drops the moment your eyes driftâthose traitorous thingsâto the front row.
Gojo slouches in his seat, the tiny fold-out table already pulled out in front of him, bag resting on top. Heâs the only one sitting front row and centre, and considering how immersed he is with his phone, you doubt he has any plans to share the space with anyone else. He causally lifts his glasses with his finger in a way you thought perfectly suits his pretentious personality.
His hood is thrown over his head, feet stretching out in front of him. One of his hoodie strings is kept between his lips as he absentmindedly chews at it, so relaxed, so casual, so oblivious to the world ending around you.
You freeze.
Someone tries to enter the hall and almost bumps into you, and itâs this near collision that finally jolts you into motion. Your instincts kick in and you hastily duck your head, climbing up the stairs where your friends are waiting.
Nobara waves you closer, tucking her feet closer to her chest to let you into the row. âHey, Y/N! It's been a while.â
âHey,â you say, hoping it comes off casual and not dripped in fear. âYeah, I didnât think you were doing this course too. What a coincidence. Hey, can you give me a second?"
When you sink into your chair, you whip out your phone and frantically type away.
you: no fucking way
im going to kill myself
shoko: ik u have some crazy attachment issues but uâll get over it i promise
utahime: aww i think its cute u miss us so much if not a little pathetic
you: i dont give a gaf about that anymore
u wouldnt believe who else is taking this course
shoko: weâre not the fucking akinator guy y/n
utahime: i could be if u gave me more hints
guy or girl?
are they a youtuber?
you: itâs gojo
utahime: wtf spoilers??
wait gojo oh my god LMAOO
shoko: oh ure definitely gonna tweak
Your eyes only tear away from Gojo when the lecturer enters the room and when the door closes behind him, you feel the sudden, irrational urge to bolt for the exit. Because was it just your imagination or was there a sense of finality to that door slam? Gojo was meant to be a nightmare for one semester, a pain in the ass for one chapter of your life and yet here he is, the back of his head just as infuriating as the front.
âWelcome to neuropharmacology3211.â When the lecturer begins the lesson, you watch as Gojo barely sits up to listen. âIâll pass along the attendance sheet now. Just for everyoneâs sanity I need to let you know that these lectures arenât compulsory, however we do encourage you to attend.â
You panic. An attendance sheet. With your name on it. For all to see.
You watch in despair as it begins its slow journey across your side of the lecture hall. Mournfully, you tick off your name with Nobaraâs pen and pass the paper along, trying not to imagine the inevitable moment it reaches the front row.
Around and around it goes until it stops at the last person, the only person sitting in the front row on the left side of the hall.
Gojo absentmindedly spins his pen, flipping the paper to the other side when he canât find his name. He runs a finger down the list as the lecturer drones though you doubt either you or Gojo are actually paying attention.
From this distance you canât make out his subtle movements but at one point, he stops spinning his pen and looks up, glancing briefly around the room.
You immediately duck down, finding something immensely interesting about your laptop. You donât look up until Nobara elbows you gently and asks if you need any ibuprofen. You shake your head, daring to cautiously peek over the edge of your laptop.
Gojo continues to face the front and you let out a small sigh of relief, straightening just enough to give off your best impression of someone who has been paying attention the entire time.
It's the usual mandatory assessment outline, a rundown on everything that actually mattered in the course: midterms, finals, biweekly quizzes. You mindlessly add the dates to your calendar until the professor highlights the missing 20% of the final grade.
âAnd finally, there is a pair presentation due in week 7.â Your eyes twitch and you cast your gaze back to the front. âThe details of the assessment will be explained during this weekâs lab so ask your questions then.â
A group project. Even worse, in pairs. Your eyes slide instinctively toward Gojo and the dread in your stomach collapses in on itself, condensing into something dense and horrible.
âYour pair and topic will be emailed to you later today.â The professor continues and when groans echo across the room, they only chuckle, undeterred. âDiversity is good for group work. Your colleagues wonât always be your friend.â
You glance around the room. How many people were in this class? Many, so many. What are the chances you get paired with Gojo? Slim, at least you hope so.
The moment the lecture ends, you shove your laptop into your bag, and flash Nobara an apologetic smile as you book it for the door. You keep your head down, both hands clutching your tote as it digs into your shoulder while you weave through the crowd spilling into the aisle.
Freedom appears as a bright light before you, and you almost think youâre safe whenâ
âNo way.â
Your pace stutters and against every instinct in your body screaming at you to keep walking, you freeze.
âY/N?â
Someone knocks into your shoulder on the way out and before you can use the momentum to slip out with the rest of the crowd, a hand grabs your arm and pulls you to the side.
You glare up at Gojoâs stupid face. He peers down at you, all ego and cocky exterior, like heâs discovered something entertaining. He sniffles, rubs his nose and pushes up his glasses all in one making you grimace at his apparent lack of hygiene.
âGod, why did it have to be you?â you grumble, more to yourself than him. You shake off his hold, pressing your arm to your side to prevent any further contact. âDonât touch me.â
âI knew I saw your name on the attendance sheet.â He smirks down at you, taking in the familiar sight of your frown. âCome on, smile a little. Youâre making it look like I'm extorting you.â
âDon't talk to me like weâre familiar, Gojo.â
âArenât we?â
âWe aren't.â
âWe talk though.â
âYou talk, I try my best to ignore you.â
âWe have mutual friends.â He points out next as if this hasnât been the sole reason for your pain and suffering. God bless Shokoâs kind, patient heart for putting up with him, but if you had to see his face at another outing you might decide to wrap your fingers around your neck and squeeze instead of staying.
âUnfortunately.â
His lips only curl into that irritating and carefree smile, worse when you decide begrudgingly that it could also pass as charming. Any potential compliment dies immediately when he speaks again.
âWhat crawled up your ass and died?â
âDonât talk about my ass.â
âCome on, are you still being a sore loser over finals? You had two whole weeks to get over that.â
That gets you. You exhale sharply, eyes narrowing dangerously as you lean forward to poke at his chest.
âFirst of all,â you begin, âI am not being a sore loser over finals. The one making a big deal of things is you so if youâre trying to get my attention, there are far less tedious ways.â
His eyebrows shoot up. âYou think I'm trying to get your attention?â
âIs there another reason why you wonât leave me alone, Gojo?â You sigh like itâs the most obvious thing. âLook, youâre not my type and thatâs okay. Not everyone can be. But seriously, sticking to me like an annoying bug isnât going to fix that. If anything, it worsens your chances, not that you had any to begin with.â
He waits and when you only seethe, he prompts you, âAnd?â
You blink, temporarily off guard. âThatâs it.â
âThen why did you start withâfirst of allâ?â
Your eyes narrow. âItâs like talking to a genie with some of you people.â
His grin is too easy, too casual as if you werenât fighting for your life to restrain from murdering him, as if he isnât standing between you and your only exit from this hell.
âHey, I just wanted to clarify,â he says, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender that only grinds your gears further. âNo need to get so pissy. Itâs not a good look on you.â
You grit your teeth. âNo defense for the allegations though, I see.â
Gojo looks around with a hum, eyes doing a lazy sweep of the emptying lecture hall, hands lowering slightly. âYouâd think after all this time, youâd finally get the hint.â
He casts his gaze back to you expectantly, failing to elaborate on his cryptic message and you take a moment to think.
There were many things he isnât exactly subtle about:Â
flaunting his academic prowess
how much he seems to thrive off your annoyance
You pick the second. âWhat, that you get off to a pretty woman telling you to kill yourself?â
He presses his lips together, as if giving it serious thought. Your face immediately twists into something that can only be described as a grimace, and he laughs.
âDo you usually spend a lot of time thinking about what gets me off?â
âDo you always have to ask me stupid questions?â
âOnly because you always find a way to make the answers fun.â
âI'm telling you this now, Gojo. Youâve outgrown the age where teasing the girl you like works,â you shoot back with a snarl, unable to hide your frustration.
For a moment, something in his expression shifts.
Gojoâs eyes drop and you feel his gaze burn down your neck and drag from your top to your shoes. You canât help but shiver at the intensity of his stare and maybe he notices because he scoffs, looking away. âThat hurts my reputation. Youâre not my type.â
Your eye twitches. âBat for the other team, do you?â
âHow egotistical. You think just because a guy doesnât like you he must be gay?â
âWell, thereâs definitely a higher likelihood."
âYou must have tested that with a small sample size because that doesnât sound statistically significant.â
You roll your eyes, shifting your weight to edge closer to the door. âOf course you canât help but be a fucking nerd about everything."
âWhining doesnât exactly help your side of the argument."
âNo, but it might stop me from reaching over and punting your head in.â
Gojo whistles low, the noise sharper now that most students have left. âAre you purposefully testing me? I thought we established that I liked girls who keep me on my toes.â
You wrinkle your nose. âThereâs a difference between keeping someone on their toes and wanting to throttle them.â
âYou better be careful because it's a thinner line than most for me.â
âYou are disgusting.â
âThat doesnât explain why you keep talking to me, though.â
âLike I have a choice. Youâre the one who grabbed my arm. If I miss my bus because of you doing whatever this is with me, I will put you in the ground.â
âYouâre still here though.â
You sigh, exasperated. âBecause youâre standing in the fucking doorway, you idiot.â
âOh,â he says, but makes absolutely no move to step aside.
You inhale slowly through your nose, channeling a calm you most certainly do not feel. âMove.â
âSay please.â
Your smile turns dangerously sweet. âI said move.â
âStill not hearing the magic word.â
You give up, sensing youâll only continue to lose. Before you can suck it up and brush past him, dreading even the brief contact of his shoulder against yours, he steps closer. His gaze flutters down for a moment, something foreign passing over his face as he clears his throat.
It makes your heart seize at how unfamiliar he looks, though that fades quickly when his eyes snap back up, that irritating grin firmly in place.
âActually, I was thinking. Are you free thisââ Before he can finish, a loud tune sounds from his pocket and he groans, abandoning his words to pull out his phone. The smile that had been on his face scrunches up, and he absentmindedly types a response with one hand before looking back up at you. âMy bad. I was going say if youâreââ
But in the few seconds his attention is elsewhere, youâve already bolted.
âHey, wait!â His voice chases after you and you press on, echoing faintly against the tiled floors as you round the corner at a pace thatâs just shy of running. âIâm going to count this as my win if you run away from me!â
You jam your airpods into your ears with unnecessary force, scrolling blindly until music floods your head and drowns him out completely.
If the world was going to convince you it wasnât about to end, it better start looking up for you soon.
Unfortunately, the world really doesnât give a shit about what you think because your karmic debt piles high.
Shoko had abandoned you in your time of need, leaving you to tackle the shift alone. You close the cafe door behind you, turning the key so that the handle doesnât rattle under your palm, and sniff when the cold air immediately bites at your face. Your scarf comes up instinctively, burying your nose and mouth as a harsh wind cuts through the street now that youâre no longer protected by the warmth of the cafe.
What a long day.
You clutch your scarf as it flutters wildly until the wind settles, the evening air growing still enough that it stops stinging your cheeks.
Nothing particularly bad had even happened today.
It wasnât overly busy though it was far from quiet. You even managed to pass the long hours when some old friends showed up, though the conversation had only lasted as long as it took to make their coffee.
But when itâs still or in the moments when you wait for a customerâs order, you feel something unpleasant settle in. The air feels too stale, time clicking by too slowly and the sensation of the ground moving beneath is unnerving. Your eyes refuse to move at times and you find yourself zoning out at nothing, hands moving in autopilot as you make drink after drink after drink, the repetition slowly pulling you apart one seam at a time.
Your feet find their way to the bus stop and you breathe out slowly, mist curling into the cold evening air as you look up to watch it dissipate.
How freeing would it be to be up there? The wind in your hair, biting cold against your nose and the tips of your ears, the rush of air in your lungs, and that terrifying exhilaration that comes from rising and falling and rising again. You imagine being weightless, being untouchable, being above it all and finally free.
You shake that nonsense thought away.
Itâs just one of those bad days.
The bus pulls up, blowing exhaust and humid air, and youâve only just placed a foot onto the bus when a loud crash sounds to your left.
You look over just as something flies past and slams into the bus stop, the metal denting under the immense weight. Itâs not your finest moment but you duck, covering your head, and let out a scream as the loud noise deafens you.
The bus drives off in the chaos, certainly breaking several traffic laws, and you curse the driver when you realise youâve been abandoned.
Peeking an eye open as the dust settles, you lower your arms and come face to face with the heavy object that had slammed against the stand.
Slowly, you ask, â...Spiderman?â
The blue and white figure coughs, hitting his chest with his fist. âYou called?â
Spiderman looks up and freezes. It might be your imagination but he looks even more winded when his eyes lock on yours. Actually, youâre certain itâs your imagination because his mask completely obscures his facial expressions, save for the slight widening of the white parts indicating his eyes.
You crawl forward a little. âShit, you went down hard. Do you have a concussion?â
The superhero runs a battered hand down his face, stopping only when it slides down to cover his mouth, and lets out a muffled groan. âYou have got to be fucking kidding.â
You blink. âExcuse me?â
Before he can say anything else, a wet, splintering crack sounds from across the street.
You look over your shoulder as he tilts to look around you. A man staggers out of gate five beside the university-run pharmacy, though stagger might be too human a word for it. Something black and shining writhes over his body, swallowing him from the neck down like spilled tar, except tar doesnât pulse. It stretches over his arms in twitching strands and thickens into jagged unnatural muscle, back hunching with a sickening pop as he lurches forward.
You rub your eyes and stare again.
âI know the feeling,â Spiderman says, pushing himself upright with a wince. âThatâs my exact review too.â
The thingâs head jerks in your direction.
Spiderman notices before you do, wringing out his hands and doing some jumping jacks on the spot. âAnd thatâs my cue to ask you very calmly to start running.â
When the thing charges at you, thereâs no time to pretend to be composed. You let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek and fling yourself backward as the thing barrels forward. A web shoots from behind you and lands on the bus stop-frame, yanking Spiderman into its path just in time to take the hit instead.
He gets absolutely bodied.
âJesus Christ,â you blurt as he falls back further down the road.
Spiderman slings to grab onto a nearby, and luckily deserted car, and slams it into the side of the villain, picking himself up in the few seconds he has to breathe when the figure crashes into a nearby building.
âI know,â he wheezes, dusting off his suit. âEveryone says that when they see me. Iâm basically the second coming of that guy.â
âAre you okay? Do you need⊠backup?â You look around at the site. Cars have started swerving and backing away to avoid the scene and bystanders are ducked somewhere safe. You alone remain inside the heavily damaged bus stop a few metres from where the figure is now pulling itself onto his feet.
Realistically, you should do the smart thing and hide, too. But one feeble attempt to get on your feet tells you what you already know; that youâve managed to fuck up your ankle in your panic.
Spiderman has his hands thrown up. âWhy are you not running? I told you to run.â
âWhy are you losing?â
âIâm not losing,â he snaps, affronted. âAre you always this difficult? Listen to the cityâs superhero and get out of here.â
âIf this is my superhero, then Iâm already cooked.â
The creature roars and charges again, much alike a bull seeing red and youâre the unfortunate sole on the ground in its path.
Spiderman seems to have enough sense to conclude thereâs something wrong with your body and not your head as he swears, shooting two webs in quick succession, one to a traffic light pole and the other to the creatureâs arm, trying to stabilise himself to swing the heavy villain sideways. It works for maybe half a second before the pole lifts off the ground and Spiderman sighs before being the one flung away.
You watch as Spiderman hits the ground hard, again. Thankfully, itâs enough distraction for the figure to leave you alone but you can only grimace especially when he picks himself up.
Spiderman pushes up on one knee, clearly trying to buy time, and calls, âHey, big guy, quick question before you maul me. Is this like, a skincare thing? Because I think whatever routine youâre on is clogging your pores. Thereâs a pharmacy right over there. Want me to get you some pimple patches?â
The figure ignores his provocation by charging forward again and itâs you that looks back over your shoulder at the pharmacy. Frankly put, your trust in the masked vigilante is at an all time low and if thereâs any chance of living beyond this encounter, you need to do something.
Despite the throbbing pain in your ankle, you pull yourself up against the dented wall of the bus stop and edge closer to the campus. Then, you break into a valiant attempt at a sprint.
âThatâs it, get out of here!â he calls out after you.
You grit your teeth both from the pain and general annoyance. âIâm not running!â
âWhat the hell are you doing then?â
âSomething useful, unlike you!â
Spiderman finally looks up from wrangling with the figure. âHuh?â
You manage to limp to the pharmacy and wrench its fire extinguisher free from its bracket, using more effort than expected especially as youâre already winded and nearly fumble with the weight of it. You spin back around just as the creature grabs Spiderman by the throat and slams him into the side of the bus stop again. You hobble back to the scene with a sympathetic wince.
My God, the thing is already gone, leave it alone.
The figure looms over the fallen superhero, the goo oozing off solidifying into a slimy tendril that sharpens. It slides along Spidermanâs jaw and tilts his head up, cutting right through the fabric of his mask before stopping at his throat.
The figure opens its mouth as if to say something but is cut off when you yank the pin with shaking hands. For a moment, nothing happens and youâre all about ready to apologise and excuse yourself from the scene when the extinguisher goes off in a violent burst of white foam that manages to encapsulate the figure despite the distance.
The black mass recoils with a horrible screech, the sound sharp and inhuman, like nails scratching against metal. It peels back in frantic, rippling waves, twitching and writhing away from the spray. The man underneath the goo drops to one knee, gasping as his eyes roll back down from the back of his head, and shudders before collapsing on the ground.
What remains of the gunk ripples along the pavement before slithering down a gutter and leaving nothing behind, almost as if nothing had ever happened. If not for the battered bus stop and the hole in the wall.
You lower the extinguisher slowly, breathless. âMaybe I should give this superhero thing a shot.â
âNah, I donât think you have the guts for it.â
Before you can even turn properly to defend your case, strong arms hook around you and the ground disappears.
The sound that leaves you is less scream and more pure, humiliated terror as gravity tilts sideways. You catch a flash of white, the sharp snap of a web latching somewhere high above, and then heâs hauling you up with it, body lifting clean off the pavement.
âWaitââ
The city drops out beneath you in dizzying blurs of orange streetlights and rooftops, your stomach left somewhere back by the ruined bus stop. Spiderman carries you like you weigh nothing, one arm locked securely around your waist whilst the other shoots webs with impossible precision, each swing smooth despite the fact that he had been getting his ass kicked mere seconds ago. Wind tears at your scarf and shoves tears from your eyes.
You clutch at him with both hands âHold on, we need to go back and help that guy!â
âIâm a superhero, not a paramedic!â Spiderman calls back, voice steady despite the speed. âHeâll be fine, help is already on the way. But thereâs an unconscious guy on the ground, a destroyed bus stop, at least six insurance claims, and Iâm pretty sure your bus abandoned you ages ago. You cannot stay there.â
âAnd thatâs the reason why Iâm up here?â
âSuperhero, my ass,â he might have said but your attention is pulled in far too many directions to be sure.
You make the fatal mistake of looking down. The road below is a smear of headlights and moving colour, terrifyingly far away.
âOh my God,â you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut again. âThis is how I die. Iâm going to become roadkill. Iâm going to go splat.â
âThat is so hurtful after I literally just rescued you.â
âI would still be grateful if you had left it there.â
His laugh is snatched by the wind, warm and infuriating and entirely too amused for someone who had looked so pathetic sprawled out on the ground. He adjusts his grip slightly when your fingers knot tighter in the front of his suit, and if he notices how hard youâre shaking, he has the decency to not make anymore comments, swinging you both up in a smooth arc.
âOkay,â he relents. âDeep breaths, Iâm not actually going to drop you.â
You give your most valiant attempt of a snort. âTelling me to breathe deeply as Iâm not already trying.â
âWould you prefer shallow, panicked ones then?â
âI would prefer to be on the ground!â
âYour wish is my command.â
After another swing and a sharp turn that nearly rips your soul from your body, Spiderman descends toward the quieter edge of campus and lands in a narrow pedestrian lane beside the university security office. Itâs bright here, washed in fluorescent light, and close enough to the main road that you can already hear the traffic and voices navigating the post-chaos.
The second your shoes touch concrete, your knees threaten to fold. You grab his arm on instinct, digging your fingers in as you glance at him. âYou do that every day?â
You can almost hear the smugness in his voice, and something else. âItâs basically my 9-5.â
Itâs most definitely just your imagination but you feel as though his gaze softens, looking at you trembling like a newborn bird. He watches as you regain sensation in your legs though your hand remains on his arm. He doesnât make any move to remove it.
A baffled laugh escapes you, more air than sound. âI canât believe Iâm still alive.â
âDo you need to sit down?â
You shake your head softly. âIâm fine⊠thank you for saving me, Spiderman.â
âI should be thanking you. I was getting my ass kicked out there.â
âI know, I saw.â
He tilts his head. âI thought you were thankful?â
âBoth those things can be true at the same time.â Then, you go on your tippy toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. âBut Iâm definitely very thankful.âÂ
You feel the superhero stiffen under your touch and the white fabric of his mask widens before he jerks slightly backward, free hand flying up to hover over where you kissed. âDid you justââ
Thereâs something about the tone of his voice, pitched higher now in surprise, that has you blinking. âYou soundâŠâ
If you werenât sure about his tension before, he most definitely freezes now, his hand pulling back down to rest over your hand on his arm and pull it off. âOh, uhâyou should head back, injured and stupid civilian. I know the people in the office. They should be able to get you home.â
âNo wait, hold on.â You narrow your eyes, taking a step forward that he immediately responds to by stepping back. âDo I know you?â
He points at himself, backing away slowly. âMe? You might have seen me on the news or seen one of my promotional posters.â
âNo, because you were weird the second you saw me.â
âI was bleeding out and on the verge of death,â he says. âLetâs not pathologise me.â
âYou looked right at me and said something like, âyou have got to be fucking kiddingâ.â
He tilts his head and takes another step back. âDid I say that? Hm, no, not ringing any bells. Your ankle is injured, maybe stop walking towards me. Youâre freaking me out and I donât do well with girls.â
You open your mouth to say more when he suddenly points at something over your shoulder. âOh shit, is that a bird? A plane?â
You turn instinctively. There is no one there, of course, but itâs a realisation seconds too late. Because by the time you whip back around, heâs already two steps away, web fired high above, body coiled to launch.
âOh, you assholeââ
âGet home safe!â he calls, voice cheerful in a way that irks you.
âWaitââ
He shoots upward before the word can properly leave your mouth. You hobble forward, outrage momentarily stronger than the pain in your ankle.
âYou canât just dump me here and leave!â you yell after him. âIâm literally injured! Jerk!â
âMaâam, can we help you?â
You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart.
You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart.
Itâs only when the sun has lowered into a splash of pink and orange in the sky that you finish tolerating the endless questioning from both the security office staff and the police. Thankfully, theyâre kind enough to drive you back to your apartment though youâre slightly annoyed the rest of the day had been wasted on telling them âI donât knowâ over and over again.
The moment you step back into your room, your phone buzzes with multiple notifications. Thereâs an Outlook email from your neuropharmacology course and three texts from an unknown number.
unknown: looks like you lucked out and weâre partners
itâs gojo btw
lets meet tomorrow @ uni library
And because you genuinely cannot feel even worse than you already do, you turn your face to bury into your pillow and groan.Â
You donât end up confirming Gojoâs plans until halfway through your morning tutorial the next day when he double texts.
DO NOT ANSWER: ?
donât leave me on read
you can hate me all u want but the project is worth 20% yk!!!!!!
you: ok
time?
DO NOT ANSWER: ohhh so now u respond huh
id hate to think im forgettable
you: time
DO NOT ANSWER: (â„ïčâ„)
iâll get on campus at 12 ish so like in ten minutes
You push the thought that as a grown man, he really shouldnât be texting like that away, and flip your phone back down on the table just as the class ends.
âWant to check out this new bingsu place near the station?â Utahime chatters as she shoves her iPad into her tote and picks up her coffee, watching you follow behind albeit slower with dread. âThey have this new Thai tea bingsu and it looks crazy good. Shoko swears by it butâand you canât tell her I said thisâitâs crazy that she went out for lunch without us. Does she not fuck with us anymore? Who did she even go with?â
You smile wistfully at her. âI wish I could, Utahime, but I already have plans after this.â
âWhat the fuck, et tu?â She processes your words with a frown. âDid you take on a shift today? I thought you only had this one class today.â
âNo, itâs even worse. I need to lock in for my neuropharmacology assessment.â
She pauses, cup halfway to her mouth before her lips split into a wide grin. âOh my God. With Gojo?â
You groan, zipping your bag with more force than necessary. You sling it over your shoulder and try to hurry away from her, but itâs too late and she follows quickly after.
âDonât remind me.â
âYouâre choosing to hang out with Gojo over me?â Her voice peaks at the end, and you hate how happy she looks at the thought of you ditching her.
âThis isnât a choice I want to make at all so donât say it like that. And donât look so happy, freak.â
âOh, this is rich. You were bitching about him all of last semester and now youâre choosing him over me?â Utahime giggles, pulling out her phone with her free hand. âShoko is going to love this.â
You raise an eyebrow, catching the opening. âI thought you were mad at her for getting lunch without you? Youâre so fickle.â
She hums absentmindedly, already outing your situation to the group chat, no doubt. âOur friendship runs deeper than one betrayal.â
You grin as you approach the library stairs, looking back over your shoulder. âFriendship, huh?â
She whips her head up at you, eyes flickering down to her cup where the red words written across the side spells out a cute reminder to have a good day. A flush creeps up her face. âWhat? Donât say that like itâs something to point out! We are friends!â
âI didnât even say anything!â
âYouâre giving me that look again. Iâm not a blind masochist, Y/N. I can tell when you have something to say, and Iâm not taking it lying down.â
âYouâre just lucky I havenât said a word to Shoko yet.â
Utahime grumbles, crossing her arms. âIf you do, Iâll kill myself.â
You laugh, glad to get the last word. âIâll see you later, Utahime. Go say hi to Shoko for me!â
âI will see Shoko, but only to tell her that.â
âSure,â you say, and enter the building.
The library is busy, bustling with students as they lean over textbooks and clack away at their laptops. Itâs not quite midterm season yet, so the fact that the library is so full should be concerning. With so many heads bent down, there is little chance youâll find Gojo.
You swallow your pride and pull out your phone.
you: iâm here
where are you?
DO NOT ANSWER: not her eyet wa it
wait
smth came up
You frown. Heâs the one who set the time and has the audacity to be late? Typical for someone as inconsiderate as him, you decide, and choose a table near the back of the library just so he can struggle to find you when he finally arrives.
You take out your laptop and start a new document, opening the tab for the marking rubric, the assessment notification, and some articles you found doing a quick search on PubMed. You even get around to dot-pointing one of them when someone dumps their bag on the table next to you.
You jump. âFuck.â
âDid I scare you?â
The voice alone is enough to make you freeze though you quickly snap out of it to glare up at the culprit. Gojo stands beside you, panting slightly, running a hand through his messy hair like itâll fix his disheveled appearance. The buttons of his shirt are mismatched and one side of his collar is tucked inward.
âHey,â he greets with a lopsided smile.
âHow are you late when youâre the one who said to meet at twelve?â
Gojo shrugs as if it isnât a big deal and flops into the seat next to you. You had intended for him to sit across the table but you didnât have the time to slip the words into the conversation before he starts talking.
âDidnât I tell you? I had something to do. Did you read my texts with your eyes closed or something?â
âIf you think I could have deciphered that from what you said, then youâre dumber than I thought. Did you run into an electric fence or something?â
He smiles at you like your words had been an inside joke. âI told you after that part.â
âDo you ever take anything seriously? This is worth twenty percent of our grade. You canât just mess around and expect to still do well.â
âCanât I? Itâs always worked before.â
And because you donât doubt that, it only serves to piss you off even more. He catches onto your scowl, smirk widening.
âRelax, youâll pop a blood vessel. We still have weeks to get this done so who cares?â
You roll your eyes and force yourself to be satisfied with just that, turning back to to your laptop in an effort to calm down. âMe, obviously. Look, Iâm only staying on campus until two, so letâs just get this done quickly so we can both leave. Iâm sure you donât want to be here either so letâs just be adults and get this over and done with.â
You take a deep breath and prepare yourself to look back at him and point out what youâve already planned on the document but stop short when you find him already watching you.
You grimace and edge away slightly. âWhat?â
âNothing.â He shifts to pull out his laptop and then a wired mouse.
You eye the chunky device with disbelief, wondering if perhaps his bag is bigger on the inside than the outside and then at its corded pet. Itâs only when he pulls out yet another accessory, a mouse pad, that you blurt, âDo you seriously carry a whole gaming laptop setup with you every day for class?â
Gojo holds down the power button for a couple of seconds, the fans whirring to life and filling the library with insistent static.
âYeah, I love this thing. It can handle all my programs and I can play League on it too so whatâs not to like? It can run Sims 4 and all my CCâs without any lag, itâs literally my baby. Itâs only right that I give it everything it needs in return.â
You scrunch your nose. âYou play into the stereotype way too much.â
âWhat stereotype?â
âWhat else? The nerd stereotype.â
He huffs, apparently offended. âIâm not a nerd.â
âArenât you?â You eye him up and down. âYou tick off all the boxes. The glasses, the smartass attitude, the gaming laptopââ
âYou wear glasses.â He starts listing, holding out his hand to count.
âI wear contacts.â
âBut you wear your glasses in the morning. For morning tutorials and lectures and stuff,â he continues, undeterred. âYou carry yourself like youâre better than everyone elseââ
âI do notââ
âThough youâre probably too broke to buy a gaming laptop so I guess itâs better to be a nerd than whatever you are.â He finishes with a smug grin that makes you want to curl your fingers into a fist and throw that right into his pretty face.
âI donât carry myself like Iâm better than anyone,â you decide to clear up.
He makes an unconvinced sound. âYou do.â
âI donât.â You press your lips together and sigh, breaking the eye contact though not without effort. âStop trying to waste my time.â
âYou found me out. âThrough the whirring of his laptop, you can make out his slight chuckle. He leans onto the table with his elbows, voice almost a childish whine. âLetâs talk. Why do you hate me so much?â
Your fingers stutter on your keyboard. Sucking in a deep breath, you turn your head and face him on. ââI donât hate you. Obviously.
âObviously,â he repeats, the curl of his lips an obvious indicator that he doesnât believe you. âBut youâre always frowning when we talk.â
âWe donât talk,â you emphasise again and against your attempt at nonchalance, your brows pinch together. âAnd I donât hate you.â
âRight? I havenât even done anything to you.â
Your eye twitches at that. You rein it in, rein in that explosive feeling in your chest as if another word from his mouth will send you spiralling. You know it will, as inevitable as the crash-out youâll be having to Shoko later at the cafe.
âGojo,â you start calmly. âWe have four weeks to do this assessment and frankly, I still have a life to live outside this so letâs just get this over and done with, okay?â
He looks at you a little longer and you would have asked what exactly he was searching for on your face, but something tells you that opening this can of worms will only confuse you more so you only stare back.
âAlright,â he says finally. âAdd me to the document.â
You hit share and tilt your laptop towards him, watching as his long fingers dwarf your keyboard. He slides it back over and you nod, satisfied. âI already looked at some sources so you can just start off one of those.â
Gojo glances back at his gaming laptop, clicking on the document. You watch as a new anonymous user hops onto the page: Anonymous Snow Leopard. Heâs already typing away and when you click on the animal to find his cursor, heâs finishing off a second sentence notably not under one of those articles you had found. You frown as you read.
âHold on.â
He sighs, fingers pausing. âWhat now?â
You point to your screen at where heâs stopped typing. âYou canât just say things like this without a source.â
âIâll cite it later.â
âThatâs now how you research. Youâre meant to find an article first and then write your own interpretation afterwards based on it.â
He waves his hand dismissively. âPotato, potahto.â
âOkay, no. We are not doing this.â
âSee, this is where your pretentiousness kicks in.â
âWhat, because I know how to research properly?â
âBecause youâre trying to control every little thing.â
âIâm not being controlling, This counts to my grade too so I have a say.â
âAnd whereâs my say?â
âYouâre thinking too far, maybe focus on actually saying something useful first.â
âSee? Pretentious.â
âPot calling the kettle black.â
âSo you admit it?â
âMaybe, do you?â
He leans in, sneering. âIâve gotten top marks doing it my way and Iâm not going to change it now just because you have some inferiority complex over me.â
You flush, leaning back. âWell, Iâve gotten high marks doing it my way! And I donât have an inferiority complex, much less to you.â
âThen you can use your method and Iâll use mine. We donât have to collaborate any more than we need to.â
You hate to admit that he might be right. Outwardly however, you grit your teeth and summon an inner peace. âGojo. Find an article before you start talking out of your ass.â
He groans as if deeply inconvenienced and though the sound makes you tense as if he might spit out another remark, he only turns back to his laptop and clicks open a new tab with exaggeration.
âFine, fine. Geez. Youâre really annoying, you know that?â he grumbles, slouching in his seat.
Youâre about to drop another snarky response when something on his screen catches your eye, a tab peeking out in a red tab folder titled self indulgent. You lean forward slightly, catching the title when his cursor flicks by. It seems like an impossible task to read the words in the split second when the pop-up shows, if you hadnât been stunlocked on that tab yourself earlier that week.
hoping thereâs a modification of kumamonâs line, r/digimon.
âWait,â you blurt, placing your hand on his arm.
He freezes under your touch, though you pay no attention to the sensation. âWhat?â
âWas that a Digimon Reddit thread?â
Gojo doesnât say anything for a while, and you have to look over at him to check if he was paying attention. His shoulders seem visibly tense, eyes flickering to the tab and then over at you. ââŠNo?â
You donât wait for permission, sliding your own laptop to the side to take a hold of his. He makes a brief noise of protest, hands coming up as if to stop you, but they pause right before touching. The hesitation gives you the chance to click on the tab.
The screen that loads confirms your suspicions. Your eyes widen, taking in the familiar Digimon forum, open to the exact post youâve spent the last week arguing in the comments. âYouâre in the Digimon subreddit?â
âDonât do this. You already give me enough shit about carrying a gaming laptop. Donât ruin this nostalgia for me,â he mutters, looking away, and you finally realise that his tense shoulders might be because heâs bracing for an impact that isnât coming. You find yourself, somewhat absently, marvelling at the sudden quietness of him. Maybe this is what people see when they talk about Gojo like heâs the second coming of Jesus.
You laugh in disbelief.
He only stiffens more until you exclaim, âGojoverrated?â
âLook, I made that username when I was twelve and it just stuck, alright? Iâm sure your usernames at twelve were much worseââ
âSo it was you that wrote that stupid rant about Kumamonâs evolution! It was like, a thousand words!â
Gojo whips around to face you immediately. His eyes take you in, sweeping up and down your appearance as if trying to associate you with your words. âYou pronounced Kumamon right. You know about the post? You read it?â
âAre you questioning my reading comprehension skills now?â
âNo, Iââ he stutters, actually tripping over his words in front of you which only makes your smile widen. He clears his throat and tries again. âI just meantâyou read this?â
âRead it? I responded to it, smartass.â
Thereâs a long pause, and you wait for recognition to dawn. He straightens slowly, eyes opening wide. âThereâs no way. Youâre notââ
You beam. âIâm Digimonlvr3000!ââSurprise aside, you should not be saying that username with so much pride.â But then he stares at you like the ground beneath him has just fallen through. âBut shut up, thereâs no fucking way.â
âYou seriously hate the transition from Grizzmon to GrapLeomon?â you start, elbows resting on the table as you lean in. The same banter falls from your lips, but you refuse to acknowledge how it lacks venom.
âYou canât just go from a bear cub to a bear, and then to some mechanical lion-man, and then a unicorn-panther-headed half-nude dude.â He blinks at you even as he talks, eyes still wide as he struggles to comprehend saying these words to someone other than Suguru, considering his best friend is the only person who would at least pretend to listen.
Gojo flinches like youâve insulted him personally, more than any of your actually hurtful insults have ever managed to make him flinch. âDonât even joke, Y/N. Itâs not a crime to like coherent evolution lines.â
You shrug. âThe randomness makes it fun. Itâs Digimonâs whole brand.â
âAnd yet, the most iconic Digimon evolution lines come from coherent ones. You know, ones that make sense and have a consistent visual theme from Rookie to Mega. There is nothing that ties Grizzmon to GrapLeomon.â His lips quiver as he talks, eyes still wide, shock lingering. He canât help letting his gaze sweep over you again and again. He thinks then that maybe the person who said never to judge a book by its cover had actually been onto something.
You raise a finger, drawing him out of his daze. âUm, actually, there is, though. The whole theme of grappling and fist-fighting? Does that ring a bell?â
âThatâs the same argument you used in your comments.â
âThe same comment you have yet to respond to.â You pause, thinking. âJust like right now, actually.â
âYeah?â he starts, and you know youâve got him again. He presses on regardless. âWell, youâre the one who made that post about disliking Rhinokabuterimon more than Daipenmon.â
âAnd I stand by that.â
âOh my god,â he says slowly, taking you in. âYouâre worse in person.â
âYour Kumamon rant got locked by a mod,â you remind him. âSomehow that makes sense. Youâre as annoying online as you are in person.â
âIt was locked for too many off-topic replies, which is partially your fault.â
âI wasnât going to let you have the last word.â
âLast word, huh. Great segue toââ
âNo, donât bring that up, stopââ
ââto your Digimon fanfiction account that you have linked in your bio.â
You groan, long and low, covering your face with your hands. Warmth creeps up your neck, burning against your cheeks when you hear him laugh at your expense. You try to gather your dignity, peeking between your fingers to accuse him as you say, âHow would you know? Did you read them?â
âOf course I did,â he says without shame, and any thought of turning the tables back on him dissipates. He watches you suffer from embarrassment for only a second longer before resting his chin on his palm, leaning away as if to act casual. âSo. Do you play the TCG?â he asks, despite the fact that he knows heâs seen your username floating around in the Digimon TCG subreddit.
You pull your hands away with a start. âDo I play? Is the sky blue?â
Gojoâs lips quiver upward. âDuel me.â
âOkay,â you say quickly, too quickly, and you clear your throat in an effort to reset yourself. He doesnât seem to notice, already digging through his bag for something. âOh, you meant right now.â
He pauses, looking up. âYeah. Do you not have your deck?â
âI donât carry it on me, no.â For some reason, the thought that he does brings a small smile to your face.
He visibly deflates, and a thought tries to enter your mind, though youâre not quite there just yet. Instead, you laugh softly. âNext time then,â you say, enjoying the way his smile returns to his face. âWhat colour do you play, anyway?â
âPurple, obviously.â
You roll your eyes. âOf course youâre a purple player. You saw the post about how purple wins just about every big event in EX7, didnât you? Let me guess. Leviamon?â
âActually, I play DexDorugoramon. You?â
You hum as if that makes complete sense. âI play yellow. Not for any particular reason, I just like the Digimon in the decks.â
âYellow, huh? So youâre a feelscrafter.â He bites back a goofy smile, but it shows.
âDonât say that word like itâs a slur.â
âDo you even play the meta?â
You scoff. âOf course I do. But playing good isnât even fun anymore.â
Gojo laughs, and from behind him, you catch a few students looking over with narrowed eyes. He pays them no mind, leaning in. âSee? Pretentious.â
You lean forward too, reply on the ready, the only thing missing is the exact wording you want to use to shoot him down, when his phone goes off. Is this the second time now? Just how popular is this guy?
His gaze falters before he pulls back to wrestle his phone out of his pocket. Youâre left facing him, and you draw back too, clearing your throat as you turn to your laptop.
What the fuck was that?
Your fingers type gibberish into the document, then drag your finger across your trackpad to erase it only to type another string of incoherent letters and symbols. Your mind races through the conversation, noting the genuine joy in your voice, the amusement when Gojo responded just as enthusiastically. Thereâs a warmth in your stomach thatâs hard to get rid of.
What the fuck.
Youâre not eavesdropping. Thatâs simply not what youâre doing. Though it isnât your fault if you happen to hear Gojo as he talks into his phone, his voice low out of respect for the library but not so low that you canât make out the conversation.
âAlright, yeah, I got it. Iâm not, so donât even start. God, shut the fuck up, Suguru. Iâll be over, give me ten minutes. Ten minutes. Yeah, probably, but youâre pissing me off, so Iâll be there in ten. Iâm already doing you a favour, man, so quit it before I change my mind.â You catch him rolling his eyes, his freakishly long eyelashes lifting and falling. âYou owe me.â
Gojo hangs up and sighs, running a hand through his hair. âHey, sorry about that. I have to go.â
You look up at him with a start. âGo? You just got here! Weâve only been working forâŠâ You glance down at the bottom right of your laptop screen. âAn hour and a half?â
He grins, though itâs small. âTime flies when youâre having fun.â
âNeuropharmacology is hardly fun.â
âNo, but the company is,â he says, unplugging his mouse and rolling up his mouse pad. As he stuffs his enormous gaming laptop into whatever space remains in his bag, he continues, âIâll text you when Iâm free next.â
âWe hardly got anything done today,â you find yourself saying. âNo thanks to your distraction.â
âMine? You continued it. If you really cared, you would have told me to shut up.â
âAs if you ever listen.â
Itâs far too easy to fall into a rhythm with him, you think begrudgingly. Heâs grinning lazily, lifting his glasses with his knuckle and otherwise unmoving beside your table. You huff, turning back to your laptop.
This feeling, at least, is familiar and comforting. âWhatever, Gojo. Iâll do my part as long as you do yours.â
He watches you for a second longer before taking a step back. âIâll text you.â
You give him a half-hearted wave. Only when youâre positive enough time has elapsed for him to have cleared the building and maybe half the courtyard do you exhale, slumping in your chair. Your eyes flick to the library doors. No sign of white hair.
You tell yourself youâre pissed, that thatâs what is currently sitting in your chest and the reason for your sudden restlessness. I mean, really, who arrives late to a meeting they scheduled and then leaves early?
Itâs a Friday afternoon, and he has you losing your mind over reports and Digimon, of all things. You should be at a bar. Or at home, in pajamas, catching up on backlog episodes of that new trash reality TV youâve been binging, or having that bingsu Utahime mentioned earlier. What you should not find yourself doing is thinking about Gojo and how pretty his genuine smile is, especially when itâs directed at you.
You scoff at your screen, type out a line, and then delete it.
What a joke.
academic freak: jumping on !! let me know if u can work on our project now :3
you: sorry I'm out rn
i can hop on at eight tonight though if youâre still free then?
academic freak: no worries
letâs do a video call then >< (6:43pm)
You stare at his last text, have been staring at his last text ever since you left your friends, hovering your thumb over the screen, unsure. And now it was almost eight pm and you were still staring.
It's not like this is the first time youâve ever video called someone, and itâs not like he matters, but something akin to nervousness settles in your stomach. He's just your annoyingly good-looking, annoyingly smart project partner. Shokoâs childhood best friend. The guy that embarrassed you last semester. Nothing more.
Still, you keep blinking at the message, at the double exclamation marks and all his stupid emoticons.
academic freak: can i call u now?
You flinch when the typing bubble pops up but you fail to swipe out before the message is sent, and the read receipt lights up immediately.
academic freak: ?
waiting for me?
You groan aloud, running a hand down your face. Thereâs no dignified way out of this, so with a sigh, you hit call. The screen rings once, twice, and you suddenly jump up, nervesâor whatever the hell you want to call itâcausing you to sweat.
You should change, brush your hair maybe, fuck, you took out your contacts already. One time in third grade, someone said you looked different with glasses compared to without. What did that mean? Was the difference that extreme? Why couldnât you see it? Would Gojo be able to tell?
Before you can answer any of those questions, your phone flickers to life.
âHey,â Gojo says, grinning as his camera turns on. Heâs a little too close at first, but after seeing your surprised face, he leans back and settles into view. His hair is slightly tousled, glasses perched low on his nose, the logo of the university peeking just into view on his jumper.
âHi.â You clear your throat, adjusting your phone so it sits upright on your table. âI wasnât waiting for your text, by the way. You just messaged me just as I was about to message you. Thatâs all.â
He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face. Thankfully, he doesnât push. âSorry for ditching you earlier, but Iâm here now.â
You nod, opening your laptop on the table. As it hums to life, your eyes flick back over to your phone and trace what you can see inside his room. He has a lamp on, warm light washing over his face as he leans back into view, a lollipop in his hand, and thereâs an assortment of plushies on his bed behind him. You narrow your eyes.
âIs that Agumon?â
Gojo glances back, then shrugs like itâs the most natural thing in the world. âHe guards my bed.â
You stifle a laugh. âStill getting nightmares at your big age?â
âDonât tell me youâre too cool for plushies.â He rolls his eyes, though his face quickly splits into a grin when you pull out your own plushie, placing it comfortably on your lap, its head peeking into frame. âThere we go. Thatâs more like it.â
His praise does things to you that you donât dare put into words. You squeeze your plushie tight.
You busy yourself with opening the document, taking extra long to fiddle around with opening and closing random tabs. Itâs hard to focus on one thing, you see, not when Gojo is staring at you unabashedly, cheek smushed against his hand like he has nowhere else to be.
You donât look up right away, clicking through your email, Spotify, the university site, waiting for him to get bored and finally free you from his gaze, but he doesnât.
Clearing your throat, you finally drag your gaze up to his face. âWe shouldââ you start, but cut yourself off. âWhat?â
âHm?â He blinks when your eyes meet.
âWhyâre you staring at me like that?â
Gojo lets the silence drag on for a little longer until he chuckles, dropping his head to look down at his own laptop screen. âWho said I was looking at you?â
You arch a brow, glancing over your shoulder, then around your room. âIs there someone else in the room with me now?â
âAsk that question again when we have a Ouija board.â He types something, and you watch the words pop up on your screen. âI was just thinking how different you are when youâre not on campus. Youâre quieter, for one. Less teeth-baring.â
âIf you want me to insult you, you only have to ask.â
He grins, eyes lazy with amusement. âSee? Even that lacks any bite.â
âSays you. Iâm surprised you havenât made a comment on my glasses or something,â you say, unwilling to be outdone.
âAnd what, your messy desk?â
You shove your textbooks out of frame. âI knew it.â
He shrugs offhandedly, returning his attention to his laptop. You follow his lead, blinking in surprise when he doesnât continue with another snarky comment. Itâs silent again for a while.
âIt suits you. You look nice with your hair tied back.â
Your hands fly to the back of your head and close around your claw clip, mouth hanging open as you stare at him. Gojo keeps typing like he didnât just casually compliment you, as if he hadnât just thrown a curveball into your carefully built defences. You swallow hard, blinking as heat creeps into your cheeks.
âI⊠you look nice too?â
You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth, though you canât completely regret them, because theyâre what finally cause him to look up at you, his hands frozen over his keyboard. Then heâs laughing, and you take back that last thought just as quickly.
âAlright, alright, letâs just work on our project,â you mumble, ducking your head. Heâs still laughing, and you grit your teeth with effort. âIf you keep laughing, Iâm going to hang up on you.â
Gojoâs laughter lingers, soft and amused, as he savours the heat on your face for a second longer before nodding. âIâll stop, I swear.â His fingers return to the keyboard, but you catch the flicker of something like warmthâor maybe surpriseâin his eyes before he lowers his head too.
You take a breath and refocus on your document, with only the sounds of shuffling and keys clacking disturbing the space between the two of you. Every now and then, he asks a question about a point youâve made, or corrects something youâve written. His criticisms lack any heat, and you find yourself accepting his words without the usual spike in blood pressure.
Every now and then, his attention slips and he starts scrolling on Twitter in another tab, his snickering making you lift your head. Gojo immediately catches the movement and flips his laptop around to show you, letting you share a laugh with him.
He tells you about the Discord server he runs for hosting Digimon TCG games. You listen, asking for an invite when his voice quietens near the end, and the smile he beams at you makes your stomach flip.
You tell him about your hobbies, how youâve had to let go of piano because of your academic pursuits. He tells you he wants to hear a piece, your favourite piece to play, and you think for a moment that you might want to pick it up again.
At one point, light floods across the screen and you watch as he grumbles, lifting an arm to block the sudden brightness. A voice sounds through your phone speaker distantly, and you recognise it as Geto. You hadnât realised they were roommates.
âYou free tonight, Satoru? Haibaraâs having a get-together in a few hours. He asked me if you wanted to come along since you ditched halfway through theâoh.â Getoâs voice trails off, as if heâs only just noticed Gojoâs pinched expression. âYouâre on the phone to someone. Who? Let me see.â
âItâs none of your business!â He throws you a frantic glance and you shrug. âAnd knock first!â
âYou never knock.â You hear the shuffle of someone entering the room. âAnd you have three friends, and Iâm one of them. Is it Nanami? Shoko?â
You hear Gojoâs protests as something hits the phone and it swirls, landing face-up toward his ceiling. You notice he has light-up neon stars stuck haphazardly across it. Your heart squeezes. Cute.
Then a hand covers the screen and itâs a blur of black and red.
âBack off, Suguru, Iâm not going to Haibaraâs partyââ
âIs that a girl?â
âHey!â
Thereâs a whirl, and then you blink, biting your cheeks at the face suddenly staring back at you. Hesitantly, you raise a hand. âHey, Geto.â
Geto stares at you for a second before laughing, a low melody that has you shifting nervously in your seat. âY/N? I didnât know you and Satoru were so close. I always thought you two had this rivals thing going onââ
He doesnât finish his sentence because Gojo snatches his phone back, and you watch a tilted view of the interaction.
âTell Haibara I wonât be showing up.â
âSomething more important to do, Satoru?â
The world shifts again as Gojo flops back onto his bed, placing you upright on his table once more. He glances sideways at his roommate, directing his words at him even as his hands work to steady his phone. âItâs not what you think. Weâre working on our group project. It canât just evolve past Rookie stage on its own.â
You watch as he shoots a quick glance at you, eyes searching as if to ask, Did you catch that?
You canât help but grin a little, biting back a laugh.
âSure, thatâs all. Iâll go tell Haibara youâll come to the next one.â The light dims slightly and you assume Geto is closing the door. âYou owe me.â
When the light finally fades, Gojo turns back to you with an apologetic smile. Youâre thrilled to see him glance at you, then away, his hands coming up to run through his hair, an uncharacteristic shyness that makes your heart squeeze again.
âSorry about that.â
âNo, itâs okay. You guys seem close.â You absentmindedly rub at your chest, wondering if this is a sign of cardiovascular disease. âYou two dorm together?â
âWe moved out together at the beginning of second year. He lived, like, three hours from campus and needed a roommate. He asked me and I said yes.â
You rest your cheek on your palm, watching him through the small screen of your phone. âI never knew you two had so much history. I guess that makes sense, considering I never see you two apart.â
âHey, itâs not that bad.â
âIsnât it? Gojo and Geto, Geto and Gojo. Thereâs even a name for you two. Goge, though I prefer Gego.â
He frowns, brows pulled together. âThereâs a difference?â
âYeah,â you say, and leave it at that, unwilling to explain the difference. Reading over his last few words, you highlight them with your cursor. âGojo, this doesnât make sense. The rebuttal team will definitely have something to say about this.â
Gojo huffs, and you watch as he backspaces the sentence. âYou know, I almost miss the days when you were comfortably mediocre. Now itâs like Iâm back to being ten years old and getting taught long division by my dad.â
You snort, reaching for something to snap back with. Instead, you feel that sticky ball of unease in your stomach. Clearing your throat, you settle for, âWhat a universal experience.â
He looks up at that. âWhat, not going to tell me to kill myself for comparing you to my dad?â
âWas that an insult? Youâre losing your touch.â
âSays you. You donât even seem mad.â He squints at you, and you wish your Wi-Fi would give out so he could count the pixels on his screen instead of the thoughts threatening to burst free. âYou okay?â
You pause, bracing for the usual deflection to leap off your tongue. But thereâs something about the way heâs looking at you, something about the warmth wrapping around your shoulders, something about the brief glimpse into his private world that has you fidgeting to say something else.
You let out a thin laugh, eyes fixed on the words on your laptop screen. âGuess I didnât really care for grades back then.â
He snorts. âSeriously? And you still beat me on that quiz that one time? You make fun of me for being a prodigy, but I fear the call is coming from inside the house.â
You donât move. âIt was just luck.â
âAnd all your nineties since then? That all luck too?â
You shrug, but your mind screams the answer.
Gojo frowns, as if sensing that this goes deeper. âWhat is this really about, Y/N?â
For once, youâre thankful for his directness. When he says it like that, you find that you canât as easily hide behind an excuse. A part of you aches to be seen, to tell someone else something that might otherwise follow you to the grave. âItâs nothing serious. I guess Iâm just a little worried that Iâm too late to be good at this for real.â
His head tilts on-screen. âHuh?â
Heat creeps up your neck. âYou know, neuroscience. I never cared about my classes until last semester because I never cared for science. But then I realised how much I liked neuroanatomy and I started trying, and it paid off. But weâre in our last year. I feel like Iâve wasted too much time.â
When he doesnât immediately say anything, you barrel on. âYouâve always beenâŠâ You gesture vaguely at him, still not meeting his eyes. âGood. Effortless. And Iâm just now cramming to keep up. Like, whatâs the point, you know? Maybe Iâll never catch up. Even if I do, itâs too late for it to matter. Maybe thatâs why I was always annoyed at you. I wish I started caring like you did way back in first year or whenever it was that you decided you knew what to do.â
You try to laugh it off, but it comes out small and brittle.
Gojo doesnât answer right away. His usual smirk is gone, replaced with something more thoughtful. Finally, he leans forward, chin resting on his palm.
âYou donât give yourself enough credit. You really think youâre behind me?â
âWell, arenât I?â
He snorts softly, but thereâs no bite to it. âYouâre the one who wrote the outline to this report. Youâre the one reading through and correcting everything. Half of this project looks as good as it does because of you.â
Your stomach flips. âYouâre exaggeratingââ
âIâm not.â His tone sharpens just enough to make you stop fidgeting and look up at him. His mouth is curved as if to soften the words, but his gaze is sincere, coaxing you to take in every one. âLook. Who cares when you started? Youâre here now. And youâre good at it, like ridiculously good. Not because you lucked into it, but because you put in the effort. You work hard because you want this, and it shows. Thatâs more than most people ever figure out, even if theyâve been trying since day one.â
âYou donât know that for sure.â
âDonât I?â
âItâs easy for you to say. Youâve got it all figured out.â
His eyebrows shoot up. âYouâre serious about catching up to me?â
The heat creeps back up your neck, hot flushes spreading across your back. âForget it. Just forget everything.â
âNo, wait, I didnât mean it like that.â He runs a hand through his hair, forcing the surprise back. âI thought you knew the feeling was mutual, that Iâm making sure to catch up to you. If anything, youâve been making me work harder than I ever have. If this is you âtoo late,â then Iâd say youâre exactly where youâre supposed to be.â
Your stomach knots at that, a mix of disbelief and something warmer curling under your ribs. You force your gaze back to the words on your screen, blinking against the sting building at the corners of your eyes.
ââŠYouâre ridiculous,â you murmur, more to your laptop than to him.
Across the screen, his grin slips back into place, lazy and self-assured, but not mocking. âRidiculously right, you mean, since you know I always am.â
You shake your head, biting back the urge to argueâand to smile. This time, the silence stretches comfortably, neither of you rushing to fill it. Your cursor blinks steadily on the half-finished paragraph, but your focus is caught on the strange buoyancy in your chest, the faint echo of his words playing on repeat.
When Gojo finally speaks, itâs in his usual drawl. âSo, am I supposed to fix the discussion section, or are you going to keep having an existential crisis about being secretly smart?â
You let out a shaky laugh, the tension finally breaking. âShut up and start writing, Gojo.â
âYes, maâam,â he says, already clicking away, but the small smile tugging at his mouth lingers longer than his usual jokes.
You pretend not to notice how your chest feels lighter than it did a minute ago.
He lets out a small, embarrassed noise, half sigh and half grunt, as if caught somewhere between annoyance and resignation. You tug him gently towards the door again, though the look in your eyes is nothing if not fierce.
Finally, the steadiness of his stance gives way into a reluctant step and youâre able to pull him inside. The warmth of the cafe hits you immediately, a stark contrast to the brittle cold outside. Your breath stops leaving your lips as mist, the windows already dewy from the lack of ventilation inside, and the air smells like yesterdayâs coffee grounds.
Spiderman hovers awkwardly by the door where youâve abandoned him, rocking on his feet. You pretend not to notice how heâs poised to bolt the moment you turn your back and for that reason, you never do.
âYou can sit, you know,â you say lightly, switching on the espresso machine. âYouâre allowed to touch the furniture.â
âIâm good here,â he mutters.
âWhere did all your spark go, Spiderman?â
He shifts at that, his weight rocking between his feet. âYou make me sound like a rescue dog.â
âYouâre acting like one,â you note with amusement. âYouâre all twitchy and skittish. Should I put out a bowl of water? Or, better yet, you can tell me your order and Iâll get started on that for you.â
He pauses. âIced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup. And a caramel rim. Thatâs the best part.â
Your mouth hangs open, ink bleeding into the side of the cup as you try to process his words. âAre you kidding? Thatâs literally just pure sugar. Are you insane?â
âSomeone has to protect the city, sweetheart.â As if emboldened by your surprise, Spiderman walks up to the counter and leans against it, watching you reluctantly write the shorthand for his order on the cup. âAnd whoever is doing it needs something to keep the sleep away.â
You shoot him a look as you cap the pen and get started. âWhen was the last time you slept?â
âTwo nights ago. For, like, four hours.â
âYou know, you should be sleeping seven to eight hours every night otherwise your brain isnât able to clear proteins. When those accumulate they turn into the amyloid plaques and tau tangles they talk about in neurodegenerative disease.â
âOh my God,â he groans, waving your clinical concern away. âDoes this cafe only hire worrywarts? Shoko never shuts up about that.â
You look up sharply. âSo you do know her.â
His hands come up in a placating gesture. âI thought you already came to that conclusion.â
âNo, because you dodged it. How the fuck do you know Shoko? And why the hell has she never told me?â You let out a thoughtful hum as you create his disgusting drink. âMaybe she was embarrassed to know you.â
His hands come down slightly as if baffled. âI saved your life and the only thing leaving your mouth is criticism. The public loves the suit, Iâve gotten no complaints until now.â
You narrow your eyes as you reach for the syrup bottle. âSo you are dodging.â
The opening shift quickly becomes the bane of your existence. The grumpy customers clicking in for their own early mornings, the rush of orders that arrives before youâve even fully woken, the relentless beep of the espresso machineâit all feels like a punishment for having the audacity to leave your warm bed before the sun has even risen. And yet, despite the predictable chaos and your own bleary-eyed resentment, you canât stop the small smile that tugs at your lips as you hop off the bus.
The front of the cafe is quiet when you step up and shove the keys in, though you know that calm wonât last long. A sudden movement behind you makes your stomach tighten, and a voice murmurs close to your ear.
âI thought the cafe opens at six.â
You turn to see Spiderman hanging upside down, both hands holding onto his web, feet pressed together to keep balance.
âIt does,â you say in lieu of greeting.
âReally? So why did you only get here at 6:13am?â
You roll your eyes and turn back around to let you both in. The masked vigilante lets go of his web and smoothly drops down, sauntering in behind and catching the door when you let go.
âI could report you for tardiness, you know. And being mean to your customers.â
âI didnât know you were a snitch,â you tease back.
âWhat can I say? I care about the universityâs upkeep,â he says as he leans against the counter to watch you start up the shop.
Ignoring his gaze on your back, you begin to multitask, one hand grabbing a cup to get started on his drink while the other flicks on switches. The whir of grinders hum to life, filling the space between you.
âAnother deathly sweet drink for you Iâm assuming?â
âSomeone has to keep this city up and running.â
Thereâs a brief silence as the espresso machine whirs and you do your job. You recall the first few times this unexpected customer had dropped by, the tension between the two of you neither friends nor strangers, and how his face had seemingly dropped when you slid his drink across the counter the moment he walked in.
âOh,â Spiderman had started, the whites of his mask flicking from you to the cup. âYou already made this for me?â
âYeah. Unless youâre planning to grab something new today.â
His fingers had curled around the cup, mumbling something that sounded like, âNo, thatâs fine. This is fine.â
He had hesitated by the counter until you urged him to pay. He did, albeit slowly, and when he even stalled after the money had passed into your hands, you giggled.
âIâm not going to kick you out just because you have your drink now. You can stay. I like talking to you when I open.â
His face had immediately brightened, or at least you assume so from the way his head shot up and the grip on his cup tightened almost imperceptibly.
Since then, Spiderman has taken it upon himself to stay throughout the duration of making his drink, and thirty minutes after that too.
âYou know,â he muses now, conversational and casual. âI feel like you know more about me than I know about you. You know how I like my drinks, my work, my name. Which is terrible because Iâm the one with the secret hidden identity.â
You roll your eyes, lifting the steamer to pour into a cup with his superhero name on it, something he had insisted you do when you once poured his drink into an empty, unmarked cup, saying the true cafe experience included a named cup. So, in order to give him said full experience, you spell his name wrong every time. Today, itâs âSpy x Dermanâ.
âYou also know where I work,â you say, topping his disgusting drink with cream and another drizzle of sweet sticky syrup. âAnd my name. But honestly, itâs your fault for being so naive and open.â
âIâm trying to say I want to know more about you.â
âAnd Iâm trying to tastefully deflect the conversation elsewhere.â
He chuckles. âWhat harm is there if you tell me something? It doesnât have to be anything crazy. This isnât a first date.â
âHey, thatâs my line.â You stick a paper straw into the lid and slide his drink over the counter. He catches it with ease, not breaking eye contact to take a sip.
âFine, Iâll bite. What do you want to know?
He shrugs, looking around the place. âSurprise me. I wouldnât even know where to start.
âWell, first of all, Iâm a normal person. Which means my coffee order isnât diabetes in a cup.
âTell me your order, then.â
Youâre surprised to see him so interested in something so mundane and useless. âI guess I usually get a vanilla soy latte. Oh, but if they have matcha or something, Iâd get that instead.â
He hums. âPersonally, I usually get an iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup with a caramel rim.â
You laugh, wiping up the counter after yourself as youâve been trained to do. âI never asked, and yes, Spiderman, I know. Trust me, it hurts my pure barista hands to make your drink every time.â
He chuckles softly with you, eyeing you, toying with the paper straw in his mouth. You know that in about ten minutes, if he stays that long, heâll start complaining about how the paper has already begun to deteriorate in his mouth, and you will be his unwilling recipient for the venting. When he opens his mouth to speak next, you brace yourself for an onslaught of surprisingly childish whining.âSo, any plans this week?â he asks, leaning over the counter. You wonder if it would be a workplace hazard to invite him to the other side.
You catch onto his words after a few blinks. âNot really? I guess I have an assessment due next week so Iâll be grinding for that.â You pause, assuming the silence that follows after is because heâs waiting for more. âYou?â
âThe usual. Saving cats from trees, escorting senior citizens across pedestrian crossing, the typical.â
âDoes that actually happen? Cats getting stuck in trees?â
He shrugs. âNot really. If anything, itâs usually street poles they find themselves in. Anyway, so youâre otherwise free this week? Say, super random day that means absolutely nothingâTuesday?â
You pause, taking in his faux innocence. He even makes a show of looking at his nails as if he could see them through the fabric of his white gloves. âI mean, I guess I am, for the most part. Why?â
He straightens a little, looking over at the dessert display. âNo reason.â
You narrow your eyes at him, a little wary. âAre you sure? I feel like you wouldnât ask that question unless there was something going on.â
âNo, Iâm just wondering what the average citizenâs schedule looks like.â
âOh, really?â You clean off the steamer with an unimpressed look. âVerdict?â
âBoring!â He stretches out the word, loud in the acoustics of the near empty cafe. âDo you even know how to have fun?â
You scoff, wiping your hands on a nearby towel before leaning against the counter to talk to him. Somewhere along the way, the distance between the two of you has shrunk and you find yourself gravitating towards him. He stays on the other side, lifting up his mask as he usually does to take a sip.
âItâs not my fault the exam period is coming up,â you say, trying to subtly memorise the bottom of his face without seeming weird. âAnd I definitely do know how to have fun.
âRight, sure you do. What do you do for fun, then?â
You bite the inside of your cheeks. âYou first.â
âNeed time to think?â
âThis is so unfair, you can literally fly! Obviously what I do for fun isnât going to be as fun as leaping through the air and shooting webs from your wrists!â
âNot with that attitude you wonât. But come on, humour me a little. Tell me what you usually do in your free time.â
âAre we on a bad first date right now? Whatâs happening?â
âDeflect all you want but Iâm immune to it by now. Come on, just tell me,â he coaxes you with a grin, straw between his teeth. âDo you, again super random and means nothing at all, go to anime related events?â
You narrow your eyes at him slightly. âI guess I do.â
âOkay.â He looks around as if inspecting the interior design. âHave you heard about that thing thatâs happening at the main city library?â
You, in fact, have. âSure. I saw the post on their Insta.â
âWas that something you wanted to check out?â
âWith⊠you?â
Spiderman laughs like youâve said something particularly funny. âYouâre joking right? Obviously not with me. Spiderman doesnât do outings, sweets.â
âForgive me for assuming that when you literally asked me when I would be free mere minutes ago.â
âI told you, Iâm just curious about what normal people get up to.â
You eye him, noting how relaxed he now seems and how thereâs a silence that drags out after his last words. âWere there any more questions you wanted to ask, or just the one about when Iâm free and if I wanted to check out the shounen showcase at the library?â
âNo, that was it.â
You nod, slowly. âRight.â
The quiet stretches, just the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft drumming of his fingers against the counter as he muses over your previous words. You roll your eyes and straighten, turning to fiddle around and move forward with the transition of shooing him away.
Just as youâre about to tell him to go do his job or something, the doorbell chimes and you look up instinctively like an activated sleeper agent, plastering a smile on your face to greet the customer. It hasnât been long since you started morning shifts but it was rare for anyone to show up within the ten minutes you open.
You spare Spiderman a glance as if to tell him to leave, but heâs not looking at you.
A man stumbles in, unsteady on his feet, eyes darting around like thereâs someone watching him from the corners. At first, you assume heâs simply clumsy or perhaps nursing a killer hangover so you steel yourself for a tricky conversation.
âGood morning, what can I get started for you today?â you start, looking him up and down subtly to see if heâs a member of the university staff or a stranger who has somehow wandered onto campus.
The man slams his hand down on the counter and you jump, heart skipping. Up close, you can make out the sweat beading on his pale forehead and the way his lips move like heâs saying something, though no sound leaves his dry lips.
You try again. âSir?â
âCoffee,â he rasps.
You force another polite smile because of course you want a coffee from a cafe, donât waste my time, and reach for a cup. âOf course. Would that be a cappuccino or latte or something else?â
Instead of answering you, his head jerks to the side as if hearing a conversation you canât. In doing so, his eyes meet Spidermanâs and they widen almost comically, his body jerking away.
Spiderman stiffens, shoulders tensing as he shoots the customer an incredulous look. âWoah, chill. Itâs just me.â
The man staggers back another step, chest heaving, breath rattling like something is crawling up his throat.
You frown. âSir, youâre looking a little pale. Maybe you should sit down andââ
His head snaps toward you so sharply you swear you hear the crack of his vertebrae. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, fix onto you with a sudden intensity that makes you pause. His lips peel back from his teeth into a nasty snarl, and you realise with a cold shiver that he is talking to himself. You quickly correct yourself. He wasnât talking to himself, but to something else.
The manâs head jerks to the side again, harder this time. âWonât stop⊠wonât stop talkingâŠâ
You swallow. âI mean, itâs kind of my job to ask you.â
His answer comes out distorted, two voices overlapping. âWe said leave him alone!â
His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws.
His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws.
You stumble back, dropping the cup in your hands and making a sharp noise that has the man turning to you, eyes pitch-black.
âUm, Spiderman?â you whisper, hands clutching the side of the counter as you back away from the man. âWant to do your job orâŠ?â
Before you can even process whatâs happening, the man lunges across the counter at you, knocking over your carefully stacked paper cups. You make an embarrassing sound, half-surprise, half-protest as you instinctively attempt to back away though itâs not enough considering the feral determination the man has in reaching you.
In a blur, Spiderman leaps and lands on his hands and feet on the ceiling, flinging his arm toward you to latch a web around your torso. He yanks you to him, the world tilting for a fraction of a second as the web wraps around your arms and pins them to your side. The momentum spins you round and round until you finally settle, slowly rotating.
Blood rushes to your head and a nearby crash makes you jolt, eyes widening to pinpoint the danger.
Turns out, Spiderman has wrapped you in a cocoon of web and left to dangle like a pinata from the ceiling.
âHey!â you protest, struggling against the web. The movement only causes you to spin around and you hastily jerk your body to the side to watch the scene. âLet me down!â
Spiderman drops to the floor, one hand splayed across the ground, the other tense and alert in the air. He momentarily breaks his focus to give you a double take. âWhat theâIâm keeping you safe. Stop wiggling!â
You can hear it then, the sound the manâs making. Not quite a growl, at least not a human one, but a low, guttural rasp that vibrates through his chest. Panic and fear only grow within you, and you struggle with a little more determination to get down and run for the hills, when the man emerges from behind the counter.
He lunges again, this time faster, propelled by a strength that is definitely not human. Black tendrils burst from his back, flinging chairs aside like toys. Spiderman dodges easily, flipping over a table and ducking behind it, firing a web that snaps against the manâs shoulder.
It doesnât hold.
The black substance simply absorbs it, melting it away like cotton candy in a river.
âOkay,â Spiderman mutters, kicking the table into the man too and watching as he easily smacks it away. âThatâs new.â
The creature lets out a distorted laugh. âSpiderman,â it sneers.
âThatâs me. Have we met before?â
Spiderman doesnât wait for an answer, slinging a web at the manâs wrist and yanking him hard into the counter. The espresso machine crumbles under the intense weight and puffs out a powerful blast of steam as it malfunctions. The figure avoids the steam with a sharp hiss, black tendrils catching from the bulk of the fall and throwing himself back up, grabbing onto the mini fridge display and hurling it back at the superhero.
You gasp when you rotate to face the chaos. âYouâre wrecking my cafe!â
âSeriously? Thatâs what youâre focusing on right now?â Spiderman shoots back, ducking. âFile an insurance claim or something!â
He swings a chair into the side of the figure and you watch mournfully.
âMy chairsâŠâ
âAgain, there might be bigger things to worry about!â
A giant fist surges forward from the black gunk oozing down his chest and knocks Spiderman back.
The superhero lets out a punched-out gasp, slamming into the wall of the cafe and knocking down some purely-for-interior-design-aesthetic fake coffee bean bags. Spiderman tries to sling himself onto the arm and swing around, but the substance only consumes the webbing, swallowing it before it can take hold.
âSpiderman!âÂ
You twist uselessly in your cocoon, the web binding your arms tight to your sides. Your brain scrambles for something, anything that could possibly help. Your eyes lock onto the man as its gooey limbs swell and stretch, pulsing with inhuman strength. Another fist forms, held back in the air as if winding up, clearly aimed at the gasping Spiderman on the cafe floor.
âIs this another tactic of yours? I think you fight better on both feet!â
Spiderman spits blood through the cuts of his mask.
âYeah,â he wheezes, âThatâs the plan.â
The fist hands there for one awful second, huge and glistening and very much about to redecorate the floor with Spidermanâs internal organs.
Your gaze snaps wildly around the cafe, desperate for anything useful beyond the humiliating fact that you are currently trussed up. You make a mental note of everything, the counter, syrup bottles, cups, broken glass, ruined pastries, the espresso machine wheezing its last breath in the corner, split open and spitting angry jets of steam every few seconds.
âSpiderman!â you blurt.
Spiderman, still flat on his back and one near-death experience away from becoming part of the floor plan, tilts his head weakly. âCan this wait? Iâm in the middle of something.â
âThe espresso machine!â
âWhat about it? Do you want a latte before I die?â
âThe steam, you idiot!â
The creature finally slams its fist down, cracking the granite flooring and thankfully not squishing a spider. The superhero rolls onto his side with a pained hiss, flicking his wrist to wrap web around the nuzzle of the steamer.
âOkay,â he starts. âAnd how do I use this exactly?â
The man quickly regains its bearings and starts for Spiderman again as the superhero uselessly fiddles with the steam wand. You jerk in your cocoon.
âThe knob! Turn the silver knob on the side!â
Spiderman slaps the wrong thing and a burst of frothy milk sprays across the counter and onto the floor. âIs that it?â
âThe other one!â
He twists the correct knob just as the creature lunges. The machine screams as it blasts a vicious plume of steam straight forward. You watch as he yanks the steamer around at the last second, aiming it right into the thingâs chest and face.
The black mass recoils with a horrible, scraping cry that makes you wince, and begins to peel back from the manâs skin in a movement not unfamiliar to you. The tendrils make one last feral swish, slamming into shelves and sending coffee beans, ceramic mugs, and one very expensive grinder crashing to the ground.
you: hey!! so ik ure oh so busy
but i think we should meet up to rehearse our speech before we present
r u free 12pm today?
toru: woahhh u texted first ?!
you: and probably meet at the library
oh what the hell u replied so fast
toru: maybe i was waiting for ur text all day
you: wait why did i grimace
anyway are u down?
toru: sure iâll try!
meet u at our usual table ><
You climb the stairs up to the library, chuckling softly at the memory of Gojoâs texts. Surprisingly, Gojo is already sitting in his seat when you arrive. He pauses his typing and pulls down one side of his headphones, looking over his shoulder at you. His eyes light up and you offer him a small wave, watching as he responds enthusiastically.
âYou didnât stand me up.â
You chuckle drily, pulling out your seat beside him and sitting down. âWhat is this, some bad first date?â
Gojo grins like youâve said something particularly funny. âIs that your go-to line or something?â
âWhat?â
âOh, uh. Nothing.â He looks away, swiping his finger across the trackpad.
When he doesnât say anything else, you take it as your cue to take out your things, still eyeing him. âDidnât bring your mouse today?â
âYou remembered?â
You make a face at his sudden hopeful expression. âYouâre being weird.â
He slumps back into his chair. âYeah, I gave myself the ick. Iâm just nervous.â
âAbout?â
He hums, looking away at the rest of the library. âStuff.â
You let that sit for a moment, then try to steer things back toward the reason youâre both here. For a while, you make a decent attempt at studying. You open your laptop, pull up your notes, ask him a question about the assessment that he answers after a beat too long. But it quickly becomes obvious that whatever is making him weird hasnât gone away. He keeps glancing down at his notes only to stare straight through them, then out the window, then back at his laptop. Every few seconds he finds a new way to fidget: tapping his pen, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting in his chair, bouncing his leg under the table.
By the time he starts clicking his pen open and shut, you give up pretending not to notice. You lean back slightly and raise an eyebrow at him. âSomething else youâd rather be doing?â
He stills at once, like heâs been caught. âMaybe,â he admits after a second. âKind of.â
You narrow your eyes. âKind of?â
Gojo huffs out a breath and glances at you, then away again. âOkay, donât laugh, but thereâs this shounen manga pop-up showcase at the central library right now. And I thoughtâsince weâve talked about Digimon and all that stuffâmaybe youâd want to go check it out with me.â
âBadges can be cool,â you try, tracing the edge of one.
âThere are only badges of all the mainstream anime,â he mumbles, coming up to stand beside you. Due to the tiny display, youâre shoulder to shoulder, your arm brushing his. âGod, this fucking sucks. My bad, Y/N. I was hoping we could look at all the manga together, but all I managed to do was waste your time. We can just go back to the library and continue studying.â
You frown at his dejected tone, and when you look over, heâs pouting.
His shoulders are slumped, his hands absentmindedly fidgeting with a badge, spinning it back and forth with no real interest, and his lips are jutted out in an almost cartoonish pout. When his eyes shift at your attention, you quickly look away and hope he didnât catch the slight quiver of your lips.
Then, before you can think better of it, you grab a badge off the display and pin it to his chest. When he starts to look down, you lift his chin with your finger instead.
He blinks at you, owlish, and you canât help but smile at the clueless look in his eyes.
âAsk me a yes-or-no question,â you say. âTo try and guess what characterâs badge I just pinned on you. Câmon, I bet you wonât get it.â
For a moment, you think your forced enthusiasm has put him off and that he wonât play along. But then he suddenly scoffs, his lips tugging up. âAre they a girl?â
âNo.â Itâs contagious and you find yourself smiling back.
He purses his lips, and you recognise the signature glint in his eyes when heâs concentrating. He hums, thinking a little more seriously. âIs the series heâs from released before 2020?â
âYes.â
âIs he part of a trio?â
âSeriously? Weâre talking about shounen right now. Almost every shounen series has a trio.â You giggle. âBut no, he isnât.â
He rolls his eyes. âIs the character the main character of the series?â
âNo, but Iâd say a lot more people like this character over the actual main character.â
âIs he from a sports anime?â
âNo.â
âCould he be in a sports anime?â
That catches you off guard and you scrunch your face up in thought. âI honestly canât imagine him doing any sport. He might be a perma-benched player thatâs only there for strategy.â
âIs he, like, a mentor character?â
You pout a little at how on-the-nose his question is. âYes.â
âDoes he have powers?â
âYes.â
He clicks his fingers. âAh. Does he have a signature weapon?â
âWell, he uses a gun often, but his powers arenât related to his weapon of choice.â
âSo his powers arenât offensive?â
âExactly.â
He hums, a smile growing on his face. âIs the manga based in the modern era?â
âYes.â
âIs he dead?â
âNo, but there was a moment when everyone was freaking out because it almost seemed like he was dead.â
âBrown hair?â
âYes.â
Gojo clicks his fingers in realisation. âOkay, Iâve got it. Is it Dazai?â He might as well have shouted eureka. His face brightens, hanging on your next words to confirm or deny his victory.
You giggle, nodding, and the smile he gives you is full of childlike wonder.
âClose your eyes. Itâs your turn.â
You do so. âI bet I can guess it with fewer questions than you.â
He snorts. âYouâre on.â
A few customers shoot you dirty looks when they walk past, clearly not appreciating your giggles as you and Gojo take turns playing your own chopped version of celebrity heads. Time seems to pass quickly over laughter and jokes until you finally reach up to unpin the latest badge to place it back. He stops you, hands covering yours.
âLet me buy that for you,â he says with a lingering smile.
You raise an eyebrow but let him take it off your hands. âWho said I even want this?â
âCome on, itâll be like weâre matching.â
âTheyâre not even from the same series.â
âNot to anyone else,â he muses, thumb stroking the front of the badge like itâs something precious. âBut we'll know theyâre connected and thatâs good enough to call them matching.â
You turn away, suddenly far too aware of the warmth rising to your face. Clearing your throat, you gesture toward the manga shelves down the aisle. âLetâs go see what else theyâve got. Sure, we came for the pop-up, but weâre still in a library.â
He follows after you, noticeably lighter on his feet than before, and you let out a small sigh of relief. Then, almost immediately, you berate yourself for the tiny flutter in your chest. Why does that even matter? you scold yourself, brushing the feeling aside.
Before you can dwell on it for too long, he pinches your sleeve and tugs you gently toward him when your pace slows.
âHave you read this?â
âNot yet,â you admit, though a small smile creeps onto your face at the sight of his enthusiasm.
Without missing a beat, he launches into an animated explanation of the series, waving his hands as he talks. Sometimes it feels like heâs speaking more with his fingers than with actual words, sketching out invisible diagrams in the air as he links characters and plot points together. His sentences tumble over each other as he rambles about character motivations, why one of them is a complete fraud, and why the plot veers dangerously close to deus ex machina territory, only cutting himself off with an apologetic smile right before he spoils something major.
âAnd I swear the author gave up halfway through the series. The manga finished in 2023, by the way, but I think by the end heâd already landed a deal for a spin-off and started putting all his effort into that instead. You know what I saw on Twitter recently? People were hyping up this one line like it was amazing foreshadowing, but itâs not even good foreshadowing because, come on, the final fight was so cheap. Like whenââ He stops himself abruptly. âOh, wait. You canât know that yet.â
You nod along, trying to keep up with the flood of names, locations, and arc points that mean absolutely nothing to you, but the sheer energy in his voice is contagious. Somehow, itâs impossible to be annoyed or bored when heâs like this, completely in his element.
Eventually, you stop trying to follow every detail. Instead, your attention drifts to him. The way his hair keeps falling into his eyes, forcing him to run a hand through his bangs only for them to slip right back into place seconds later. The way his brows knit together when he rants, only to lift again the moment he gets to a part he genuinely loves. Despite the noise of the busy library, his voice rises above everything else, clear and captivating, demanding your attention without even trying.
Itâs almost impressive how quickly his mouth keeps up with his thoughts. You squint slightly, watching the shape of his lips around each word just to confirm that yes, it really is him speaking that fast and not some video playing in the background.
You realise a second too late that heâs stopped talking.
You blink and look up at him.
His brows are furrowed, though not in the same way as before, and you hate that you now know the difference. âUh, you still with me?â
You blink a few more times, then shake your head slightly as if to clear the haze. âYeah. Yeah, Iâm here.â
Gojo tilts his head, clearly amused. âReally? Because you look a little dazed.â
Heat rushes to your face and you quickly drop your gaze to the manga in his hands, as if that had always been the focus of your attention. âYeah, of course I was listening. Something about deus ex machina, right?â
He snorts softly. âI finished talking about the ending minutes ago. You donât have to pretend if you werenât paying attention.â
You roll your eyes, hoping your embarrassment isnât as obvious as it feels. âFine. Maybe I got a little distracted.â
His grin widens at that, though it softens around the edges as he steps a little closer. âDistracted, huh? By what?â
You hesitate, heart doing something strange at the way heâs looking at you. âNothing.â
âReally?â
âReally,â you shoot back.
âAlright then,â he concedes, though the glint in his eyes never fades. âI guess Iâll just have to step up my explanations next time so you donât get distracted again.â
He slides the manga carefully back onto the shelf, nudging the surrounding volumes aside to make room and making sure none of the pages bend as he slots it into place. There has to be something wrong with you, because even that small gesture makes warmth bloom in your chest. You make a mental note to check the series out when you get home.
Gojo turns back to you and gestures for you to lead the way. âYour turn.â
He listens as you tell him about one of your favourite manga series, and the embarrassment of getting caught fades quickly as you explain exactly why itâs a masterpiece. When itâs his turn again, you make a conscious effort to pay attention and not drift off into another daydream. So when he asks if you were actually listening this time, you huff and answer every one of his questions with ease.
He grins at you like youâve handed him the world.
Eventually, the two of you leave the library with less merch than youâd expected walking in, but with two badges that mean more than youâd ever dare admit. He doesnât fasten his onto the front of his bag with the rest of his pins and accessories, mumbling something about wanting to keep it safe, so you keep yours in your pocket instead, your thumb brushing over its smooth surface as you walk.
You expect him to call it a day after that, maybe peel off with some excuse about having things to do, but instead he tugs lightly on your sleeve.
âCâmon.â
âWhere?â
âCafe run. My treat.â
You raise a brow. âSince when do you buy me coffee?â
âSince you saved this disaster of a day,â he says matter-of-factly, already steering you toward the street with a hand at your shoulder. âBesides, itâd be cruel not to feed you after I made you listen to my manga rants for hours.â
You snort, but you donât fight him on it. The truth is, coffee does sound nice, even if you remain slightly mystified by the idea of going with Gojo of all people. You frown a little when the thought doesnât leave you disgusted.
Youâre still mulling over the drink options when Gojo steps up to the counter to order.
âCan I get an iced matcha latteââ He cuts himself off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. âJust an iced matcha latte, thanks. Oh, and a vanilla soy latte.â
You eye him as he thanks the cashier, pays, and nods toward the waiting area. Seeing no reason not to follow, you move to stand beside him again.
âAre you drinking two drinks?â
âStupid.â He pokes your forehead in a way that, annoyingly, you canât bring yourself to hate. âOne of them is for you.â
âThe⊠vanilla latte?â
âYeah.âYou dip your head, trying to catch his eye. âWhy arenât you looking at me all of a sudden?â
He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the blank wall behind the counter. âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
You study him for a second before letting out a small laugh. âWell, you got lucky. Thatâs kind of my go-to order. How did you know?â
âI guess you just look like youâd want something like that.â
You stare at him. âOh yeah? I just have the look of someone who likes vanilla lattes?â
He only hums in response.
You frown a little as you take him in properly: the way he rocks back and forth on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets, trying very hard to look unaffected. All he needs is a whistle to sell the act. Thankfully, one of the cashiers calls out his number, and he eagerly slips away to collect the drinks.
âHm?â You look up at him, wondering if the slight flush at the tips of his ears has anything to do with the late afternoon sun.
âEveryone calls me Satoru but you,â he says, still not looking at you. âYou might as well just call me Satoru too. Itâs weird if you donât.â
It takes a few seconds for the words to fully sink in. By then, he only seems to shrink further into himself, taking long, noisy pulls from his straw. By the time you recover enough to smirk, his cup is almost entirely ice.
You lean in slightly, trying to catch his eye. âWhat a cheesy thing to say. Donât tell me youâreââ
The rest dies on your tongue when he finally glances down at you. The same pink tint at his ears has spread across his cheeks.
He frowns despite it, brows drawing together. âForget it. I knew you wouldnât take me seriously.â He pulls the straw from his mouth and shakes the cup for more drink, only for the ice to rattle uselessly. With visible annoyance, he takes the shot and tosses the empty cup into the bin. âSorry for dragging you all the way out here today. Your bus is probably coming soon, so Iâll head offââ
You gape at him. âWait!â
He freezes and turns back slightly. âGoing to tease me? Save it for tomorrow.â
âNo,â you say quickly. âI was just surprised you wanted me to call you by your first name. I thought you hated me.â
âMe?â he scoffs, turning around fully now. âYou have to be joking.â
âIâm serious,â you insist. âYou were awful to me. I mean, you literally went out of your way to embarrass me when we barely knew each other.â
He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. âYeah, I know. I was⊠bad at that. I never hated you, Y/N. I just didnât know what to do with you.â
âThe moment you start making sense, the world is going to end. Iâm sure of it.â
He laughs quietly, then looks at you again. âIâm trying to say that when you showed up and started showing me up, beating me and everything, I got a little intimidated. And maybe you were right all along, but I wanted you to notice me the way Iâd started noticing you. So yeah, maybe I did start tugging on your pigtails just to get your attention. You were just soââ He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. âNever mind.â
âHold on,â you say, stepping closer. âYou canât do that. Finish it.â
âSorry. Free trialâs over. If you want me to keep going, thatâll be 200 diamondsââ
âSatoru.â
He closes his mouth immediately, eyes widening a fraction before he sighs. âDamn. I shouldâve never asked you to say that.â
You tilt your head, catching his gaze. âPlease?â
Something strained flashes across his face, like the word is lodged somewhere painful in his chest. âYou were just soâŠâ He exhales through his nose, defeated. âSo bright that it was annoying. I couldnât ignore you, even if I tried. Every time you laughed, my head would already be turning, and I hated it because you werenât smiling at me.â
You laugh awkwardly. âWe werenât exactly friends.â
âNo,â he says softly. âThat was the issue. But even then, I wouldnât have been satisfied.â
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The confession settles between you, large and impossible to ignore. Youâve given up trying to look at him because thereâs a strange tightness in your chest making it hard to breathe, and Satoru looks like heâs doing everything in his power not to bolt.
âDoes that bother you?â he asks.
Unable to speak, you shake your head.
âOkay.â He exhales slowly. âThen can I try something?â
You look up just as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His hand hovers there for a moment, giving you an out.
You donât take it. Mostly because your feet feel rooted to the pavement beneath you.
âSatoru,â you whisper, and he seems to find whatever answer he was searching for in your eyes.
He leans in slowly, like heâs afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly. Your breath mingles. He hesitates, and you give him the smallest encouragement by leaning in too. Your noses brush with a ticklish little bump, and the whole world narrows to the space between your mouthsâ
Then a sharp buzz cuts through the quiet.
It doesnât register properly in your mind at first. You only know it sounds ugly against the stillness. But Satoru knows immediately.
He freezes. So do you.bThen comes the second vibration.
His shoulders sag. His forehead drops forward and bumps lightly into yours.
âYouâve got to be kidding me,â he mutters.
âEverything okay?â you ask, though you already know the answer.
He pulls back just enough to take his phone out and glance at the screen. Whatever he sees drains all the softness from his face, replacing it with that familiar unreadable tension.
âYeah,â he says, forcing a crooked smile. âI, uh, have to go. Family emergency. Again.â
You smile back. âI hope everyoneâs okay.â
âRight. Yeah.â
âYou should probably go.â
âRight.â
He lingers for another beat, phone held uselessly in his hand, before clearing his throat and stepping back. âIâll call you tonight?â
âYeah. Tonight.â
âCool,â he says. âCool, cool, cool, cool. Get home safe, yeah?â
âYeah.â You keep smiling even as he starts to walk away. âThanks for today.â
You watch him go for far longer than you should, long enough that his figure starts to blur into the movement of the street beyond the bus stop. Only when he disappears properly do you let your smile falter, your hand tightening slightly around the paper cup.
It hits you then, all at once and without mercy, how badly you are in trouble. You stare down at your coffee like it might offer guidance and find none.
Oh, you are so doomed.
Spidermanâs muscle strain against the cold sticky goo binding his wrists behind his back, the sharp bite of them digging into his skin as he knelt on the rough warehouse floor. His suit clings to him like a second skin, torn across his chest and down his thigh from the brutal fight. Thereâs a gash above his eyebrow thatâs dripping blood into his eyes, but for some reason his vision is clear.
The amazing Spiderman makes it his purpose to never stay down for long. This time, however, he wonders if he even wants to get back up.
Venom looms over him with a maw of jagged teeth and eyes like void fixed down on him with predatory amusement. âSpiderman down on his knees. What a sight.â
Gojo smirks under his mask even as his knees ache and cold air brushes the exposed skin around his mouth.
âI hate to break it to you but Iâm not into oversized ink blots,â he spits. âAnd donât get so cocky too soon. Havenât you played Darkest Dungeon? Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.â
âThereâs always a response rearing to go from that tongue of yours, isnât there?â Venom hisses. âAlways so self-assured, always so prepared. I wonder how long that peace you know will last.â
âIf I wanted my fortune read I would have gone to a tarot card reader.â
Venom laughs and the sound is suddenly so achingly familiar that Gojo freezes, something primal overturning into his stomach telling him to run. But thereâs nowhere to run, not when his wrists are tied behind his back, not when heâs kneeled at the feet of his archnemesis, and especially not when the tendrils of the villain slowly pull back to reveal a humanoid form Satoru knows far too well.
The black mass ebbs back from Venomâs face, appendages retracting with a wet slurp, revealingâ
Her. You.
The girl from the 5th floor of the campus library that he kept seeing that one finals season a whole year ago, the one he once told Geto about until he saw you again with his childhood friend and decided you were firmly off-limits. The same girl he suddenly couldnât miss in the crowd when 5pm hits and the tired students pour out seeking night outs or cozy night ins, the same girl who when he finally had a class with, had quickly cut him down with a glare that sent a jolt right through his body. The face he thinks about when heâs alone in the dark of his room, one hand down his pants and the other holding his phone.
Your pretty lips now curl into a smirk as your piercing eyes that he just loves to pretend to hate, locks onto his, full of mocking triumph. The symbiote suit hugs your curves like liquid, accentuating every sway of your hips as you step even closer.
Wait, what the fuck?
Gojo opens his mouth to say something but his breath hitches and the quip dies on his tongue.
âWhat theâY/N? What are youââ He cuts himself off when you laugh, soft and familiar, a sound far too beautiful for a grungy place like this.
âWhatâs wrong, Spidey?â you purr, voice lilting with mock innocence. âYou look like youâve seen a ghost. Or maybeââ
Heâs almost certain he stops breathing altogether as you roughly tilt his chin up with one long tendril, staring at your face because thereâs nothing else to do.
âYou see something you like?â
He splutters. âThis is bullshit. Youâre not Venom, you canât be. This has to be some kind of symbiote mind-fuck trick.â
âWhatâs wrong? Youâve lost your composure all of a sudden.â
Gojo growls, a feral sound dragging up his throat. âDonât fucking look into my mind. Stop looking like her!â
You coo, lips pretty and downturned. âStop? How can I? Spiderman, I am her.â
Your words make him shudder and you press on.
âAh, so itâs about that, is it? Poor, little Spiderman, torn in so many little directions. You canât decide whether to be Satoru or this silly attempt at being a superhero.â
He flinches when his name slips from your lips, remembering how soft it had sounded when you first said it, cheeks pink and eyes fluttering down. Seeing you standing over him now, eyes harsh and unforgiving, he feels a stirring in his gut that only pushes him closer to the edge.
âNo snarky response this time?â
âYou canât be her.â
âWhy not? I could be anyone.â You lift a foot and press it against his thigh, pushing it outwards casually. âWhy donât we be truthful for once, hm? And stop hiding behind all these secrets? Itâs not that I canât be her, itâs that you donât want me to be. Youâve always vented to Suguru about how nice it would be to have it both but this is the one thing you donât want to share with Spiderman. Me. And yet, you go against yourself and seek me out as both. Why?â
Gojo grits his teeth. âI donât have to explain anything to you. You know nothing about me.â
âOh, but I promise you I donât miss much.â Your foot trails higher, nudging now against his inner thigh and despite the situation, he flinches, that unfamiliar feeling spilling into something scarily recognisable.
âHold onââ
âLooks like youâre still not being completely truthful, Satoru,â you purr and he hisses.
Your foot presses against the bulge straining his suit, the pressure firm and deliberate. Gojoâs hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp exhale escaping him as you drag your sole along his length.
âGet off me,â he growls, but it sounds more like a plea, his voice husky and ragged.
He tries to shift away, wrists twisting futilely in the bindings, but his body betrays him and he leans into the friction instead. Your boot works him slowly, the leather cool against the heat building under his suit.
âMake me,â you taunt, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
You donât let up, your foot dragging slowly now, tracing the outline of his cock with teasing precision and his hips respond but bucking up involuntarily, pleasure sparking hot and fierce. He clamps his jaw, trying to stifle the sound, but it rumbles out anyway.
âThisâŠâ His eyes flutter as you press down particularly hard, forcing a smirk even as his breaths come out ragged. âThis is your master plan? Youâre more of aânghâpervert than I thought.â
You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. âMaster plan? Do I need a reason to do any of this? Maybe Iâve finally decided to do something about all that eye-fucking youâve been giving me in class. Thought I wouldnât notice?â
Your boot grinds down harder, the ridged sole catching on the zipper of his suit, right over where his cock throbs insistently. He bites back a moan but it slips out anyway, loud and guttural, his thighs quivering under the pressure.
His face flushes deeper, those blue eyes narrowing in a mix of defiance and desperation. âYouâre⊠not her. Canât be. She'd neverââ His words cut off as you twist your ankle, dragging the bootâs toe along his balls through the tight fabric, making them tighten and draw up.
âNever what? Touch you like this? Make you beg with just a foot?â You lean in closer, whispering in his ear so soft he almost canât hear over his pounding heartbeat. âAdmit it, web-head. You've jerked off thinking about me pinning you down, havenât you? All those stolen glances in the hallway, pretending you didnât pop a boner every time I called you out.â
Gojoâs breath hitches, his cock leaking pre-cum that soaks through the suit, darkening the material. He shakes his head but itâs weak, his hips rolling up to chase the friction despite himself.
âShut up. Justâhahâfuck off.â The growl lacks bite, cracking into a whine when you lift your foot slightly, denying him the pressure for a torturous second before pressing back down, slower this time, stroking from base to tip with deliberate drags.
You chuckle. âSuch a pretty liar. Look at you, kneeling there, dick pathetically hard. Bet youâve never even been touched like this before, huh? Who knew Spiderman was all talk and no action.â
Your boot circles the head of his cock, smearing the wet spot wider.
He groans, loud and unrestrained now, his head tipping back as pleasure coils tight in his gut. âN-not⊠your business.â
But his bodyâs honest, thighs spreading wider on their own and inviting more. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and he forces his eyes open to glare at you, trying for a smirk. "If this is your idea of a fight, youâre losing. I couldâŠfuck, I could break out anytime.â
You grin, a tendril slashing his suit to free his cock. it springs free, hard and leaking, tip flushed and begging to be touched. Gojoâs eyes flutter again when you touch him bare, a soft whine escaping despite his efforts. He rolls them back slightly, fighting the wave crashing through him, but his hips roll forward, chasing the pressure.
âAdmit it feels good. Or are you going to keep pretending youâre not leaking over my boot right now?"
He bites his lip hard. âFeels likeâŠfeels like nothing. Barely notice it.â
Total bullshit. Every drag sends sparks up his spine, his cock throbbing insistently, begging for more. He can't even seem to focus on what youâre saying anymore, not when youâre twisting your ankle like so, rubbing his sensitive tip and he canât hold back a throaty moan, his body arching into it.
âNothing? Your dickâs twitching like itâs got a mind of its own.â
âI could break these cuffs anytime,â he mumbles again as if convincing himself as if his hips arenât thrusting up greedily, fucking into the rhythm.
âBreak them then. Or donât. We both know you wonât.â
The friction builds up relentlessly, up, down, the ball of your foot grinding against his mushroom head on every pass, sweat beading under his mask, eyes rolling back fully now as the coil winds tighter, pleasure bordering on overload.
âOh, fuckââ Gojo rasps, voice a wrecked mess of gasps and moans.
âToo much? Gonna cum for me?â
He shakes his head frantically, but the denial crumbles into a choked sob when you drag your heel along the underside, pressing firmly over the vein that throbs with every heartbeat. His cock jumps, tip flaring red, and a spurt of pre-cum leaks out, coating your shoe in glossy trails.
âCome on, pretty boy. You're so close,â you coo.
âNo⊠shit, Iâfuck!â His words fracture as you speed up, pumping his length in firm, unyielding strokes, up to smear over the sensitive ridge, down to crush against his balls, rolling them gently before lifting to repeat.
His balls draw tight, heavy and full, aching for release, and he grinds his teeth in an effort to hold back but the pressure mounts, a white-hot knot twisting in his core.
You curl your fingers in his mask and yank it off, his white hair spilling down to reveal his wrecked expression, eyes rolling back and drool dripping from the corner of his lips. you grin, pure evil and glee before you tug his hair to make him look up at you.
âCome on, Satoru,â you purr. âShow me how much you hate this, how much you need it.â
The command shatters him. His entire body seizes, back arching off the cold floor as the orgasm rips through and his cock erupts in thick, forceful jets that splatter across your boot, your calf, even arcing up to hit his own abdomen. He cries out, voice breaking into a raw, uninhibited moan that echoes off the warehouse walls.
âFuck, yesâoh God, Y/N!â
His hips jerk helplessly as you keep stroking him through it, dragging every last shudder from his body until heâs wrung completely dry. Heâs whimpering by the end of it, oversensitive and trembling, head fallen back against the pillow, chest rising and falling in ragged pants. Cum spills down the front of his suit in sticky, obscene streaks, and still you donât let him hide from it, your hand only slowing once heâs been pushed so far past pleasure it borders on cruelty.
âNot bad for a virgin,â you murmur, voice sweet in that way that makes humiliation burn twice as hot. âBet youâve never made yourself cum that hard, huh? All those lonely nights jerking off to thoughts of me, and this is the best you could do?â
Gojoâs face burns crimson, shame and bliss tangling together until he canât tell one from the other. âShut up,â he breathes, though it comes out broken and weak. âThat didnât mean anything.â
âReally?â you ask, and the smile you give him is devastating. âThen why are you hard again?
His gaze drops before he can stop it. Sure enough, his cock is already thickening back to life, flushed and twitching against his stomach as if his body has decided to betray him completely. When he looks up again, youâre licking your lips slowly, deliberately, and his mouth goes dry enough to hurt
âWant me to show you what youâve been missing?â you ask. âOr are you still going to pretend?â
Gojo isnât a weak man, he really isnât. But with your foot still by his thigh, body so close and promises of warmth and softness beyond his filthies fantasies, and that look in your eyes like you already know exactly how this ends, he can feel himself caving. The word is already there, already rising up his throat, yes, yes, pleaseâ
And then his eyes snap open. The darkness of his room hits him like cold water.
For a second he canât move. He just lies there, disoriented, heart hammering against his ribs hard enough to hurt, the last traces of the dream still clinging to him in flashes too vivid to shake. Your voice, your mouth, the heat of your body. The sight of you above him, cruel and beautiful and impossibly close.
Then reality settles in, humiliating in its clarity.
Heâs alone.
Flat on his back in a bed thatâs too warm now, sheets tangled around his legs, boxers sticking damply to his skin. His cock throbs untouched, leaking embarrassingly through the fabric, still hard enough that the loss of the dream feels almost physically painful. He drags in a breath and it catches somewhere in his chest, shaky and shallow.
He groans, burying his face in his pillow, cheeks burning even though no one is there to see it, and lies there in the aftermath of his own disgrace, hard and aching and still haunted by the sound of your voice.Â
Gojo is unfair.
He knows heâs unfair. Itâs hard not to when the reminder comes as easily as catching his own reflection in the dark screen of his laptop, or running a hand through his hair in frustration and knowing that, at the very least, having silky, soft, gorgeous white hair isnât on his list of worries. Itâs as easy as checking his grades at the end of every semester, his eyes drifting from an episode of Frieren on his laptop to the screen of his phone. When his gaze skims over his marks and settles on his final grade, Gojo knows heâs unfair.
A crash in the street, someone yelling for help, and heâs already pulling on the blue-and-white mask and swinging out the window, because apparently good looks and a big brain werenât enough. The universe had to make him Spiderman too.
He knows what he is: smart, strong, and kindhearted (that last one might be a sneak). That robbery he stopped two weeks ago before his cardiovascular final? Yeah, no biggie. Did he just save a hijacked bus the morning of this very neuropharmacology tutorial? Yeah, but no sweat, heâll still pass top of his class like alwaysâ
â97%?â
He watches you freeze and immediately slam the lid of your laptop down. You whip around to face the culprit who aired out your grade, temporarily stunned when itâs someone you donât recognise.
Gojo narrows his eyes. âHow did someone like you get a 97?â
His words come out too harsh to be surprise and lacking any warmth to come off as a congratulations. Because you donât look like the kind of person whoâd flash their grades around or fish for praise. If anything, you look horrified to have been noticed at all, eyes wide and shoulders tense like youâd been caught doing something embarrassing rather than scoring nearly full marks on a quiz the class had been stressing over ten minutes before it began.
âWhat the fuck does that mean?â you hiss back. âDo you mind? Donât look over my shoulder like a creep.â
He smirks warily but it doesnât reach his eyes. âItâs a 97. Thatâs something to gloat about. Didnât think it would come from someone like you though.â
âSo youâve been saying. What does that even mean? I donât look like the type of person to get a 97?â
âYeah,â he says bluntly, an answer seemingly as obvious as asking if grass was green or if the sky was blue.
You press your lips together to avoid cussing him out in the chatty classroom. âDo I even know you?â
âIt would be hard to miss me,â he shoots back. âIâm the one that's been topping these quizzes since the semester started.â
âFell off, did you?â
âPlease, this was a fluke, princess.â
You practically hum with irritation at the nickname. âAnd what did you get?â
He puts up a firewall immediately. âThat's nunya.â
âWhat?â
âNone of your business.â He grins.
You grimace at his evidently childish nature. âI don't think you can say that after shoving your ugly face into my business.â
You decide to take things into your own hands, standing up from your chair to reach back and snatch his laptop. He blinks at the sudden movement, momentarily distracted at your choice of words before it registers.
And Gojo is Spiderman. He could easily grab your wrist and stop you before you get too close but there's something making him hesitate. You smell nice, he notes faintly, like vanilla and something artificial but sweet. It's your perfume no doubt, he just can't wrap his head around why it smelt so good.
Your fingers successfully reach close around his laptop and lifts it off the table, placing it onto your thighs as your finger slides across the trackpad. You let out a victorious, âHah!â which has him blinking out of his daze to follow your gesture and observe the damage, seconds too late from preventing it.
His mark stares back at him.
92%.
Gojo notices you then, which is embarrassing because he doesnât even know your name. All he knows is that ever since the finals season began, youâve taken his spot on the fifth floor of the library, head down, brows furrowed in that cute way indicating your immense concentration as you try to visualise what youâre learning by tracing words and formulas in the air. He doesnât stay for long but the next day youâre still there in his spot, and then the next, and then the day after.
He stopped caring about getting his spot back on the fifth day.
He finds you everywhere else, chatting with friends on the lawn outside the north biological science building, giggling over brunch in the cafeteria, the smile you flash to your friends far kinder than the one you swung at him like a weapon that day in the tutorial room.
Youâre unfair. Gorgeous, always put together, nails adorned with charms and chrome, the confident click of your heels against the pavement introducing your entrance into every building with no shame. His ears always tune him into your conversations, and on the day that he discovered you had a sense of humourâa good one too, God forbidâhe only seemed to hate you more.
Because he is unfair, yes, he knows that. But thereâs something restless in his chest and youâre unfair in a similar way, but finding a fault in you would be an impossible task.
And that doesnât swing with him.
Because sometimes, Gojo feels like a stick adrift a river. Sometimes the currents are fierce and he sways here and there, a puppet to its frivolous nature, and sometimes the waters are calm though he is no less at its mercy than before. Heâll duck his head when people talk to him, do their part in the assessment because itâll be as easy as opening his laptop and writing the first thing that comes to mind. He doesnât care what anyone says about him, doesnât care that they think heâs quiet when truthfully, his mind is always whirring to talk to someone.
He has his friends, he has Geto, he has Shoko. And recently, it seems he has you too.
Bright, sweet, funny. You're beautiful and you donât even know it. He leans in to the sound of your laughter, wants to feel your palm against his cheek, feel your soft pink lips against his eyelids and on his cheeks. He wants to lose himself in your voice, whether itâs to scold him or praise him he doesnât care, just wants to be close again.
âSatoru?â
Gojo flinches, jolting up right, his hand slipping from under his chin to push up his headphones and knocking them clean off his head. They're connected by wire so he catches it easily enough, but they fall down to knock against his hand awkwardly.
He looks up, meeting your bemused eyes as you stare down at him, the sun behind you, your hair tumbling down your shoulders.
âHey,â he says, breathlessly. âOh, uh, want to sit? I meanâwhat are you doing here? I thought you were going for lunch with⊠Shoko.â
His words trail off uselessly when you take him up on his offer, sliding a hand to smoothen your skirt as you sit, thighs brushing his.
âIâve been trying to get Shoko and Utahime together for ages so I thought this might be a good time. Besides, I saw you from up there.â You point up at one of the taller buildings and he mentally cheers for remembering your timetable right, fist bumping his past self for picking this spot to sun bathe.
âStalking me?â he teases softly, eyes searching your face.
You bump your shoulder against his. âAs if. This is a chance meeting.â
He chuckles, unable to take his eyes off you. âSo you're free for the rest of the day, then?â
âShould be.â
âOkay.â
You look up at him and he whips his gaze forward.
âAre you?â
âSorry?â
âAre you free right now, Satoru?â
âUhâyeah! Yes, I am. Free, that is. Iâm free right now.â He clears his throat when his voice comes out a little gravelly, ears burning as his own words come back to him. âSorry, Iâm justâŠâ
Thankfully, you laugh, eyes curving into cute little crescents and he thinks that even though youâre always pretty, this might be the best look on you.Â
âJust what?â you ask, tilting your head. There's something unbearably fond in your expression, so unlike the start of the semester when youâd barely give him the time of day.
âNothing,â he lies instantly.
Your brows lift and he caves under the weight of that look almost at once.
âNot nothing. I meanââ He drags a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. âIâm sorry, Iâm just being weird today.â
âPlease, youâre always weird.â
He turns to you, scandalised. âYou always say such nice things.â
You smile. âYou know what I mean.â
He does, and thatâs the problem. He knows what you mean when you call him weird, knows the exact shape of your affection when you look at him like this, all soft around the edges, voice gone warm enough to sink into. Heâd call himself weird if he was in your position, perhaps crueler words, but you donât say them even if heâs deserving. It makes his chest feel too full, like thereâs something alive in there clawing to get out.
For a moment, neither of you say anything. the campus hums around you in the distance, voices drift past, the rustle of leaves overhead, the low grind of a bus somewhere beyond the gates. But here, tucked away on the bench half drowned in sunlight, it feels strangely private.
You glance down at his hands. âYou okay? Youâre fidgeting.â
He looks too. His fingers are indeed twisting the headphone wire around and around, enough that itâll probably knot if he keeps going. He stills them immediately.
âAm not.â
You give him a look. âNervous?â
He lets out a laugh at that, because itâs either that or admit the truth and simply die on the spot. âWhat would I be nervous for?â
Your shoulder brushes his again when you shift, and it is such a small thing, so accidental it may as well be nothing, and yet he stops breathing for a second anyway.
âI donât know,â you murmur. âYou tell me.â
Gojo stares at you.
There are moments in life, he thinks, that split everything into before and after. Like how thereâs before he got bit and after he got bit, those grandiose moments that define his life. This might be one of them. Maybe there will always be the version of him that sat on this bench with his heart halfway up his throat, and the version after, whatever that may look like. He hopes that version of him is smiling by the end of it.
He swallows. âActually, I've been trying to.â
Your expression changes, playfulness softening. âTrying to tell me something?â
âYeah.â His voice comes out rougher than he means for it to. âYeah, Iââ
He stops. should he really start this off with âyeahâ?
"Iâve kind of been meaning to sayâno, that sounds equally as stupid.â He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. âNot stupid, justâI had this whole thing in my head, and it sounded way better in there, so now Iâm trying to find it again and itâs justââ
Youâre staring at him like heâs hung the moon which makes things infinitely worse. Maybe thatâs your default look. You do always look so pretty.
You open your mouth to say something but he beats you to it.
âNo, wait, I can do this.â He sits up a little straighter, like the posture alone will save him. "I just need one second because I know what I want to say, I do, itâs just every time I look at you, I forget how words work. Which is honestly humiliating and I probably shouldnât have said that, so if you could stop beingâstop looking at me likeâŠâ
âLike?â
You have to be messing with him at this point.
âJustâcan I say something mean?â
You huff, pulling back a little. âWhat the fuck?â
âI justâI feel like I could fight with you for hours over stupid lab questions, and I always know exactly what to say then, but nowââ He shakes his head, cheeks hot. âNow I canât even get through one sentence. So maybe if I just say something mean like I always do, I'llââ
You place a hand on his arm. âDon't ruin this. Iâm not rushing you. You can take your time.â
His body stiffens under your touch, fingers tightening around the wire in his lap. He loosens them forcefully only to tighten them again.
âI think,â he starts, then winces. âNo, I know that when Iâm with you, everything just feels different. Like, way better. I like being around you, I like hearing you talk even when youâre telling me Iâm annoying, which you do a lot, by the way. I like when you laugh at me and when you give me that look on your face right before you say something mean because you look like you want to kill me and thatâsâsomething I probably deserve.â His mouth twitches despite himself. "I like walking you home. and I like when you ask me things you couldâve easily googled just because you know I'll know the answer.â
Thereâs a small smile on your face as you lean in again, hanging off his every word.
âAnd Iââ he stumbles over the word, heart pounding in his chest. "I th-think, maybe, what Iâm trying to say is that Iââ
He cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. âJesus Christ."
A laugh slips out of you and he blushes.
âDon't laugh,â he says, mortified.
âIâm not laughing at you.â
âYou're definitely laughing at me.â
âOkay, but only a little.â You smile wide. âBut didnât you say you like that about me?â
He groans, covering his face with his hands. âThat wasnât originally in the script.â
âSatoru.â
Thereâs something in the way you say his name that makes him look up again at once. Youâre close now, pretty face taking up his field of vision, and he hadnât even realised youâd moved closer. Or maybe heâs the one who did, unable to resist your gravity.
Your gaze drops to his mouth and then lifts again, and the world seems to narrow until it is only this bench, this sunlit patch of afternoon, the space between you shrinking into something fragile and unbearable.
He tries once more, because he has to, because if he doesnât say it now he never will.
"I want to kiss you,â he blurts, the words tumbling out, crooked and breathless. "I really, really want to kiss you, and iâve been trying not to notice for a while now because I wasnât sure if I can and I wasnât sure if youâif you maybeâand I know this is probably not the smoothest way to say this but I justââ
Wait a minute, did he end up saying âI like youâ or did he just out that heâs been staring at your lips for the past five minutes now?
It doesnât seem to matter because you lean forward and kiss him.
There's no great sweep of music, no fireworks, no impossible cinematic pan out encapsulating the sun. Just you, leaning in as if it is the most natural thing in the world, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face, your lips soft against his.
Gojo stops thinking immediately.
His whole body goes rigid for one stunned second before every thought in his buzzing head simply dissipates. Heat floods him all at once, sharp and dizzying, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He's only vaguely aware that heâs stopped breathing and that his eyes are open, and that he has absolutely no clue what to do with his hands.
When you pull back, only just, your thumb brushes over his cheekbone.
He stares at you.
You stare back, mouth curving into a shy smile that nearly kills him where he sits.
âSure,â you say. âYou can kiss me.â
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His face must be bright red by now because your smile grows, softer and softer, and God, if he could bottle this moment and live inside it forever, he would.
âYou kissed me,â he says at last, intelligent as always.
"I did.â
âOn purpose?â
You laugh, and he thinks he might pass out. Oh yeah, he really does like it when you laugh at him. âNo Satoru, by accident.â
He makes a strangled noise somewhere between disbelief and delight. He can feel the heat of his face, knows he probably looks ridiculous, but for once he cannot bring himself to care, not even a little. All he can do is look at you with his heart in his throat and try, with limited success, to remember how these things should go.
âOh,â he says.
Your brows pinch together in a fond little crease. âOh?â
âSorry, Iâm still stuck on the part where you kissed me.â
âDo you need me to do it again?â you offer, smiling. âThough first, I think thereâs something you still need to tell me. Want to give it another try?â
Before he can answer, before he can even begin to think of an answer that wouldnât make him sound completely insane, his phone vibrates sharply in his pocket.
The sound cuts through the moment like a blade. He freezes, recognising the sound from one of two phones he always carries with him. It continues to vibrate, and thereâs only one thing he can think of as his stomach drops.
No.
Not now.
You glance down toward the noise. âYou should probably get that. It sounds urgent.â
He nearly says no, nearly ignores it completely. But the device buzzes again, more insistently this time, and cold dread starts threading through the remains of his daze. He fumbles for it with clumsy fingers still not entirely his own, and glances down at the screen.
suguru: venom sighing @ west park
or one of his goons
get over there
All the colour drains and for one awful second, he just stares until the phone turns black and reflects his distraught expression back at him.
Youâre watching him now, the softness in your expression touched through with concern. âEverything okay, Satoru?â
He forces a laugh that sounds thin even to his own ears. âEverything's fine, I justâŠâ his mind scrambles wildly for something plausible, something ordinary, something that wonât make you look at him any closer than you already are and find the gaps in his lies. "Itâs Suguru. He needs me.â
That at least is believable. Suguru has needed him for stupider reasons.
âRight now?â
Guilt crashes through him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. Because your lips are still pink from kissing him, because he hasnât even had a chance to kiss you back properly, because this is the moment heâs wanted for so long and now itâs slipping through his fingers before he can hold onto it.
But people will get hurt if he doesnât go.
âYeah,â he says, quieter now. âIâm sorry.â
âHey.â Your hand finds him again. âItâs okay.â
It is absolutely not okay. Still, he nods.
âI justââ He swallows. âCan IâŠcan weâŠâ
You smile, though he wonders if itâs truly genuine. âYes, idiot. We can talk later. Only if you promise to call me tonight.â
âI will,â heâs quick to say. âI promise.â
He stands too quickly and nearly tangles himself in his own headphone wire. You hide your laugh behind your hand and he feels a fresh wave of heat climb up his neck.
âSmooth,â you quip.
âBe nice to me,â he mutters, trying and failing to sound offended.
You stand too, close enough that he can smell your perfume, can see the tiny details of your face that heâs spent far too much time pretending not to memorise. Now that heâs up, now that heâs about to leave, it feels close to impossible, almost absurd like every part of him is pulled to you.
âGo,â you say softly. âBefore Suguru gets himself in a mess.â
He huffs out a breath. Then, because heâs greedy and because youâve ruined him since a few minutes ago, he leans down and presses the quickest, clumsiest kiss to your cheek. It's barely there, gone almost as soon as it lands, but the look on your face after makes his heart stutter all over again.
âIâll definitely call you tonight. Please wait for me.â
Gojo backs away before he can embarrass himself further or worse, before he changes his mind and decides the rest of the world can burn for ten more minutes. He wants to do something stupid like run back and kiss you properly this time like all the good movies do, but his phone feels heavy in his pocket, dragging him back to the version of himself you still donât know.
But even as urgency takes over, even as the river current catches him by the ribs and yanks, there is one bright impossible thing lodged firmly in his chest.
You kissed him.
You kissed him.
And for the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks maybe he doesnât mind being swept away at all.
Like a girl experiencing the lows of a situationship, your phone remains mercilessly silent the entire night. Itâs the first thing you check the moment your eyes open to a new day, reaching over to check your notifications. Outlook emails, reddit notifications, and nothing from the only person you want to hear from.
Thatâs fine, maybe the issue with Geto ended up being more serious than you initially assumed. Maybe he got caught up with a family emergency and passed out the second he got home. Maybe his phone died, or maybe heâd been too busy to send anything more than a mental apology into the universe and hope it reached you by divine. That is to say, you hear nothing from him all night.
None of these excuses stop the ugly little feeling from settling in your chest.
Your hand closes over your phone, open to your messages with him and embarrassingly showcases or last text to him left on delivered. For a moment, you wonder if the situation is appropriate enough to double triple text considering heâs already ignored your other texts, but eventually settle on nothing because no, actually, he can make the first move for once in his life. He had been the one stammering through half a confession, the one looking at you like you all devote and in awe while you only stared back mildly concerned he was going to burst a blood vessel, the one to kiss your cheek and promised to call all sweet-like. If he wants to disappear after that, then he can deal with the consequences without your help.
The presentation goes just as well as you thought it would considering youâre running on an accumulated two hours of sleep and youâre missing a partner. Considering the assessment is a pair presentation, that seems pretty bad.
You do your section first, voice steadier than you feel, though when you reach the point where heâs supposed to take over, there is a split second where your whole mind goes blank. Humiliation flashes through you hot and clean because this was meant to be the two of you and everyone can see it is not. Because beneath the frustration and embarrassment, there is something much worse curling inside you now.
When you finish, the tutor thanks you with a sympathy that makes your skin crawl.
As you hurry out of the lab, every sensation is suddenly all too much. the feeling of your tote under your arm, the clacking of your shoes against the floor, the bustle of students all around and you groan when you see just how many other people are leaving the building. Your pace slows against your wishes as you attempt to weave the crowd.
He didnât show up.
You bite your lip, hard.
He didnât show up.
You glance down at your phone and swipe. No new notifications.
He didnât show up.
All that talk had been nothing. He never took you seriously at all. Something akin to betrayal fills your chest and you wonder if youâre really going to start crying over a boy who has a digimon keychain on his bag. Said it gave him personality, said it was something like a photo of loved ones glanced at during a war. It's stupid, youâre stupid, you think, because how could you seriously think something new was budding there, that something was actually happening?
A hand catches your wrist in the crowd and tugs you hard to the side. You gasp as your shoulder brushes someone on the way past, the ground shifting under you before youâre pulled into the narrow strip of wall between two noticeboards and a vending machine.
âWait!â
You wrench your arm back on instinct, breath already halfway to a sharp insult, only for it to die the second you look up.
Gojo stands in front of you, chest rising and falling too fast like he ran all the way here. His hair is a mess, his glasses slightly crooked, and thereâs a stiffness to his movements. not that you care, not after this.
âAm Iââ
âYouâre late,â you blurt, all venom and wounded pride. âActually, youâre absent because late implies you cared to show at all.â
His expression crumbles. âI know.â
âDo you?â
âYes,â he swallows, voice rough. âI know.â
âThen what are we doing here?â
People move around you on both sides, students flowing past in little groups, too absorbed in their own conversations to notice how your whole world has narrowed down to this one stupidly tall boy standing in front of you like he hasnât just ripped out your heart and stomped all over it.
âSomething came up,â he says. âI couldnât help it.â
You laugh, ugly and tired. âThatâs crazy because something came up for me too. Does the presentation ring any bells?â
His jaw tightens. âIâm serious, something did come up otherwise I would have been here. Look, I know how this looks but my phone broke.â
The excuse lands heavy in the silence that follows. You stare at him incredulously. Was he really giving you that excuse right now? You start to turn around from his bullshit, not trusting yourself to speak, but he reaches out and holds you there by the wrist.
âI know how it sounds, trust me, I wouldnât believe you either If I were youââ
âYouâre right, I donât believe you.â
âThat's not fair,â he says, desperate.
You take a step back, but the wall is there and the crowd is there and he is still there, looking at you with that same helpless expression from yesterday like he can plead his way back into your good graces. âYou dropped your phone? What else did you drop, your common sense? Your sense of responsibility?â
âCome on, thatâs not fair. Youâre not even letting me apologise.â
âYou donât have a choice,â you snap back. You take a deep breath to reset your thoughts, exhaling out any emotion leaving your voice empty. âLook, I get it. We didn't start off on the same side and maybe you never really stopped feeling that way, even when I thought we were friends.
âY/Nââ
âMaybe it was my mistake for ever thinking that. So Iâm sorry Iâm so gullible.â Once you start, you find the words rushing out without much thought. Briefly, a small voice wonders if youâre really going to crash out like this in the middle of the busy science building, but oh well. Thereâs a twisted kind of satisfaction when you watch his face crumble. âI almost believed you really cared about whatever the fuck was happening between us, friendship orâwhatever the hell it was. If this was revenge for everything thatâs happened before, then youâre a real piece of shit, Satoru.â
âI said I was sorry.â
âAnd Iâm supposed to do what with that exactly?â
âBelieve me.â
You scoff. âWhy should I?â
His eyes widen a fraction and you press on.
âSeriously, why? You say things and you disappear and every time something important is about to happen, you leave. You act like I matter and then the second I start to believe it, youâre gone again. So why should I believe you now?â
âBecause Iâm here now,â he says, sharper than before.
You laugh. âNow. Youâre here now.â
âI came as fast as I could.â
âAnd I was supposed to know that how?â
His nostrils flare. âWhat do you want me to say?â
âWell, what am I supposed to think?â you demand. âBecause right now it kind of looks like you freaked out after yesterday and decided avoiding me was easier. So it's fine. I see now that you donât care about anything that was happening between us so, whatever. I donât care either.â
âThat's not true.â Gojo forces out through clenched teeth. his face tightens and for a second, he looks angry too, and the sight of it sends a mean little thrill through your chest because good. Good. Let him feel bad. âI do care.â
âBut not enough to show up to the day of the presentation?â You make noise of disbelief. âNot showing up doesnât even have anything to do with us, itâs just common sense if you care about your grades like I know you do!â
âExactly, so do you really think I wanted to miss out? Obviously I didnât want to miss out on 20% too!â
You canât help it, you feel petty and latch onto his words. âOh, so thatâs your biggest concern after all, huh?â
âDon't twist my words, you brought it up first.â He runs his free hand through his hair. âWhat are we even⊠look, I didnât want to make you present by yourself. Something just genuinely came up.â
You find a small part of yourself believing him. âWhat came up? a family emergency?â
He doesn't say anything. You laugh. Nothing about this is funny. You feel like youâre losing your mind. âOkay. Sure. Something came up. You definitely didnât do this to piss me off.â
He groans. âNot everything is about you.â
The silence after is immediate and total. His eyes widen almost at once, horror flashing across his face like he can hear himself only after the words are already out in the world.
He takes half a step forward. âWaitââ
âOkay, great.â
âI didnât mean to say that.â
âNo?â Your laugh comes out thin and shaky. âBecause it sounded pretty clear to me.â
âY/N.â
âIâm not making this about me, Satoru. You made it about me the second you promised something and then disappeared.â Your voice catches, but you force it steady again. âAll I did was believe you.â
He steps forward again, hand circling your wrist. You move to pull away but when you look up, you freeze.
He looks awful up close. Paler than usual, lips chapped, a faint shadow purpling the skin just above the collar of his shirt where fabric has shifted just enough to expose it. His hand on your wrist is warm, too warm, and his fingers are shaking.
A smarter, calmer version of you would ask why. This version however, only notices that he still wonât answer.
âWhat?â you ask, because your voice has to be empty or you will break. âWhat exactly do you want from me?â
He stares at you like the answer should be obvious.
âTime,â he says at last. âJust give me more time.â
For one beat, two, you canât even process his words. Then something hot and sharp tears through your chest.
âYou cannot be serious. more time?â you repeat disbelief making the words go thin. âYou say you care, you say you were trying, and then when I ask for one actual answer you tell me to wait. Again. Gonna tell me youâll tell me later again too?â
âJust listen to me for a second.â
âNo.â You take a shaky breath and it does nothing to steady you. âNo, I am so tired, Satoru. I am tired of feeling stupid around you, I always have. Iâm tired of guessing and Iâm tired of every conversation with you ending like this, with me standing here waiting for you to stop looking at me like thereâs something youâre dying to say but you wonât say it.â
âThat's not what this is.â
âThen tell me what it is!â
âI canât!â
The outburst turns heads this time and people slow as they pass. He notices a second too late and drags a hand over his face, breathing hard. When he speaks again, his voice drops, but it is no less intense for it.
âI canât,â he repeats. âNot here. Not like this.â
You press your lips together. âThen maybe whatever this is isnât worth it.â
The words shatter the conversation. You donât mean them and you know you donât mean them the second they leave your mouth. But youâre too proud, too hurt, to take them back and Gojo has gone still.
You watch the moment it lands, watch him stop moving altogether, even to breathe. His mouth parts then closes, and he looks at you like he doesnât recognise you for half a second, the sight making regret flash hot and immediate through your body.
âSatoruââ
A ringtone cuts through the air and you both freeze.
The sound of the ringtone is so familiar by now, a haunting melody that signals the end of almost every conversation youâve had with him. Your eyes follow the sound to his pocket.
He told you his phone broke. Something in you just gives.
You scoff at first, then laughter quickly follows. His face falls and he knows heâs lost you even before you shake his hold off, stepping back and looking away.
His hand moves toward his pocket and stops. âOkay, I know this is really bad but please just wait.ââEnough, Satoru. I donât know why youâre even making this that big of a deal,â you choke out, crossing your arms over your chest like itâll succeed in placing something stronger than your self-restraint between the two of you. âThe project is over whether you cared to show up or not.â
He flinches and you can practically see him split in two, body angled toward you while something else keeps him from moving. His jaw is tight, hand flexing uselessly at his side, eyes on yours like heâs trying to hold the moment together through sheer force.
âListen to meââ
âI need to get home,â you say.
He steps forward. âIâll walk you to the station.â
You actually laugh and when you speak, you hate how tired you sound, how flat. âWhy would you do that? I said the project is over, Gojo. And so is any reason for us to talk.
Gojo stiffens, arm falling slack to his side.
For a second, you think he might stop you or say something more. Instead, he just stands there, the phone finally gone silent in his pocket, his face stricken and too pale beneath the fluorescent lights.
You make it out of the building with your hands clenched and your mouth pressed into a thin line. The walk to the bus stop feels unreal, like moving through water. By the time you get there, your phone buzzes once and your heart lurches so hard it hurts.
shoko: u okay???
That bastard probably texted her about the situation. Of course he did. Somehow he could make time for that, but not for you. Something bitter and awful curls in your stomach.
You type back: âof course!!!!!!â because lying is contagious apparently, and add enough exclamation marks to make it look convincing before shoving your phone into your bag and sitting down when the bus pulls up to the curb.
The doors fold close and still, stupidly, some part of you looks up expecting him to be there.
Gojo should have known the two of you wouldnât talk after the argument.
There are no late-night calls anymore, no accidental lingering in the same space, no easy back-and-forth that used to slip so naturally between you, no watching you from the corner of his eye when he thinks you arenât paying attention. The silence that settles in the space left behind is slow and heavy and Gojo feels like heâs drowning.
He tells himself itâs for the best. Maybe he flew too close to the sun and now heâs melting and falling and nothing, not his spider instincts nor his web, can catch him. Youâre simply too radiant and too civilian for someone of his status quo.
But then if that was true, why does it get under his skin every time he sees you with Suguru, laughing together somewhere on campus? Why does something in him still ache whenever he comes across a tweet he knows would make you laugh, only to remember youâve blocked him? And why canât he stop thinking about how easy it used to be between you, back when you looked at him like he was someone worth knowing, before everything got so complicated?
And if he truly believed having you is as impossible as it seemed, then why was he following you back home?
Spiderman shakes his head, wishing he didnât have this restrictive masks on so he could run a hand through his hair and shake out his thoughts. Because he doesnât have any ulterior motives as he follows close behind, rooftop to rooftop, as you make your way back from campus, no matter how sinister it sounds. No, heâs simply making sure a kind, helpless civilian gets home safe now that the sun has set and night creeps in.
After all, youâre walking alone with your hands buried deep in your pockets and your shoulders curled in against the cold. He catches the slight shiver that runs through you, the quiet sneeze you try to stifle, the irritated little kick you give a loose rock after it nearly sent you stumbling. You look tired, closed off in a way he isnât used to, and it hurts him to believe it might be his fault.
âThis is stupid,â he reasons. âI look like a creep.â
Despite the truth of his words, he lingers above you anyway, haunted by the contrast of it all, the way you once smiled at him so easily, the way your face fell when he disappointed you, the softness of your voice when you left him. You look at Spiderman with a warmth and openness you no longer spare Gojo, and he hates how selfishly relieved he is to get even that much.
Fine. If you wonât have him as Gojo, heâll take being Spiderman.Â
Spiderman drops down in front of you in one smooth motion, feet hitting the pavement with a soft thud. âHeyââ
You move instantly, lunging forward to grab the back of his neck, other hand on his tricep, and hook your leg behind one of his. He blinks, standing upright one moment, before you pull his leg out from under him and heâs flipped onto his back on the ground.Â
Your face softens as you look down at your perpetrator. âWhat theâSpiderman?â
You quickly let go and step back before realising you should at least help him up. He takes your hand, standing up and rubbing his shoulder.Â
Kind and helpless civilian, my ass.Â
âAre you okay?â you fuss, hands hovering uncertainly. âI mean, that was kind of your fault for scaring me though. But are you okay? Seriously, donât do that ever again you could get hurt. But are you hurt?â
He winces, rolling his shoulder once more before chuckling. âThere goes any worries I might have had about you.â
âWhat are you doing here? Donât you have a city to save?â
Spiderman drops his hands to his side. âItâs strange because it sounds like you donât want me to be here.â
âIt took you this long to realise?â you tease with a smile.Â
âActually,â he says, quieter now, âI wanted to thank you.â
That catches you off guard enough to still. âFor what?âÂ
âFor all the help recently.â He lifts one shoulder in a careless half-shrug, but thereâs something more deliberate under it, something oddly sincere. âI donât usually do sidekicks. They steal all my thunder, and everybody knows the side characters end up more popular than the lead anyway. Bad for morale. But you came pretty close.â
âThat wasâŠâ You blink. âAlmost nice. Thanks?âÂ
âDonât get used to it. I have a reputation to maintain.â
âIs that what this is?â you ask. âA gratitude tour?â
âGod, no. I do enough free labour as it is.â He watches you laugh for a moment, eyes softening behind his mask before he says, âSo. Are you free right now?â
You narrow your eyes immediately. âIs this another deeply scientific survey on how normal civilians spend their evenings? Because your sample size is getting weirdly specific.â
He huffs a laugh and rocks back on his heels. âNot exactly. Although for the record, your data has been invaluable. Very compelling stuff. Lots of sarcasm. Mild threat level. Surprisingly strong upper body.â
âFlattery is not going to save you here.â You study him for a second. âWhat do you mean, then?â
He gestures vaguely down the street, then up at the skyline like he hasnât fully committed to the idea himself. âI mean⊠you look like youâve had a rough week, and Iâve had a rough week, and I thought maybe we could do something that doesnât involve property damage or mutual yelling.â
You raise an eyebrow. âGeez, that narrows it down a little, doesnât it?â
âIâm being serious.â
The joking edge in his voice softens into something a little more fragile and when you look at him more carefully, at the mask, at the battered suit, at the way heâs trying to sound casual about something he clearly thought through before showing up, you feel something warm blossom in your chest.Â
âAnd what,â you ask slowly, âdoes Spiderman do when heâs not concussed?â
He spreads his hands. âTonight? He was hoping to take a very pretty girl on a low-budget date.âÂ
You stare at him stunned before laughing softly, looking away before flickering your gaze back. âI bet you only say stuff like that behind the mask.â
âThat was smooth, you can be honest.â He grins behind the mask, you can hear it in the shape of his voice. âBut that complaint doesnât exactly sound like a no.âÂ
You look away again, toward the empty stretch of pavement ahead, the city washed in evening light and the first hints of neon waking up around you. You think of the hollow room waiting at the end of this street, your cold sheets and tear-stained pillow, and then of how light you suddenly feel standing here with him. It is not enough to erase everything, but it is enough to loosen something in your chest that has been wound painfully tight for days.
When you look back at him, youâre smiling despite yourself. âIâm free.â
âGreat,â he says immediately, a little too fast, then reins himself back in. âGreat. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. You said yes. Thatâs good, thatâs great, even.âÂ
You snort. âSo where are we going?â
He steps closer, lowering his voice like heâs about to let you in on a secret. âThat depends. Are you going to scream if I say I had something less walkable in mind?â
It takes a second for the meaning to land, and when it does you gesture sharply upward. âPlease donât tell me youâre slinging me up there again. Thatâs happened to me twice now and neither of those experiences were fun.â
âI wouldnât sling you,â he says, offended. âThat sounds so careless and crass. Iâd hold you very, very securely. In my arms, even.âÂ
âCan you even hold me? I just flipped you onto your back.âÂ
He laughs, then offers you his hand, gloved palm open between you. âCome on, just one swing. Iâll take it slow this time.â
You eye his hand, then his mask, then back to his hand. âYou didnât take it slow last time.â
âIn my defence, we were under attack by sentient goo both times. Be gentle with me.âÂ
You hesitate before gently placing your hand in his. âFine. But if I die, Iâll come back as a supervillain and haunt you specifically.âÂ
His fingers curl around yours, warm even through the suit.Â
âNo promises.â
Before you can second-guess yourself, he steps in, one arm sliding around your waist with practiced ease. The closeness knocks the breath from your lungs more effectively than the sudden lift when his feet leave the ground. You make a sharp noise and grab at his shoulders.Â
âThere it is,â he says, voice bright with delight and close to your ear. âThatâs the exact reaction I was hoping for. My masculinity is doing just great, by the way.â
âDo not make this about you,â you snap, though the words come out thinner than intended.
âBit hard not to,â he says lightly. âYou are, technically, in my arms.â
His web catches somewhere high above with a sharp thwip and you only have a moment to gasp out the beginnings of a final protest before the pavement drops away beneath you.Â
The city opens under you in one dizzying rush, all glowing traffic and dark rooftops and windows lit gold against the deepening blue of the evening. Your stomach lurches so violently youâre certain it gets left behind somewhere around the second floor of the nearest building, and your grip on his shoulders tightens with enough force to probably leave bruises through his suit.Â
âOh my God,â you choke out, voice snatched by the wind. âOh my God, Iâm flying. Oh my God, this is how I die.âÂ
He laughs, shameless and much too pleased with himself for someone who is holding your life in his hands. âThatâs a little grim. If youâd only open your eyes, youâd see how beautiful it is.âÂ
âOpen my eyes?â you repeat, incredulously. âSpiderman, my eyes will dry out and roll out of my head!â
His hold shifts just slightly, firmer at your waist as he catches another web and swings you both into a smoother arc. âTrust me,â he says, quieter this time, the teasing still there but softened around the edges. âJust for a second. Look.â
You crack your eyes open in narrow slits, and for one disorienting beat all you can really see is himâmask blurred at the edges, the line of his jaw beneath it, the hood rippling back with the force of the wind. Then your gaze drifts past him, out and down and everywhere at once.
Below, the harbour stretches out, black-blue and endless, broken only by the ribbons of reflected light from the bridge and the waterfront. Boasts sit like small, blinking stars, bobbing in the gentle waves, and the skyline curves around the edge of the bay, glittering and frankly unreal.Â
âThere,â he says, gentler now. âThatâs better. I told you Iâd take it easy this time.â
âYou said a lot of things,â you mutter, though some of the panic has begun to leak out of your voice replaced by quiet awe. âMost of them were stupid.â
âYeah, but were they charming stupid or just regular stupid?â
That manages to pull a short, unwilling laugh out of you, the gesture tipping your head back to look at the sky. The first stars are visible now, faint but there, and above them the clouds are smeared thin and silver. Then you look down at the water again, at how impossibly far below it is, and somehow that distance no longer terrifies you quite as much.
The water below catches the lights in broken gold, and he swings you through another perfect arc, close enough now that you can hear the faint slap of waves against the pylons. The city around you glitters as the sky deepens. His arm around your waist stays firm and sure, and with every swing your fear ebbs a little more, making room for something warm and foreign.Â
He must feel the change in you because after a moment, he turns his head just enough for his voice to reach you clearly.Â
âOkay,â he says. âNow that you trust me a little more, let me take you somewhere.âÂ
You lift your head to look at him. âSomewhere? I thought this was the date.âÂ
âThis is the foreplay.âÂ
You grimace, wishing you werenât being held hostage miles above deep water to pull back. âAnd just like that, Iâm dry.âÂ
He laughs, the sound warm and easy. âBut your complaining has finally stopped so Iâd take that as a win. And for the record, I meant thereâs more I still want to show you. Iâm not blowing my entire budget on just one dramatic entrance.â
The next arc carries you around the edge of a low building, and then the shape of it begins to emerge properly. The amusement park stretches out in front of you, lights flickering on as dusk settles fully. The ferris wheel looms overhead, its metal frame catching the last of the sunset, and with most of the rides closed, the whole place feels strangely eerie in its emptiness. But then the water catches the light in soft ripples, the sky deepens into indigo, the first stars begin to blink into view, and it becomes something quietly beautiful.Â
Spiderman watches you from the side, the light from the nearest streetlights in your eyes. His body is uncharacteristically still, mask tilted toward you.Â
âWoah,â you breathe out at last.Â
His shoulders relax just a fraction.Â
âYeah,â he says softly. âThought you might like it. And look, I reserved the entire place out for you. Itâs all yours for the entire night.â
âThatâs because itâs closed.âÂ
He grins and holds out his hand. âCome on. I know a way for you to get a view of the city high up and without your eyeballs drying out on you. Iâm trying to be accommodating now that I know youâre apparently very fragile about flying.â
âAs any normal person would, I fear.âÂ
You eye his outstretched hand and then at the pier around you. The place feels suspended in time, the shuttered stalls, the way the lights glow without the usual crowds to dull them.Â
âYouâre very confident for someone who almost got flipped onto concrete five minutes ago,â you say, but take his hand anyway.Â
âWhat can I say?â he shrugs, fingers warm as he interlaces them. âI trust you not to do it again. Weâre close like that, right? But seriously, can we stop bringing that up? Itâs a sensitive topic for me.âÂ
He leads you past a locked gate, showing off his lockpicking skills which prompts a raised brow and not the fawning he had initially expected, then to another gate to which you just had to look away from while he broke in. You walk beside him until heâs standing beneath the ferris wheel, metal bones creaking softly.Â
Spiderman glances up then looks back down at you, holding out his hand in a flourish.Â
âMy lady,â he says, dipping his head. âWould you care to have a go?âÂ
âReal original,â you say but donât protest when he guides you into one of the empty carriages.Â
It sways slightly as you settle in, the door closing with a soft sound. Then the wheel jerks once, twice, then starts moving ever so slowly. Your breath catches as the ground drifts away, the pier shrinking beneath, lights blurring into a soft constellation of their own. Thereâs no rush like when you were swinging, just a gentle, steady climb lifting you above the city skyline.
You lean forward, hands gripping the edge of the carriage as the city opens up before you. It stretches out endlessly, lights scattered like spilled glitter, the dark water reflecting everything through a dreamy haze.Â
âIs this what you see everyday?â you ask.Â
Spiderman hums, relaxing into the seat opposite you âMaybe something close adjacent.â
âWell itâs gorgeous. I canât believe I forgot how freeing it feels to go to amusement parks. Thereâs just something about being so high up, you know? But I guess I donât need to be telling you that.âÂ
âEnamoured already? We havenât even reached the top yet.â He stares at you for a moment. âOkay, pop quiz. Which do you like better, the ferris wheel or the swinging?âÂ
âDefinitely the ferris wheel.â
âThat hurts.â
You glance back at him over your shoulder to shoot him a cheeky grin. âWhy are you sitting on the other side? Is the view better over there?â
He tilts his head and looks at you for a beat too long. âYeah,â he says at last. âItâs pretty.â
He doesnât pull his gaze away from you and it takes a second for the words to land properly, and another second for the warmth in your face to catch up with them. You laugh softly, more because you need somewhere to put the sudden nervousness than because itâs especially funny.
âYouâre really pulling out all the stops today, arenât you?â Your gaze flicker from the view back to him. âIs this something you do with all the civilians you save? Iâd hate to embarrass myself by thinking Iâm special.âÂ
âWould you compliment me back if I said it was just you?âÂ
âMaybe. Are you telling the truth?âÂ
âYes.â He turns his body slightly so he can rest his elbow on the back of the seat, unabashedly staring right at you. âItâs just you.â
The carriage creaks softly. The wheel keeps turning and somewhere below, music too faint to make out drifts from some unseen speaker, somewhat staticky and distant.Â
With nothing else to do, you laugh again, buying you some much needed time to figure out what to say next. âIf you needed a boost to your ego, you could have just said so. You didnât have to bring me to a half-abandoned amusement park and make me stare at the harbour to get it.â
âAnd the compliment?â
âI guess youâre not as annoying as I initially assumed you were.âÂ
âMy ego definitely does not need the help,â he says easily. âAnd what kind of compliment is that? Give me something a little more impersonal.â
âYouâre humble,â you observe with a good mannered snort.Â
âIt comes with the whole superhero thing.â He continues to watch you until he realises that this prolonged eye contact should come with some form of conversation.
Spiderman sits up a little, crossing one leg over the other. HIs ankle dangles and bumps into yours, a mere accident that makes you freeze so your body doesnât move away.
âHow have you been doing?â he asks, and the question comes out with an almost awkward plainness to it, stripped of the usual easy swagger. A second later he seems to hear himself and tries to recover, lifting one shoulder. âYou seem a little quieter than usual. Not that Iâve been paying attention or anything. I just have, you know, a lot of care for the citizens of this city.â
The ferris wheel creaks as it carries you both a little higher, the lights of the pier shifting below in soft, sleepy colours. He watches you for a beat too long, and you know the joke gave him cover, but not much. The question is still sitting there between you, small and strangely careful.
You glance at him. âThat was subtle. Really invisible work there.â
âThank you,â he says. âI pride myself on my restraint. I couldâve been much creepier about it.â
âIâm sure that was difficult for you.â
âIt was,â he says with a sigh. âYou have no idea how hard Iâm working right now to seem normal.â
You look back out over the water, the lights trembling across the surface. âIâve been fine. Thatâs the official answer.â
âI think Iâve earned myself the unofficial answer,â he says quietly.Â
You fold your arms loosely over your middle. âItâs ridiculously stupid. Like, who hangs out with a superhero and starts ranting about their situationship?â
He makes a little choked sound which makes you look over in concern. He quickly covers his mouth and waves you on. âSituationship? I didnât know it would have counted as a situationship.â
You frown because what exactly does he know about what âitâ is? âItâs 2026, everyoneâs idea of love is warped. If it doesnât have a label then people will just slap the word âsituationshipâ over it and pray for the best.â
âRight, right. Please continue.âÂ
âWell, there was someone. Obviously.â You stop and let out a sigh, slumping. âOr maybe there wasnât and I just made him into someone in my head. I canât really tell anymore, itâs all just so messy. I thought maybe there was something there, I thought that was what everything was building up towards and then⊠we had this argument and it was honestly embarrassing looking back at it and now we donât talk. So.âÂ
âDid you want there to be something?âÂ
Ignoring the fact that youâre having a love life talk with Spiderman, of all people, you answer honestly. âOf course. I wouldnât be this annoyed if I didnât.â
Spiderman lets his head knock against the window as he groans. âOkay. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. Of course you wanted something, of course.â
You glance sideways at him. âWhy do you sound like that?âÂ
âSecond-hand sorrow.â
âI think they call that empathy.â
âI just think,â he says, his voice a little rougher now, âit wouldâve been easier if youâd said no. Iâm only saying that because Iâm looking out for you, obviously. As a public servant.â
You snort despite yourself but the heaviness settles back in quickly enough. âIt would have been easier if he just kept being an asshole like when it all started. If heâd just kept being a dick, then fine, whatever, I could have lived with that if I never found out the kind of guy he is. But he wasn't, he ended up being kind. And funny. And actually decent and that really pisses me off. He made me hopeful and I think that might be the worst part.â
Spiderman goes very still across from you, shoulders pulling tighter and chin dipping just slightly so heâs staring a hole through the floor of the carriage. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone quieter.
âYeah,â he says. âThat does sound pretty bad. Especially if he knew what he was doing.â
You frown. âI donât even know if he did. I canât tell if he was just oblivious, or if he really did mean something by it but then freaked himself over nothing.â
âThatâs not better,â Spiderman retorts. âThat makes him sound very pathetic.â
You look at him properly now, the dim lights from below catching on the higher points of his face. âYouâre taking this really personally for someone who doesnât know him.â
He lets out a short laugh. âMaybe I just have strong opinions about men disappointing women. Somebody has to, the bar is in hell.â
You exhale a laugh through your nose. âExactly.â
The carriage gives a small creak as it keeps moving and for a few creaky moments, neither of you say anything. The quiet isnât awkward, and he hasnât said enough to put you in your thoughts, but itâs quiet anyway. Then Spiderman clears his throat and leans forward, elbow braced on his knees.
âOkay, Iâm going to say one more thing about it and then Iâm going to stop being so emotionally available. It feels a little off brand to what we have going on.â
You snort. âSure, go for it.â
âI think,â he starts carefully, âthat if someone made you feel seen and hopeful for more and then disappeared, youâre allowed to think heâs a jerk. You donât have to make excuses just because he also had some good qualities. Because being kind in some moments doesnât cancel out making you feel abandoned in others. But maybeâŠâ
He takes a breath. âDonât give up on him. Please.â
For some reason, the sincerity in his voice makes you pause.
Damn, so even superheroes experience situationships? Because he sounded really invested just then in a way that can only be explained as first-hand experience. You wonder what kind of person could break Spidermanâs heart like that.
âThanks for the love advice, Spiderman.â
He nods solemnly. âNo problem.â
And because the entire situation is simply too ridiculous to keep a straight face, you laugh. He smiles too, watching you for a moment before letting out his own laugh.
âThere you are,â he says. âI was wondering what other crimes Iâd have to commit tonight to fix the mood.â
âWeâre going to have to circle back and talk about the lockpicking eventually.â
âAs long as it isnât today.â
The carriage gives a gentler, longer groan as it continues descending. You let your head tip back against the seat and, almost absentmindedly, your eyes drift out toward the skyline again. You frown.
âOh.â
He looks out too. âThat sounded like a bad oh. What kind of oh was that?â
You look past him, past the window, toward the stretch of harbour and the city beyond. âI think we missed the top.â
He blinks. âWhat?â
âThe peak,â you say, sitting forward. âThe very top of the ferris wheel? We were talking and I didnât even notice weâd already gone over it.â
âOh wow, that guy is the worst. He stole your ferris wheel climax too.â
âIs it also part of your superhero job description to ruin every moment with some sexual innuendo?â
He lifts both hands. âOkay, fair, Iâm having a bad wording night. But this is hard on me okay? I arrange a beautiful nighttime ferris wheel, I listen supportively while you talk about another man, and still somehow Iâm the bad guy.â
âRight? How do you do it?â
The carriage is nearly at the bottom now. Below, the pier glows in soft strings of light and you feel a strange sense of finality when it shudders to a stop. Before you can maneuver around a âthanks for tonight, see you first thing in the morning!â, Spiderman leans forward.
âDonât look so ready to go just yet, thereâs still the aftercare part.â
You sigh but donât berate him. âThereâs still more? Someone save me.â
The carriage door clicks open with a soft metallic sound. He stands first and offers you his hand again, less theatrical this time, and more sincere.
âCome on,â he says, voice soft in the wind. âDonât go home yet. Stay with me a little longer, thatâs all Iâm asking. Let me be the part of tonight you remember better.â
You look at the hand heâs still holding half between you. Then, before you can overthink it, you slip your hand into his.
âBut only because Iâm curious what exactly counts as better.â
He turns his hand, catching yours properly, and something in your stomach flips at the gesture.
âGood,â he says, low and warm. âBecause Iâve been trying very hard all night not to ask too obviously.â
You lied before. Swinging is leaps and bounds better than sitting stationary in a small carriage inching along at a snailâs pace. Itâs exhilarating and freeing, and yes, your eyes still hurt when you open them too wide, but youâve figured out the perfect amount of squinting to keep them from tearing up. Instead, you whoop and cheer as he swings you in high arcs and dramatic drops, skimming close enough to the ground that you might believe the end of your life is waiting there, if not for your growing trust that Spiderman will always pull you back up.
Half your screams are still terror, though.
Spiderman isnât silent either. He laughs right into your ear when you cling to him tighter, praises you when you throw your head back and cheer, and points out his favourite places to sit and watch the sunrise. He complains that the cityâs architecture doesnât cater nearly enough to his swinging needs, as though that should have been a priority in urban planning. He carries you over a football stadium and you marvel at its size, the bright field below looking almost unreal from up here.
âThink you can handle a little more?â he murmurs against your ear.
High on adrenaline, you nod against his neck.
Then he drops you.
His arms slide out from under your knees and he quickly unwinds your hands from around his neck. One moment you are safe in his hold, and the next you are falling, a heavy body surrendered to gravity as the ground rushes up to meet you. Your scream could wake the whole city if it were not already awake.
You look up. The sky above is vast, endless, strewn with stars so beautiful they almost make you forget the terror roaring through you. The wind screams in your ears, your clothes snapping against your body, and somewhere inside the panic there is a strange, suspended calm that feels almost like freedom.
Just before the ground can meet your back, Spiderman swoops in from the side and catches you cleanly in his arms. The force of it steals another cry from you, but then he is already pulling you upward again, the momentum sweeping you into another great arc before gravity draws you back, over and over until the motion finally begins to slow.
For one suspended moment, the two of you dangle in the air, saved from certain death by nothing but the web shot from his wrists. Metres above the ground, your life held so easily in someone elseâs hands, you find that you feel no fear at all.
In fact, you are laughing.
It starts as a breathless, disbelieving sound, then spills into something uncontrollable, and he chuckles at first before his own laughter joins yours. You laugh until your lungs ache, until your face hurts, until all you can feel is the warmth of his breath against your cheek and the solid certainty of his arms around your back.
He makes no move to set you down or sling you back to safety. Instead, he only keeps you there, held against his chest, his masked face angled down toward yours. You want to believe he is looking at you the way you are looking at him, full of wonder and something even softer than that, but it is hard to be certain when his face is hidden.
Your laughter dwindles into one last helpless giggle as you peer up at him. âNice catch.â
Your gaze drops from the white of his eyes to the shape of the mask stretched over the bridge of his nose, the faint outline of his mouth beneath the fabric. There has not been a single moment in your strange, ridiculous friendship with Spiderman when you have been so curious about who he is under that mask.
âThanks,â he says, his voice warm and low. âI kind of do this for a living.â
You laugh softly, and he shivers when your breath mists against the fabric over his lips.
âDo you remember when you first saved me?â you ask.
âYes, I slammed into a bus stop and ruined it forever. I also remember telling you to never mention that again,â he says immediately.
You nod, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. âWe were so different back then. I almost thought you were shy the amount of times you ran away.â
He is quiet for just long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, softly, âPretty girls fluster me.â
You snort, but thereâs no hiding the warmth that spreads across your face, and for once you make no move to cover it. Let him see it. Let him know the effect he has on you, just how fiercely this thing burns within you, this aching desire to hold him close, to whisper his name and feel him shiver beneath your touch.
Slowly, as if afraid to snap the fragile thread of tension between you, you pull your hand away from your chest and trail it up the side of his neck, your touch feather-light.
You hear his breath catch. Feel it, too.
Your fingers drift higher until your palm cups his cheek through the mask. âI want to know who you are,â you say softly.
He flinches. âYou canât.â
âWhy not?â you ask, voice gentle. âYou donât trust me?â
âThatâs not it.â
âReally?â Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. âBecause I wouldâve accepted that as an answer.â
He goes oddly still. âWhat?â
Spidermanâs stunned silence makes you smile, and a quiet laugh slips out of you at how easy he is to read despite the mask. âWhatâs wrong? Iâve read the comics. Iâve seen the movies. I know what happens when the superhero reveals his identity.â You tip your head, eyes never leaving him. âSomething bad always follows. Itâs like punishment for their hubris. The main companion dies, or the hero has to choose between their lover and the world. It always ends in tragedy.â
He recovers quickly enough, his arms tightening around your waist as if instinctively holding you closer. âYou think I couldnât save both you and the world?â
You ignore the implications of his words, biting back a smile. âAnd that would be the hubris part.â
He scoffs, though the sound comes out a touch too strained to be convincing. âThatâs not why I canât tell you my identity, princess.â
âThen tell me why.â Your voice drops lower, soft as breath. âBecause right now it feels like youâre making up rules as you go.â
He hesitates. It is brief, but not brief enough.
âYou wouldnâtâŠâ He swallows. âYou wouldnât feel the same. It would change things. It would change whatever this is.â
You go quiet at that, mulling the words over. Then your hands drift from his neck to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath the suit.
Looking up at him, you hum. âDo I know you?â
Spiderman flinches again. âNo.â
You laugh softly at how bad he is at lying. âAlright. Are we friends?â
He doesnât react quite as strongly to that, which tells you enough to keep going.
âDo we not get along?â
âHold onââ
You immediately compose a mental list of all those who had once wronged you in some way. Some were easy to recall, their offences more recent like the cyclist that had rode past you one morning and knocked your coffee out of your hands leaving you confused and uncaffeinated for class, or your neighbour who is always throwing parties. Maybe itâs someone closer to you than that, like Naoya, or Toji, or Mei Mei, or that old lady that always comes in at 8am on a Thursday and routinely complains about her coffee not being hot enough. You frown at that last thought and Spiderman catches it, opening his mouth to stop you.
âAre you a student, orââ
He hisses loud enough to cut you off. âDonât guess. Donât you dare. If you have to know, itâll be because I told you, not because you stumbled into it by accident.â He pauses, then adds, more mutinously, âAnd I definitely donât need to hear who you think I am. Iâm sure you can imagine how terrible that might be for my ego.â
You tilt your head, amused. âI get that, but I was only going to ask ifââ
âNo.â
âBut Iââ
âI said no.â
âSpiderman.â Your tone sharpens just enough to shut him up. âI was going to ask if youâre that old lady who always demands her coffee be molten before I hand it over. You know, the one who acts like I personally invented workplace safety regulations.â
Spiderman doesnât say anything for a long while. âWhat?â
You laugh under your breath. âI definitely told you about her before. Orââ you pause, smiling to yourself, âtold you about you, maybe. The one who always comes through drive-thru.â
âPrincess,â he says dryly, âI am not sixty years old.â
âPerfect,â you reply. âThen Iâm sure I wouldnât otherwise care who you are.â
And then heâs laughing. It bursts out of him bright and helpless, so sudden and genuine that it makes something in your chest go warm and dizzy. His head tips back, the white lenses of the mask curving with the shape of his smile, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your own grin from widening too much. If he laughed in your face every day for the rest of your life, you think you might let him, if only to know that thisâhim, here, nowâis real.
Heâs talking again, you realise belatedly, his mask shifting with the movement of his mouth, but the words barely register. Youâre too busy watching the fabric stretch and crease, too aware of how close he is, how little separates you now.
Your fingers trail back up the side of his neck, and that silences him instantly.
Despite all his earlier objections, he stills completely when your hand settles there. Your thumb grazes the seam where mask meets suit, and you stop, glancing up at him.
âCan I?â
âYou canât,â he whispers, just as softly, though he doesnât move away. If anything, his hand only tightens on your waist.
âI wonât look, I promise.â Your thumb traces small circles against his neck, your gaze locked on his. âI just want to touch you.â
He shivers. You feel it run through him, sharp and involuntary.
He says your name in a low rumble, the sound almost enough to undo you on its own. âThis is a bad idea.â
âIf you tell me to stop, I will.â Looking down, you slip the tip of your finger beneath the narrow break between his bodysuit and the edge of his mask.
âMy arm is going to cramp,â he mutters weakly, and the attempt at humour only makes your smile deepen.
You begin to peel the mask back. Just a little at first, just enough to reveal the bare line of his neck and feel the tense muscle there. Your fingertips glide over the exposed skin, and his breath catches again, but he still doesnât stop you.
You wonder how far heâll let you go.
You lift the mask higher, over the line of his jaw, and your eyes snag there before they can help it. Then over his mouth, where you pause for the briefest second, struck silent by the sight of him, before leaving the fabric gathered just beneath his nose.
He tries for a smirk and you watch it form. âWas that all you wanted to see?â
You lean in slowly, stopping just short of him to gauge his reaction. When he doesnât move away, you close the distance until your nose brushes his.
âFor now,â you whisper.
His eyes search yours through the mask, and whatever he finds there makes his mouth flatten into something almost pained.
âIâm not going to do anything you donât want,â you murmur, and though you mean it, there is a terrible hollow ache opening in your chest now. Gojoâs face flashes uninvited through your mind and you shove it back, determined to bury it, though itâs clear enough from the way Spiderman goes tense that you havenât done nearly as good a job as youâd hoped.
You donât want to use him like this.
Over the past few months, Spiderman has become something steady in your life, a source of comfort in ways you never expected. Maybe it is because he has no face, no fixed place in your world, no history to complicate things. Maybe thatâs why you have been able to tell him things you canât even bring yourself to say to your friends.
And now you are asking him for something you cannot take back. Still, your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit.
âPlease.â
He moves before you can prepare for it, leaning in so suddenly your breath catches, your startled yelp cut off by the harsh press of his lips against yours.
For one disorienting second, all thought disappears. Then he kisses you again, harder this time, and your hand flies up to hold him there, fingers tangling against his neck as though you can keep the moment from slipping away. His mouth is warm and real and a little clumsy with restraint, like he wants more and is trying very hard not to take it. The hand at your waist tightens, enough to make your pulse jump.
And then he groans into the kiss, fierce and guttural before pulling away. The break leaves you both panting.
You donât speak at first but neither does he. You just stare at one another, lips swollen, breath unsteady, the last minute catching up all at once in a rush so overwhelming it feels almost unreal.You are already leaning in again before you fully register it, drawn by instinct more than thought, wanting to close the distance and do it all overâ
When suddenly gravity shifts.
You let out a startled scream as the ground drops from under you and you pitch forward into him. His arms close around you automatically, holding you flush against his chest as the city begins to move beneath you.
âWhat are youââ
âIâm taking you back,â he says, voice rough.
âWhat?â You twist, trying to look up at him, but he keeps you tucked in tight against him. âWait a minute!â
âIâm dropping you back at your dorm.â
âHold on a second!â
âI canât.â The words come out strained, almost frayed at the edges, and because his voice sounds like thatâbecause the kiss is still there between you, lingering like heatâyou let your protests falter.
The flight back is too quick. When he finally sets you down outside your dorm, your legs feel unsteady for more reasons than one. The second your feet hit the ground, your hands shoot to his arms, keeping hold so he canât just disappear again.
âYou didnât want it?â
He doesnât answer immediately, but with the mask still pushed halfway up, you see the way his jaw clenches.
The truth hits you all at once, sharp and humiliating and you find your lips, once pressed against him, now forming the sound of an apology. âIâm sorry it was bad.â
He makes a vague movement, like he wants to run a hand through his hair and has only just remembered the mask. âThatâs not it.â
âThen what is it?â The desperation in your voice makes you cringe the moment you hear it, but itâs too late to take back.
He looks at you for a long, silent moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is unbearably soft.
âYou said it yourself, didnât you? Revealing my identity would only hurt you.â
Your grip on his arms tightens. âIâm fine with that. I donât need to know who you are. It doesnât matter.â The words rush out now, tripping over each other. âThe one Iââ You falter, heart hammering. âThe one I care about is you.â
Spiderman watches you wordlessly as you trip over your own tongue. Then, after a beat that feels much longer than it is, he says, âI never said it was your mistake.â
You inhale sharply and, before you can think better of it, lean in and steal a kiss from his lips. There isnât enough time to consider what the hell youâre doing because he answers immediately.
Whatever hesitation heâd been clinging to burns away the second your mouth meets his, seared off by heat and want and the unmistakable fact that this is really happening. This kiss is nothing like the last. It is harder, hungrier, and when his hand catches your wrist to pull you closer, it still doesnât feel like enough. A low groan tears from him into your mouth, impatient and wrecked, and then heâs biting lightly at your bottom lip as though restraint is already slipping through his fingers.
You gasp, and he takes the invitation immediately. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, coaxing every breathless sound from you until your whimpers are swallowed down by him. Still, it isnât enough. How could it be? Not when he finally has you in his arms like this after wanting you for so long, after all the distance and hurt and wrong timing. His body urges you back a step, then another, until your shoulders brush the wall and he follows, crowding you there.
His hands slide up your waist and back down again, settling hard at your hips, while the other cups your jaw to hold you steady for the fierce, dizzying press of his mouth. You cling to him like he is the only solid thing in the world, and maybe right now he is. Your knees have gone weak enough that you donât trust them to hold you without him.
A crash sounds somewhere in the alley below.
You jolt, teeth catching accidentally against his lip. He groans at the sting but pulls back, shooting the darkness beyond the window a withering glare like he could kill whatever interrupted him. You follow his line of sight, but nothing else happens. The alley settles back into stillness. After a second, he exhales and leans down until his forehead rests against yours.
âYou should probably check that out,â you murmur, more to break the thick, dizzy silence than out of any real conviction.
He hums, the sound warm against your skin. âThen why arenât you letting me go?â
Only then do you realise your fingers have curled tight into the front of his suit. They only tighten further, pathetic and needy in a way youâd usually hate, but his answering chuckle is filthy and starved enough to make warmth bloom through you.
âStay,â you whisper.
âOkay,â he says softly. âI wonât go.â
You shake your head and lift it just enough to meet the white gaze of his mask, your own eyes dropping to his mouth for the briefest second. âNo. Stay.â
He doesnât need to be told twice.
His hand slips from your cheek and a second later a web shoots from his wrist and catches on the frame of your third-floor window. His other arm locks around you and suddenly heâs lifting you with him.
Getting through the window is clumsy and breathless and far less graceful than the way he moves through the city. One of your shoes catches on the ledge, his shoulder bumps the frame, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly. It feels absurdly scandalous, sneaking through your own window like this, and the absurdity only makes it worse.
He climbs in first, then turns immediately and offers you his hand. You take it with less hesitation than before, and he guides you through carefully, steadying you the moment your feet touch the floor, and for a second he doesnât let go. He just keeps hold of you, standing close in the dimness of your room, eyes fixed on your face.
âAre you sure?â he asks.
You donât hesitate. âI wouldnât have kissed you if I wasnât.â
Something in him softens at that, though his voice stays low. âI still canât let you see me.â
You shake your head and close your eyes before your nerve can fail you. Your hands rise to the seam of his mask. âTrust me.â
And because he does, he lets you pull it away.
Truthfully, thereâs a moment where temptation almost gets the better of you. He's right there, close enough to touch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin and the shape of his mouth. Youâre touching him, your tongue has been inside his mouth and now you know his taste intimately. All it would take is a moment of weakness and the opening of your eyes to finally know who has been under the mask this entire time. Just one peek, one action to end the curiosity. Still, you hold yourself back.
Donât ruin the moment.
A soft chuckle brushes your lips, his bare breath warm against them now that the mask is out of the way. You steady your hands against his chest and feel the frantic pound of his heart beneath your palms. He shivers at the contact.
He tries to be patient, he really does. Tries to make this moment careful, almost reverent, like you deserve. But Gojo is greedy. Heâs greedy for your attention, for the spark in your eyes to flare up the moment his eyes lock on yours, heâs greedy for your touch, the brushing of fingers when you pass him his coffee in the morning, for that smile that you only ever seem to give him when heâs Spiderman. He is greedy for this version of you, soft and wanting and close enough to ruin him.
His brow twitches, something cruel twisting in his stomach and he traces the seam of your lips with his tongue, pushing in even before you open your mouth to him.
His tongue finds yours again before he can stop himself, the kiss turning deeper, hungrier. He presses you back against the window, one hand bracing against the sill behind you so the edge doesnât dig into your spine while the other settles hard at your waist. He devours you completely, nothing tentative about him now. He kisses you like heâs starving as all his late night fantasies, your name on his tongue and his hand wrapped around his cock, become finally realised when he tastes you.
You lightly tap his arm, and he pulls back to let you breathe but his lips donât leave you for long.
âGod, I've wanted you for so long.â he nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. His hardness presses against your thigh, leaving you with no doubts about his words. "I canât stop thinking about you, every time I close my eyes, youâre there. You're haunting me.â He continues to confess between heated kisses along your jawline.
The utter longing in his voice, the depraved desperation as he presses impossibly closer, hands wanting to trace up your side but to also push you up into him, the heat of his mouth against your pulse point, itâs all too much and you let out a whimper.
He groans softly against your skin, his restraint fraying even further at the noise.
âStop teasing me,â you gasp, tilting your head to give him more room and hating how needy you sound.
His answer is rough and low. "I canât help it.â
Deciding youâve had enough of him making you melt where you stand, you push at him instead. He lets himself be moved, following your blind guidance as you walk him backwards toward where you think your bed is. When the backs of his legs hit the mattress, he sits, and his fingers curl around your wrist to tug you closer between his knees.
Your hands find his face again, fumbling slightly as they trace bare skin for the first time. The line of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the shape of a face you still refuse to see. He lets you explore him in silence, stilling beneath your touch in a way that feels almost unbearably intimate, pressing a kiss to your palm when your hand drifts closer to his mouth.
Your fingers linger on the warmth of his skin, tracing the soft curve of his lips before dipping lower, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. He's so still under your touch, like he's afraid one wrong move will shatter this fragile moment, and it sends a thrill through youâthe power you hold, even blinded. With your eyes closed, it blocks out everything but sensation, heightening every graze of your fingertips, every hitch in his breath. You can feel the rapid thump of his pulse beneath your palm, matching the frantic beat of your own heart.
He tilts his head slightly, nuzzling into your hand like a dog seeking affection, and the vulnerability in that small gesture makes your chest tighten. This masked hero, the one who swings through the city saving lives, is reduced to thisâpanting softly, body tense with barely contained need. It's intoxicating, knowing you can unravel him like this.
âYou're killing me,â he murmurs, voice rough and low, laced with that desperate edge that makes your core clench. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just below the hem of your skirt, not pushing further but holding you there, grounding himself. âPlease donât stop here, touch me more.â
Your finger grazes his boner through the tight fabric of his suit and he hisses, bowing inward.
âShit!â
You pause. âA thought has occurred.â
He lets out a long suffering sigh. âPlease donât ruin the mood.â
You laugh softly, dragging your nails over his erection over and over, drinking in every flinch you feel from where youâre pressed against him. âI canât help you if youâre still in this⊠spandex.â
Spiderman huffs again but you feel him pull back and unzip his suit, wherever that zipper might be. âIâm so glad you canât see me right now. There was no way I could get out of this suit in a hot way.â
âTrust me, my imagination isnât doing you any favours either.â You pause. âDo you have to wear a thong under your suit?â
âThe mood was really good five seconds ago. Don't ruin it because youâre curious about what Iâm wearing underneath.â
You giggle and your nerves evaporate. Sure, youâre about to have sex with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman and that might forever change the trajectory of your relationship with him, but at least itâs still him. When he sits back on the bed and guides you forward, you follow him without a second thought and kneel between his legs.
âWhat are youâoh fuck.â He inhales sharply, hands never leaving you for long as they find purchase in your hair. âFuck, you look so pretty.â
His thumb traces your bottom lip, feeling it give way under his touch. He curses again. âI need your mouth on me, pretty girl.â
You laugh at his eagerness and reward his honesty with your hands down his chest, breath quickening when he lets out a small sigh as your fingers graze his lower stomach. You allow yourself the time to trail a finger down his bare chest now that he is free from his spandex, marveling at the muscle you find tensing under your touch.
Eventually, you find the waistband of his boxers. âSo you do wear boxers?â
âY/N, please. The mood.â
You tug his boxers down, slightly upset you canât see the way his cock swings up, finally free from its restraints. The sounds he makes compensates and you find it hard to stay disappointed as he groans, the hand in your hair closing around to tug you impatiently towards his dick.
âSorry,â he mumbles, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches you. Despite his apology, he doesnât make an effort to loosen his hold that much.Â
You drag your hands up his thighs to find where they converge. You wrap your fingers around him, feeling out his shape. If he asked in that narcissistic way of his, youâd tell him heâs average size. Truthfully, heâs thicker and longer than youâd dare to admit, the slight curve a feature that has you pressing your thighs together.
He bucks involuntarily, a whine escaping his lips that sounds so damn needy it makes you wetter.
âTake your time,â he manages to grit out though itâs breathless. âIâm not going anywhere.â
You wonder who heâs talking to because youâre sure as hell not going to take your time. Instead, you lean in closer, your breath ghosting his length and smell himâmusky and hot after being trapped in that suit for so long.
âYouâre shaking already,â you whisper. âHavenât you ever had a girl on her knees for you?â
He doesn't answer, just lets out a shaky exhale, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. The silence is answer enough, and it makes you laugh, hard enough to be distracted by the pathetic twitch his cock gives at his own humiliation.
âNo way? The amazing Spiderman gets no game? My god, I almost feel sorry for you,â you coo mockingly, tongue flicking out to lap at the bead of pre-cum on his tip. He jolts, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat, you smile against his flushed skin. âAll that heroic web-slinging but no oneâs ever taken care of this?â
Before he can respond, you take him into your mouth, lips sealing around the head as you suck gently. He tastes salty and slightly bitter, but the way he gasps all high and desperate makes you hum in approval, the vibration drawing another shiver from him. Your hands brace on his thighs, nails digging in as you bob your head, taking him deeper inch by inch. Heâs not huge but heâs certainly responsive, hips twitching like he canât help it, fucking shallowly into your mouth.
âShitâoh God, your mouth!â His words dissolve into a groan, his hand tightening in your messy strands.
You hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling around the underside, tracing the vein that pulses against it. With your eyes closed, every sensation is amplified, the wet sounds of your sucking, the salty drip down your throat, the way his cock twitches on your tongue.
You pull back slightly, letting spit string from your lips to his tip, and pump him with your hand, remembering to twist a little at the top.
âThereâs no way youâre going to cum already, are you?â Once again, you desperately wish to see him, to see him writhing under your touch, flushed with his eyes rolling back.
âDonât stop,â he begs, voice cracking.
You oblige, leaning back down to swallow around him, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. He smells like sweat and arousal, and you gag a little when he thrusts too eagerly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan, letting him feel how much you want this, how his desperation turns you on.
His free hand claws at the bed, knuckles white, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, the way he's fighting not to come too soon. You speed up, slurping obscenely, one hand slipping down to cup his balls, rolling them gently. He cries outâactually cries outâhead thrown back, and you feel powerful, desired, even as the mean streak in you wants to edge him until he breaks.
But youâre aching too, pussy throbbing with neglect and its slickness soaks your thighs. You pop off him with a wet sound to which he whines in protest, hips jerking forward seeking more.
âNot yet,â you say breathlessly and rise to your feet to push him back fully onto your bed.
He goes willingly, sprawling out with the audible sounds of his pants. You climb over him, straddling his waist, and grind your soaked panties against his thick length. The friction makes you both moan, his hands flying to your hips to hold you there.
âPlease,â he pants. âLet me touch you. I need toââ
You cut him off with a kiss, letting him taste himself from where your mouth met his cock. Itâs messy and you rock against him harder, chasing that pressure on your clit. But itâs not enough. You need more.
Pulling back, you guide one of his hands between your legs, pressing his fingers against your clothed pussy. âFeel how wet I am? Itâs all for you. Now do something about it.â
His fingers tremble as they slip under the fabric and brush against your folds, making you hiss at the contact. Heâs clumsy at first, virgin nerves showing in the hesitant circles he rubs over your clit, but the sensation burns with your eyes closed, turning every awkward stroke into fire. You grind down to guide his rhythm and he learns fast, thumb pressing firmer, two fingers finding your entrance.
âLike this?â he asks, voice small and eager, and you nod, biting your lip to stifle a moan as he pushes inside.
Heâs not skilled, all bumping knuckles, but God does the stretch feel good. You clench around him, riding his hand, the wet squelch filling the room.
âFaster,â you demand, and he obeys, curling them experimentally, hitting that spot that makes your thighs quake. Sensory deprivation turns it overwhelming, leaving you drowning in the slide of his fingers, the heat of his palm grinding against your clit. You whimper as the pleasure builds and he drinks in every sound, pumping harder, thumb flicking relentlessly.
âYouâre so tight,â he murmurs in awe, free hand roaming your body, squeezing your breast through your shirt, pinching the nipple until you arch. âSo wet for me. Fuck, I could do this all night.â
But you canât wait anymore. You shove his hand away, panting, and fumble with your clothes, stripping off your top and skirt, panties last. He helps, clumsy but enthusiastic, suit peeled down to his hips. Naked now, you feel exposed and vulnerable, but his hands are everywhereâstroking your sides, cupping your ass, pulling you down.
He positions himself between your legs, leaning down to kiss you deeply while his hands memorise your curves, gliding them over your soft skin. Itâs not enough. You roll your hips against him, trying to press him in, seeking that friction you desperately need.
Spiderman lets out a low groan against your ear, his control slipping at your eager movements. He pulls back to watch, to drink in the sight of you writhing under him, at your hands fumbling desperately at his arms to draw him back in.
âGive me a second,â he mumbles. âI want to take my time with you.â
âPlease donât,â you whine. Itâs infuriating, having him so close you can feel his heat against your skin and yet, it only emphasises the emptiness inside you. âPlease just touch me.â
âIâve got you, baby.â Unable to resist your needy sounds any longer, he finally gives in. He readjusts his position, guiding himself to your entrance. He thrusts up slightly, his dick gathering your slick at his tip, the both of you moaning at the friction. âTell me what you want, Y/N. I need to hear how badly you need me.â He all but pleads, repeating the action over and over, eyes closed shut at every nudge against your clit.
You whimper, fingers finding purchase on his biceps. âIâm not going to beg you, jerk.â
He ruts up, the tip catching on your entrance and you almost believe itâs in until it slides right past. âBeg me,â he pleads again, mouth planting desperate kisses at your neck.
The teasing drags on, his cockhead slipping through your folds, bumping your clit with every shallow thrust, but never filling you. It's torture, the heat of him so close, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room. You buck up, trying to impale yourself, but he holds your hips down, chuckling breathlessly against your throat.
âCome on,â he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. âJust say it. Tell me you want my cock inside you.â
Your pride wars with the ache until itâs finally too much. âFine,â you gasp, nails raking his back. âFuck me. Please, justâput it in. I need it.â
The words break him. With a guttural moan, he lines up and thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You're stretched full, walls fluttering around his thickness, and you cry out, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.
âOh God, yes,â he groans, stilling for a moment to adjust, forehead pressed to yours. âYouâre perfect. So fucking tight.â
You clench around him deliberately, and he whines, that puppy-like desperation surfacing again.
âMove,â you plead as you rock up, and he does, pulling out halfway before slamming back in. The pace starts slow, experimental as his inexperience shows in the uneven rhythm. But it builds, thrusts deepening, the bed creaking under you. Each snap of his hips grinds his pubic bone against your clit, and with your eyes closed, itâs all you can focus on: the slap of skin, the wet glide of his cock, the way he fills you completely.
He buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking marks into your skin, hands gripping your thighs to spread you wider. âFeels so good,â he mumbles between thrusts. "Like you were made for me. Canât believeâfuckââ
The tension coils tight in your belly, pleasure spiking with every plunge. Heâs hitting deep now, tip kissing your cervix, and you arch sharply.
But heâs greedy, wanting more, always more. One hand slips between you to find your clit again, rubbing in tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyelids. âCum for me,â he pleads, voice hoarse. âWanna feel you squeeze my dick. Please, Y/N.â
The command, laced with desperation, tips you over. You shatter, pussy convulsing around him, milking his cock as waves crash through you. He follows seconds later, thrusting erratically before spilling inside, hot spurts painting your walls. He doesnât even stop then, instead opting to slowly grind against your ass to push it all in. Finally, he collapses onto you as you both pant, bodies slick with sweat.
For a moment, thereâs only the aftershocks and his softening cock still twitching inside you. Then he lifts his head and kisses you softly, reverently.
âThat was incredible,â he whispers.
You smile lazily, fingers tracing his jaw once more. âYeah?â
He doesnât pull out right away, staying buried deep as his breathing evens out, like he can't bear to leave your warmth. His hands roam lazily now, no longer frantic but exploratory as he maps out the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You must possess some kind of iron will because you keep your eyes closed even then such that you can feel every callus on his palms, every tremble in his touch. Itâs intimate, this post-climax haze, and it stirs something softer in you despite the teasing edge you cling to.
âYou're still hard,â you murmur, shifting your hips experimentally and feel him twitch inside you. He groans, low and needy, burying his face in your shoulder.
âCanât help it,â he admits, voice muffled. âYou feel too good. Like... I donât want to stop. Ever.â
The confession hangs there, vulnerable and raw, and you canât resist poking at it.
âAw, puppy,â you coo, running your fingers through his hair.
He nips at your collarbone in retaliation, but thereâs no bite to it. âYou like it,â he says, confidence peeking through the desperation. âThe way I beg. Admit it.â
You huff, but your body betrays you, clenching around him again. He takes it as an invitation and starts to rock slowly, shallow thrusts that keep him seated deep. Itâs lazy and sensual and builds up friction without urgency.
âMaybe,â you concede breathlessly, hands guiding his head. âBut donât think it makes you special.â
âLiar.â He chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending tingles down your spine.
His pace picks up slightly, one hand sliding down to where youâre joined, thumb circling your oversensitive clit. You gasp, the pleasure sharp after your orgasm, but he doesnât stop, drawing out whimpers you canât suppress.
The room fills with the soft sounds of your shared breaths, the wet slide of him moving inside you, the occasional creak of the bed. He kisses up your neck, lips brushing the edge of the blindfold.
âIs this okay?â he asks.
âYeah,â you whisper, turning your head to capture his mouth.
The kiss is slower this time as you focus on simply exploring and memorising his taste. He pulls back eventually to sit up and change the angle, hooking your legs over his shoulders. The stretch is deeper like this, his cock hitting new spots that make you moan.
âGod, youâre beautiful,â he breathes. âI always thought you were but when youâre like this⊠fuck.â
The praise warms you and you reach for him blindly, fingers finding his chest. âShut up and fuck me harder.â
He laughs, but obeys, snapping his hips with renewed vigor. The position lets him grind deep, balls slapping against your ass, and you feel another climax building. His hand returns to your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and you shatter again, crying out, though not with his superhero name because that feels a little impersonal.
He follows and spills with a whine, collapsing beside you this time. Now, when the darkness creeps in from the edges, itâs not because youâre making the conscious decision to keep your eyes closed. The afterglow lures you to sleep and he holds you throughout it all.
But Spidermanâno, Gojoâlies there with his heart still refusing to slow, greed silent for only a moment but never truly gone. His fingers trace absent patterns over your back as if committing every inch of you to memory like the repetition might somehow make this enough. As if this version of the night, this version of you, can be folded up and hidden somewhere safe for later.
Because he knows, even now, that this is the only way he gets to have you.
Not in daylight, not with your eyes open and knowing. Not as the boy who sits two rows away and grins when he beats everyone to the answer. Not as Gojo, all sharp edges and arrogance and every stupid mistake heâs made with you piling up behind him like a wall.
He presses a kiss to your hair before he can stop himself.
It is a stupid thing to do, indulgent and dangerous, but there is no one here to catch him at it, no one but the sleeping girl in his arms who doesnât know the shape of his face and trusts him anyway. That makes it worse, makes his heart hurt so badly he has to take in a shuddering gasp to calm it, if only slightly.
As Spiderman, you had pulled him inside your room by hand. As Spiderman, you had touched his face with your eyes closed and trusted what you found there. As Spiderman, you had kissed him like you meant it, let him close enough to hear the soft wrecked sounds you make when you say his name.
It should feel like a victory. Some ugly, secret part of him has wanted this for too long not to recognise the shape of triumph when it finally arrives. And yet it settles strangely in his chest, tangled up with something meaner and sadder.
He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today.
His throat tightens.
You shift against him again, this time with a sleepy little sigh, and his eyes close at once. If he were better, he thinks, he would leave now before the night can twist this into something cruel, before staying turns this into something impossible to explain later. Before morning puts light on all the parts of him that he intentionally leaves in the shadows away from your gaze.
He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today.
But Gojo is a weak man so he stays.
Long enough for your breathing to deepen fully and for your body to grow loose and heavy with sleep beside him. Long enough that he starts to imagine, against all reason, what it would be like if he didnât have to move at all. If he could still be here when your eyes opened. if he could watch you wake and let himself be seen, just once, just enough to catch the flicker of emotion across your face. Would you be happy? Mad? Disappointed?
But the universe is rarely this forgiving and patient, and he eventually pulls himself up on his elbows.
Youâre still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow now, hair spilled across the sheets, mouth parted slightly on a soft exhale. The sight of you unguarded in such a way makes something ache low and hopeless inside him. Thereâs a mark near your collarbone he has to drag his gaze away from before he becomes truly pathetic.
âDon't do this to me,â he whispers, though whether he means you or fate or himself, he isnât sure.
Obviously, no one answers him.
It would be easier if you werenât like this. If you were messy or careless or cruel in your sleep. If you took up too much space, kicked him in that old wound that still refuses to heal. If you snored. If you drooled on the pillow. If there were anything in the world that made leaving you here feel less like carving something out of himself with his own hands and leaving it on the pillow next to your head.
But there isnât. So Gojo leans down and presses one last kiss to your temple.
Before he goes, he stands beside the bed for one suspended moment, looking down at you with all the wretched fondness he never manages to contain well enough.
âI'm sorry,â he whispers softly.
Then heâs gone, slipping back through the window into the thinning dark before dawn.
Morning comes gently.
You wake slowly, feeling the ache of too little sleep and something duller lower down, soothed by the warmth trapped under your blanket. Itâs a gloomy day outside and faint grey light slips in through the curtains. For one sweet, stupid second, the memory of the night before reaches you before your eyes properly open, and your mouth almost curves with it.
You reach out to touch him and find nothing.
Your eyes snap open.
âSpiderman?â
The name sounds ridiculous in the morning quiet.
The space beside you is empty, no lingering body heat, no weight in the mattress, no messy shape of someone else, just rumpled sheets and a half-opened window blowing a chill into your room. It all looks so unbearably ordinary for a place where your life had felt, only hours ago, like it was tilting into something secret and miraculous.
Something strange moves through you then, too tangled to name cleanly. The first is an easy one to decipher, disappointment, sharp and immediate. Then embarrassment, because some soft foolish part of you had expected to wake up and find him still there. Perhaps not unmasked, maybe not staying forever, but at the very least there to share the same sense of sheepishness you feel. Enough to prove last night hadnât been a beautiful, selfish thing borrowed from the dark.
You reach out and smooth your hand over the cold sheet once, as if you might find traces of your common sense there and regain some rational thought.
It doesnât, to no surprise. All it does is confirm what you already know.
Your bed is empty.
Has the sun always felt so good on his skin?Â
Gojo swings through the city as he does every morning. Itâs a habit that comes from the obligation, something Geto had said in passing about the responsibilities of being a superheroâor something. Satoru never really listens when Geto scolds him and he certainly doesnât care enough now to pull those words to the surface.Â
His morning patrols are little more than a guilty pleasure anyway. To be above the city made everyone else seem like ants, feeble things that needed saving every minute of every day. But itâs fine.Â
Because speaking of guilt, thatâs what he should be feeling right now. But he doesnât. In fact, Satoru is having a rather fine and dandy day.Â
He high fives the police chief when they start scolding him on the mess of webs he left behind during the car chase. He tips the convenient store cashier when he pays for his energy drink, forgoing the whole âleave the store and then web cash to the workerâs chestâ bit that he always does. He smiles at the senior citizens when they eye him even though he knows the gesture wonât show through the mask.Â
He finger guns the kids as they ride by in scooters and bulky, too-big helmets. He graciously rescues a balloon from a tree. He pets a dog on the way to class.Â
His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jacket that he wears to keep away the winter chill, the new personal phone that he got, not his work phone, and that does a really good job of extinguishing his mood.Â
Gojo settles down on the ground and ducks into a thin alleyway, pulling out his phone to check.Â
Itâs a calendar notification reminding him that today was the big outing, some aquarium outing he had to beg Shoko to be invited to. Once, he had looked forward to it but now, all he can think of is the hurt in your eyes, the way your mouth falls open in soft pleasure, the slight flutter in your eyes as you arch against hisâ
He shoves his phone back into his pocket and hurries back to his dorm.Â
Ignoring Geto's casual greetings, Gojo opts to instead ceremoniously flop into his top bunk the moment he slings in through the open window.Â
âHow was patrol?â
âDonât ask me stupid questions.â
âOkay.â Geto looks up from his book, turning in his chair to look up at the blue and white lump. âWhatâs wrong with you?âÂ
Gojo tugs off his mask, ruffling his hair as it falls messy before faceplanting back into his unmade bed. âNothing.â
âYou left the dorm beaming like everyday is just sunshine and rainbows to you, and now youâre back sulking. I wouldnât call that nothing.â He pauses when he receives no response, before sighing. âJust make sure to ditch the attitude before we meet up with Shoko. And donât take it out on Y/N.â
Gojo canât help it, he chokes on his own breath. Geto , of course, notices.Â
âWhat was that sound?âÂ
âThatâs just how I breathe.âÂ
âYou donât always sound like a kicked puppy when youâre breathing.â His roommate stands to peek over the frame of the bunk bed, raising an eyebrow when heâs met with Gojo's devastated state. âIs this about your tragic loss to Venom? Look, heâll come back and youâll get another shot at being a good superhero, I promise.â
âItâs not that.â
âIs it Y/N then?â
Gojo lifts his head just enough to give him an incredulous look. âHow did youâŠ?â
âI saw what you were reposting on Tiktok.â
Gojo flops onto his back, hands over his face, feet kicking about in frustration. âGod, even when sheâs not around she drives me crazy!â
âNot that Iâm not super sympathetic about your situation, but maybe itâs not the best idea to freak out about your normal civilian life when youâre Spiderman-ing. Itâs better to keep those things separate, you know?âÂ
Gojo grabs his pillow and shoves it over his face.Â
âWas that an agreement or an act of rebellion? Satoru, Iâm serious. You canât mix your personal life and your superhero activities together.âÂ
He stays quiet, or maybe heâs suffocated himself. Gojo kind of hopes itâs the latter if itâll save him from telling the truth.Â
Geto shakes his shoulder. âDude, stop moping. We have that thing to go to and Shoko wonât be happy if you flake.â
Gojo remains limp and after a few more shakes, Geto frowns with the tiniest hint of worry.Â
âOkay, out with it. What did you do?âÂ
At this, Gojo finally turns his head to look at his roommate mournfully. A slow, sinking sensation of dread drops in Geto's stomach as he searches this thin glimpse of his roommateâs face.Â
âPlease tell me you didnât.â
âI did.â
âHow bad? Does she know?â
Gojo lets out a long, suffering sigh. âWorse.â
âYou kissed her.âÂ
âWorse.âÂ
Geto's mouth drops open. âYou fucked her? Satoru, what the fuck?â
âI donât know, okay, it just happened!âÂ
Geto pulled his hand back as if burnt. âJust happened? These things donât just happen! Sex doesnât just happen!â
Gojo groans into his pillow. âWe were both consenting adults in this, Suguru, itâs not a big deal!â
âThatâs not the issue! She doesnât know who you are, Satoru!â
âI know that!â
âDo you? Because if you did I donât think you would have done that!â He runs a hand through his hair. âHow does she not know?â
âShe kept her eyes closed,â Gojo says.
âYou kinky bitch.â
âIt was the only way she wouldnât see!â
âReally? Because I can think of other ways. Have you considered the tactic of just not fucking her in the first place?â
Gojo frowns as if in genuine thought before shaking his head.Â
âHell. This is my superhero. Weâre all fucked.â
âSuguru, you have to help me.â Gojo sits up, head ducked slightly so as to not hit his head on the ceiling above. âI fucked up okay, I know I did. But itâs complicated, alright? Y/N and I arenât⊠good right now. I thought we were and then I dropped my phone and then we fought and now sheâs blocked me on everything. Even Linkedin. And Spotify!â
âSatoru, I help you with Spiderman stuff. I help you with last minute homework deadlines because you were too busy saving the world. I help you with lying to our friends about why you disappeared during a bathroom break for an hour that doesnât involve emptying your guts into a toilet. Iâm not helping you when you fumble a girl.â
âBut what if I fumbled her because Iâm Spiderman. I feel like that counts, right?âÂ
Geto turns and drops himself into his chair, the seat turning slightly at the momentum until he plants his feet down. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. âYou still havenât told me what happened.â
âY/N and I broke up.â
âYou werenât dating.â
âA friendship break up then. A situationship break up.â
âFine, whatever you want to call it. What even happened? Because every time we talked about her before that it sounded like things were going well.âÂ
âThings were going well. I almost kissed her like, five times. The sixth time would have definitely been the charm.â
Geto makes a face.âI feel like thatâs an indication that things arenât going well, but okay.â
âAnyway, remember when venom showed up a few days ago and I broke my phone?â
âAnd how you were knocked out for a night? I remember.â
âRight well,â Gojo takes in a deep breath that indicates heâs about to ramble, âbecause I broke my phone I wasnât able to tell her something came up and I wouldnât be able to make the presentation. I only woke up after we had to present, meaning she had to do it herself and now she hates me because she thinks I donât take her seriously. and I canât clarify that I do take her seriously because, again, she blocked me on everything. She also unadded me on every Google Doc she shared to me.â
âDamn, sheâs serious.â For a moment, Geto seems genuinely apologetic. âThat sucks man, Iâm sorry you were cockblocked by Venom.â
âWell, it comes with the powers and responsibility and all that.â Gojo falls back onto his bed, starfished as far as his limbs can go before they hit the sides of his bunk bed. âYou always have a solution to everything. Canât you fix my love life too?â
âI canât perform miracles, dumbass.â
âThat's not your line. Youâre meant to be sympathetic and helpful. Do you even care about me?âÂ
âNo,â Geto says mournfully. âUnfortunately youâre the only one saving our city these days so I kind of have to stick around to make sure you donât mess that up.âÂ
Gojo grabs his Agumon plushie and throws it down over the side of the railing. He doesnât have to look over the edge to know it hit its target. âIâm serious, Suguru.â
Geto catches the plushie with ease and gives it a pat on its head, placing it gently on his lap. âIâm serious too. Maybe this is a good thing. I keep telling you that you have to keep your superhero life and your boring, normal person life separate. This just shows you what happens when you donât do that.â
âWoah, thank you, Mr sunshine and rainbows.â
âLife isnât sunshine and rainbows.â
âIt is when you have the eyes to see it,â he sighs dramatically. âIs it too much to ask that I can just be Satoru and Spiderman without losing anything?âÂ
Thereâs something in Gojo's voice that makes Geto pause. Maybe itâs the lack of that whiny tilt to his cadence, maybe itâs the fact that heâs shoved his face into another plushie on his bed, voice muffled and hiding the desperate sound.Â
Geto wants to tell him the truth, that if the world was good and just he could be every side of him, that he shouldnât have to pick between being a weapon for the cityâs safety and an actual person with hopes and dreams and wants. Geto wants to tell him that he shouldnât have to pick being a superhero over being a person, but he canât tell him that. Because as the world stands right now, Gojo simply canât have both.Â
âThere's still that outing,â Geto finds himself saying. âLook, it sounds like you really hurt Y/N but sheâs not unreasonable, you know that. Iâm sure if you talk to her you can clear things up. Or just apologise now that time has settled.â
Gojo shuffles a little and sits up to look down at his roommate. "Weren't you just telling me I shouldnât mix personal and work life?â
âYou see Spider-Man as work?â
âAnswer my question, man.â
Geto sighs. âThe part of me that just wants to make sure youâre not hurt doing this whole superhero thing wants to tell you that. But the part of me thatâs your friend doesnât. It sucks that in this world no one can be their genuine self. But I mean it when I say that I want to see you happy and if youâre happy with Y/N then I hope things work out between the both of you.â
No one says anything for a while. Geto looks up.Â
âDude, what did you eat today to make you sprout all that feelings bullshit?â Gojo mimes throwing up.Â
Geto rolls his eyes, grabbing the plushie on his lap to throw it back up at him. Gojo catches it, his Spiderman instincts never letting him down, and when he puts it down on his bed, heâs smiling.Â
âSo, any tips?â
âJust be yourself.âÂ
âI was and look how everything turned out.â
Geto hums. âThen maybe letâs start with your wardrobe. If youâre going to win Y/N back, you canât show up to the function wearing the same one shirt.â
The aquarium is a shitty place to take someone youâre no longer on speaking terms with.Â
It seems even the fish have figured out how to move around without touching. Silver fish turn as one body and never collide. Stingrays glide past each other like silk dragged through water. Even sharks know how to circle without making contact, all smooth instinct and measured distance, and that would be deeply meaningful if you werenât currently trapped in a dark blue tunnel feeling like shit.Â
It is, Shoko had said in the groupchat three days ago, supposed to be a fun, normal outing. You should have known then that something demonic had possessed her.Â
The tunnel curves overhead in a long arc of glass, seawater casting wavering patterns of light over the floor and over the faces of people passing through. Children press their sticky palms to the glass, and a baby somewhere up ahead lets out a delighted shriek at the sight of some broad, ghostly thing drifting above. Couples walk slowly enough to be irritating, stopping every two steps to point things out to each other in soft voices.Â
The entire place is built for wonder and you are having a terrible time.Â
âLook,â you say from beside Shoko, pointing upward with none of the enthusiasm the gesture should probably contain, âa fish.âÂ
âI think thatâs obviously a shark,â Utahime says, squinting upward.Â
Geto hums, a telltale sign that heâs about to launch into his typical ragebaiting. âIâm pretty sure sharks are fish though, so what do you mean by that?â
âOh come on, Geto. You know what I mean. Thereâs fish, and then thereâs shark. If I say fish, no one is picturing that. Theyâre thinking of, like, a normal fish. Small, swimmy, not that giant thing above our heads.âÂ
âSo now weâre racially profiling fish and sharks?â Geto pauses as if in deep thought. âSo then by your logic, is a stingray fish-looking fish or shark-looking fish.âÂ
âA stingray is its own thing,â Utahime snaps. âDonât piss me off in public.âÂ
âSeems complicated. Not very obvious then, is it?âÂ
On any other day, thereâd be nothing more joyous than joining in and annoying Utahime. Today, however, youâre still figuring out how to move around without being touched.Â
âAt least give yourself the chance to have a good time,â Shoko remarks from beside you, none too impressed with your sulky mood.Â
You know it isnât fair to her but to say youâre in a bad mood is an understatement. Every voice only serves to grind your gears and the way people shove past you here and there makes you want to rip off your skin.Â
Maybe because you got approximately no sleep. Maybe because your body still feels the phantom touch of another, the roughness in his voice as he utters your name all deprived and pleading. Maybe because Gojo is still six inches to your left, all long limbs and damp shadows under his eyes, and every time the crowd bottlenecks in the tunnel, you catch the faint clean scent of his soap like he took a shower earlier this morning.Â
The tunnel narrows as it curves, forcing all of you into an untidy line. Shoko and Utahime end up leading, Geto just behind them, pointing out silly little things that pisses her Utahime and makes Shoko laugh. You had slowed down for all of three seconds to let a family with two children pass and made the tactical error of allowing Gojo to fall into step beside you. Now the two of you are trapped by the flow of bodies moving through the tunnel at exactly the kind of sluggish, reverent pace that grates against your frayed nerves.
Above, something glides over the glass. The baby up ahead screams again, only louder, such that it echoes down the winding tunnel.
âSee, that wouldn't be a fish,â Geto is saying from up ahead.
You can hear utahime through the murmur of the crowd. âI figured.â
âCanât be too sure.â
There's another shuffle of people from up ahead as if the presence of the stingray is a thing to fawn over, a stop-start of prams and schoolbags and a father trying to explain in a stage whisper why no, his child cannot touch the stingray, and the whole line compresses.
Gojoâs shoulder brushes yours.
You stiffen before you can even try to pretend it had no effect on you and he shifts back, creating what little space he can in a tunnel full of tourists and toddlers. You can feel his hesitation without even looking at him, that careful slouching in on himself he's been doing all day.
âSorry,â he says quietly.Â
You donât bother with a response, looking in the opposite direction as if you had suddenly gained a deep appreciation for marine life.Â
Shoko glances back over her shoulder to make sure she hasnât lost either of you, and catches the way the two of you repel from each other. Her eyes flick from your face to Gojoâs, and narrow.Â
Great, so not only are you miserable, but now youâre probably going to get grilled.Â
âYou two are weirdly quiet,â she cleverly deduces.Â
âWeâre in an aquarium,â you reply. âThe whole point is to be quiet and to look at the fish. Or the sharks orâwhatever.âÂ
âAre you at least having fun?â she tries again, though judging from her look, itâs clear she already has an answer in mind.Â
âDefinitely,â you mumble at the same time Gojo says, âSo much fun.âÂ
You keep your mouth shut, refusing to look over at him. And Shoko, bless her patient heart, only tries again.Â
âWeâre about to reach the actual shark section. You love sharks, donât you, Y/N?â
âPartial at best.â
âOr we could divert to look at the rock pools and touch some starfish. Doesnât that sound like fun, Gojo?âÂ
âI guess.â He kicks at the ground, stubbornly glaring at the path.Â
Shoko rolls her eyes, dropping her gentle parenting act just as the tunnel begins to open up again. The two of you separate like magnets of the same charge when thereâs space to move, only heightening her annoyance.Â
âYou both are impossible! Youâre acting like kids! Letâs age check real quick, how long are you two going to keep up this silent treatment act for?â
Gojo sighs, running a hand through his hair. âCan you just drop it, Shoko? Itâs really none of your business.â
âWoah,â Shoko says. âGojoâs arrived.âÂ
âIâm serious.â He grits his teeth. âLeave it.â
Shoko looks over at you for your input but you keep quiet, hiding your own guilt by looking away. Youâre acting like a kid, you know you are, but itâs hard not to when you have this man child walking beside you.Â
And because Gojo has never won an argument against with Shoko, never has in the many, many years theyâve known each other, she grabs your hand and his arm and pulls you both together, positive versus positive charge be damned. You visibly flinch when his skin brushes yours, but her hands keep you together.Â
âI donât know what happened between you two,â she says, âbut youâre going to sort it out right here right now, you hear me? The shark section is up ahead. I donât care what happens in there, but when you walk out of it, youâre both going to get along. Understood?â
Gojo looks up from where heâs staring at the point of contact where your bodies touch.Â
âI said, understood?â Shoko presses, drawing you both closer.Â
You grimace and relent. âFine, fine. Just let go, wonât you?â
She doesnât, turning her fierce gaze to Gojo. âYour turn.â
âShoko,â he starts, but his eyes are fixed over her shoulder. âLet go.âÂ
âI wonât until you tell me the two of you are going to start behaving like adults again."Â
âShoko, seriouslyââ
âGojo, Iâm not letting go untilââ
You let out a frustrated exhale. âJust get it over with and say that you will.âÂ
âThatâs not it.âÂ
His voice sharpens so suddenly that the three of you freeze. His hand closes around your arm, knocking Shokoâs grip off him in one abrupt movement, and you almost wince at how tight his fingers are.Â
âDuck!âÂ
Considering youâre at an aquarium and not a zoo, his words confuse you. But the word barely leaves his mouth before the world ends, or at least the tunnel does.Â
One moment youâre upright and irritated, and the next youâre on the slick aquarium floor with Gojo half over you, his hand clamped around the back of your head as glass bursts somewhere overhead in a noise so violent it seems to deafen you. Water follows half a second later, a freezing, roaring wall of it that slams into your legs and floods the corridor in one breathless rush.Â
You gasp, inhaling panic with it. For one awful second, all you can see is dark water and something silver whipping past your face so quickly you canât process whether itâs debris or fish or some secret third option. Gojoâs arms tighten around you just before the current hits full force, shielding you from the bulk of it.Â
When the initial wave passes, he pushes himself up first, still braced over you, blinking the water from his eyes. âAre you okay? Actually, donât answer straight away because then youâre probably lying. Are you hurt?â
You stare at him for half a second with your chest heaving, before snapping back into your body. âI think so. Was that enough time to seem genuine?â
âYeah,â he says, then grabs your hand and hauls you upright with startling efficiency.Â
A jagged hole has been torn through the glass overhead and water is still pouring through in punishing sheets, waves upon waves lapping at your feet. You ignore it all.Â
âShoko!â you shout immediately. âUtahime? Guys?â
âWeâre here!â Shokoâs voice comes from somewhere to your right, thin through the alarms and the water. âWeâre all okay!â
Through the flashing red light and beyond a rush of water you canât imagine brushing past, you spot them.
Shoko has one arm around Utahimeâs waist and the other braced against the wall, her hair plastered to her face by spray. Utahime is upright, but only just, one hand pressed over her calf where blood is already mixing into the water in thin red ribbons. Suguru is beside them, shoving a fallen display sign out of the way so a knot of panicked visitors can force themselves toward the nearest exit.
âWeâre fine!â Geto yells. âUtahime got cut by the glass, but she can walk. Weâre heading for the side stairs.â
Shoko twists back, catches sight of you and Gojo still standing there, and immediately cups her hands around her mouth. âWhat are you two doing? Move! I paid money for this outing and frankly Iâd like at least four of us to live!â
Before either of you can answer, something booms deeper in the aquarium hard enough to rattle the glass beneath your feet. All around you, people are still trying to push toward the exits in a mess of uncoordinated panic. One aquarium staff member is shouting for everyone to stay calm in a voice already fraying at the edges and thereâs a child sobbing somewhere to your right. Another tank further down the hall has cracked into a spiderweb of fractures that spread wider with every violent thud from beyond.
Gojo tenses, sensing something you canât before he turns to you, hands on your shoulders. âGet to the exit.â
âRight, okay,â you say automatically, already reaching for his hand to drag him with you. Your fingers slide around his wrist and tug. âCome on.â
He doesnât move.
You look back at him. âWhat are you doing?â
âYou go with them,â he says, already looking past you toward the ruined hall. âIâll follow after you.â
You stare at him in disbelief. âUm, no?â
Your voice comes out louder than you mean it to, sharpened by the cold and the adrenaline and the immediate, furious certainty that no, absolutely not, you are not doing this with him again. Not here, not now, not when the floor is flooding and the walls are breaking and he still thinks he can look you in the face and say Iâll follow after like you were born yesterday.
âDo you have a death wish?â you demand. âCome on, the water is rising!â
âLook, I can handle myself.â His fingers tighten once against your shoulder, almost pleading. âI know what Iâm doing so just wait outside. Don't worry about me and go.â
It is such a stupid thing to say that for a second you can only look at him.
Donât worry about me.
As if that has ever worked. As if you havenât spent weeks trying to ignore him and failing every single time. As if he hasnât somehow made himself your problem since the moment he had called your grade out in the middle of that irrelevant tutorial room.
You glare at him, at his stupid fluffy white hair gone damp at the edges, at the thick-framed glasses he always pushes up his nose when he starts rambling about something ridiculous, at the stupid blue eyes that seem to shift colour with his mood and are now fixed on the corridor behind you instead of properly on you.
âI canât,â you say.
His head snaps back to yours. âWhat?â
âI canât just ignore you.â The words come out thinner than you want them to, but thereâs no taking them back now. âIâve tried and I just canât.â
âThis isnât the time for that,â he says, brows furrowed in that way he gets when heâs annoyed.âDonât be ridiculous, you could get hurt.â
âYou could get hurt.â
âThatâs different.â
âIs it?â you scoff before looking back at him. âYou know what your problem is?â
He rolls his eyes with a sigh. âOh, here we go. Tell me, tell me what my problem isââ
âOh, I will. Iâll tell you what your fucking problem isââ
âOh yeah, youâll tell me? Cause you know me better than I know myself?âÂ
âSomeone has to,â you snap, stepping toward him, daring him to take a step back. âBecause clearly youâve got no clue what youâre doing. Not with this, not with women, certainly not with me.â
He exhales. âYeah? Well, youâre stuck up and impossible to control and you piss me off.â
âAre you a kid? You sound so dumb right nowââ
A crash tears through the corridor hard enough to shake the ground beneath your feet and whatever insult youâve both had gearing up immediately dies. You both look toward the corridor then to each other.Â
âProbably not the best time for this,â you say.Â
âYeah,â he says. âLetâs shelf this for later.â
âIâm still not going to ditch you so get that through your thick skull and whatever vast air bubble hugs your brain.âÂ
For one ridiculous second, despite the alarms and the flooding and the horrifying sounds of public infrastructure being turned inside out, Gojo actually looks like he wants to laugh.Â
âDid you just call me an air head?â he asks, the words breathless and almost fond. âYouâre never going to make things easy for me, are you?âÂ
You shoot him an incredulous look. âPeople are dying, Satoru. Lock in. Whatâs the plan?âÂ
He shakes his head like a dog.Â
âOkay,â he says, back in motion now, words quick and sharp and all business because he clearly doesnât trust himself to stay in the other mode any longer. âNew plan. We get everyone we can to the exit, and then if you still want to tell me what my problem is, Iâll stand there and let you monologue. But donât leave my sight and donât try to be self-sacrificing.âÂ
âYouâre telling me?â You snort. âSays the guy who was just about to run off and do exactly that.â
You brush past him, heading towards the tunnel where the sound originated.Â
Despite every instinct telling him to grab you and pull you out, Gojo finds himself just standing there. Heâs always been weak to you, this revelation is not one that comes with any surprise. All youâve ever really had to do was look at himâproperly look at him, with that sharp little glare that says heâs annoyed you againâand some pathetic part of him was already halfway to heel, tail practically wagging. Itâs degrading almost, the Spiderman, reduced to nothing but a desperate man in love, but for some reason Gojo canât find himself hating it completely. That was just how far he had fallen.
He drags a hand through his hair and exhales sharply through his nose as he catches up behind you. The mask in his pocket feels impossibly heavy, like it knows better than he does, like itâs already calling him toward the moment heâs been putting off for too long. But he doesn't yet, and settles instead for following behind, every muscle bracing for the second this goes wrong.Â
You are having much less sophisticated thoughts.
You wonder to yourself as you trudge through the ankle deep water, what the fuck are you doing?
Your shoes are full of cold, disgusting salt water and what is, realistically, probably fish shit, when the safe outside had been right there within reach moments ago. You could have left. You could have gone with Shoko and Utahime and Geto and let the staff and the police and whoever else handles aquarium disasters deal with the rest. Instead, you had willingly walked back into where disaster struck. And for what? A boy?
Well, you think. At least you have the experience of fighting off two villains now. One and a half. Okay, more like two halves. That made one. So youâve had one (1) moment of experience. That was enough, right?Â
âDonât worry,â you tell Gojo, noticing his uncharacteristic silence. âIf anything happens, Iâll protect you.â
He opens his mouth to reply, but whatever smart thing he had lined up dies the second the tunnel widens into the main shark gallery.
A man in a torn aquarium polo staggers through the burst corridor with black slick crawling up one arm and along the side of his throat, jerking in wet, ugly pulses under the emergency lights. A member of staff, who looks maybe nineteen and one bad shift away from quitting forever, is trying to wave people toward the side exit while very obviously trying not to cry.
Gojo is already moving, ignoring the way the room shudders when the symbiote host slams his fist into a pillar.
âIâm going to distract it so the people have time to get out of here. Stay here or go help them but do not get in the way.âÂ
He doesnât check to see if youâll agree before grabbing the nearest floating wet floor sign and hurling it at the manâs face with a pitcherâs accuracy. It smacks the figureâs shoulder and bounces away harmlessly, but it does the important thing.Â
The ex-aquarium staff turns toward him and subsequently, you.Â
âOkay,â you mutter, already moving. âLooks like youâve got it from here!â
The host makes a low, distorted sound, half growl and half wet static, and barrels toward Gojo with one blackened arm swelling grotesquely around the elbow. Gojo ducks the first swing, grabs the edge of an overturned brochure stand, and yanks it into the path of the next. It shatters immediately, but the delay buys the nearest cluster of trapped visitors just enough time to break into motion.
You hurry to the sobbing staff member, a girl with her short black hair tied to one side, two hair clips holding her bangs away from her eyes. âHey, hey, itâs okay! Just think of all the hazard pay youâll get after this. For now, grab those two and head to the side exit.âÂ
She blinks at you, tears still flowing freely down her cheeks, but eventually nods. âWhat about you?âÂ
You jab a thumb behind you. âIâm kind of stuck here with this idiot. Now hurry.âÂ
Behind you, thereâs a huge crash followed by Gojo saying, âYou know, this is why no one likes staff team building exercises. Thereâs always one guy who takes it too far.â
The villain seems to not enjoy Gojoâs commentary because it roars. You turn in time to see Gojo skid sideways through the floodwater, one hand catching the low railing to keep from going down entirely. The black slick lashes for him again and misses, carving a line of ugly cracks through the decorative panel behind him instead.Â
Itâs not hard to tell that Gojo is losing and in fact, youâd be severely deluded if your nerd situationship sort-of close friend would win against a seemingly inhuman sentient black goo. At least he isnât losing without dignity. He makes valiant attempts to shove the thing back a step, ducking under a swing only for the next to catch him high in the shoulder and throw him sideways into the viewing rail.Â
Your heart drops to your ass quick, watching as Gojo drives himself back upright with a wince and a desperate glare for you to stay there.Â
The symbiote host lurches toward him again, blackened arm distending with a wet, horrific ripple.Â
Your brain finally catches up.Â
Okay. Okay, think.Â
You have seen this stupid black goo twice before now, which feels like two times too many. The first time, you used a fire extinguisher. The second, the steam wand from the cafe had done enough to make the goo retreat. So this thing clearly does not enjoy pressure or heat.Â
You spin in place, eyes skittering wildly over the wrecked shark gallery.Â
Thereâs debris everywhere, broken signage, upside down benches and a cardboard cutout of some mascot shark swims past you in ankle deep water. Thereâs a staff-only closet near the back, more brochure stands, maps on the wall, when your eyes finally see it. There, near the entrance of the tunnel, is a thick industrial hose line feeding into one of the side filtration systems, its pressure valve mounted low on the wall, bright red against the blue gloom.Â
One of the sanitation steam lines that run along the upper maintenance track has ruptured where debris struck, hissing softly in the rumble of the crumbling aquarium. White vapour coughs out in fitful bursts, weak now but still there.Â
âSatoru!â
He glances your way at the exact second the host slams him in the chest, sending him skidding through the water on his back. You wince. âOh, sorry. Whenever you have the time.â
âIâm fine,â he chokes out, rolling out of the way in time to avoid a second blow. âThanks for asking.â
You splash toward the pressure valve, shoes slipping against the tiles. âShut up and use the environment! Thereâs a pressurised line here and steam up there. Youâre just going to have to trust me on this one but I think I have an idea!â
The host, as if sensing your plan, turns towards you. Gojo curses, any sarcasm vanishing in an instant.Â
âNo! Donât get closer!â
âToo late!â you yell back, already grabbing the valve wheel. âYouâre getting your ass beat, Satoru, Iâm not going to stand here and just let your ego handle it!âÂ
He rises to his feet, running to you though in the water, itâs only a pathetic sloshing that almost gives you the ick. âMy ego? And you think your pride will handle it any better?â
No.Â
âYes!âÂ
You wrench at the valve and, because your life has always been full of miracles and good fortune, nothing happens.Â
The host lunges in your direction again. Gojo catches him from the side, arm hooking around his neck for one desperate second before the black slick ripples up and flings him off. He crashes shoulder-first into the low barrier by the shark viewing glass.
He gasps and coughs, eyes blearily finding yours. âGetâget out of here. Now, Y/N.â
âIâm not giving up.â You brace one foot against the wall. âNo pressure, literally.â
You yank at the wheel again but nothing still happens. Thereâs got to be a safety catch, a pin or latch or something. Your eyes dart over the assembly frantically even as the figure draws itself back on its legs.Â
âY/N!â Gojo calls out again, water sloshing around his body as he tries to follow.Â
Your eyes skim frantically over the valve housing, over rusted bolts and warped metal and a tangle of pipes slick with spray, until they finally catch on a metal locking pin bent half-flat against the side.
Without another thought, you lunge for it and wrap both hands around the pin.Â
Behind you, thereâs a sharp, ugly soundâGojo sucking in a breath through his teethâfollowed by the violent splash of him slamming back into the host. You risk a glance over your shoulder just in time to see him catch the thing by the arm, twist with the momentum, and drive a punch into its face hard enough to make black slick spray across the floodwater.
Pulse spiking, you put your whole weight into the pin. And finally, it gives all at once, slipping free so suddenly you nearly fall backward into the floorwater.Â
âGot you!â you hiss at the valve before throwing yourself against the wheel.Â
This time, it turns. The line shudders to life with a deep, violent thump and water pressure surges through the pipes hard enough to rattle the wall.Â
âSatoru!â you shout, looking up wildly. âTo your left! Bring him here!âÂ
He turns his head fast, sees the line, sees you, and somehow understands immediately despite looking one bad hit away from passing out. You suppose he isnât a genius for nothing.
Gojo stands with more purpose, moving in a tight arc through the floodwater, letting the thing follow. His movements are messier than they should be, attributed to the wounds heâs sustained. You can see it every time he favours his right side, every time his mouth tightens with every dodge.Â
But he still keeps moving, still keeping the thin on him, keeping it away from you. Trusting your ridiculous plan that was concocted in under a minute.Â
âCome on,â he calls, breathless and taunting all at once. âCome on and get me, you big ugly thing. Iâve had worse nights.â
The host lunges under the broken steam line.Â
âNow!â you shout, a command for just yourself really, and crank the pressure line open fully.Â
A brutal blast of high-pressure water erupts across the gallery and catches the host broadside, slamming into its blackened shoulder and neck with enough force to wrench it half off its feet. At the same time, a fresh burst of steam hisses from overhead where the damaged line gives way under the renewed vibration. And just as youâd hoped, the black slick convulses.
It peels back in twitching bands from the hostâs throat and shoulder, recoiling from the steam with an ugly, wet shiver. It starts to back away on unsteady feet.Â
âThere!â you yell, voice cracking with triumph and panic all at once. âAgain, use it again!â
Gojo doesnât hesitate. He grabs the dangling steam pipe with both hands and yanks hard enough to shear the remaining bracket loose. The line drops lower, shrieking vapour across the hostâs side.
The thingânot the man, but the thingâlets out a shrill cry, a sound so wrong it feels like it goes through your bones instead of your ears.
Gojo uses the opening immediately, slamming his shoulder into the hostâs chest and driving him back into the support beam beside the shark viewing glass. The whole gallery shudders under the impact, but this time the host goes down hard, knees buckling under him as the black slick writhes and spasms under the steam.
You donât realise youâve moved until youâre already splashing toward him, relief making you stupid and light all at once. In your head, it should have been graceful, some dramatic run into his arms after shared survival and mutual competence. In reality, the water turns it into a pathetic, uneven waddle that Gojo, in an act of true mercy, only pretends not to notice.
âWe did it!â you say, breathless and bright with adrenaline. âThat was insane, but we did it. And Iâm taking at least seventy percent of the credit, by the way, because without me you were just getting beaten up in a public aquariumââ
He smiles, just barely, and turns to look at you.
âYeah,â he says, chest heaving. âI guess weââ
Something moves in the corner of his eye.
It isnât the frantic, wild sort of movement from before, but something uglier for how deliberate it feels. A last-ditch effort. The host drags one arm free of the steam and the floodwater just enough for the black slick to surge violently down its length and gather into one long, brutal lash of muscle and tar.
It comes not for Gojo, but for you.
Gojo sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, his whole face changing before you can even register why. His mouth opens around the start of your name, warning already there, panic rising faster than the sound can leave him.
You are still a few crucial seconds behind.
By the time you catch the movement in your peripheral vision and start to turn, Gojo is already lunging forward. But the thing is too fast, the distance too wrong, and you can see the exact instant he realises he wonât make it to you in time as himself.
You turn just enough to see it.
Ah.
So this is how stupid people die.
Something white snaps through the air.
The strike jerks violently sideways before it can hit you, yanked off course so hard it slams into the side wall instead, cracking the tile with a wet, horrible impact. A scream tears from your throat, loud and sharp in the aftermath, but the thing barely registers to you now, not even when the goo gives one last shudder and forms something like a trembling fist aimed in your direction.
You donât care about that anymore.
Instead, your eyes track the white line stretched taut across the gallery.
You follow it all the way back.
All the way to Gojo.
He stands there with his arm still half outstretched. His face is stricken with lingering panic, but there is something else there too, something like resignation, like he knows whatever happens next might end his world right here in a crumbling aquarium.
You look from his face to his wrist and then back again.
âWhat,â you say, finding no other words that fit the moment. âWhat the fuck.â
Gojo lowers his arm very slowly. Water drips from his sleeve, from his fingers, from the impossible thin connecting him to the wall beside you.Â
âThis is not how I wanted to tell you,â he says, his voice suddenly rough in a way you recognise far too well.
The host roars, and itâs that sound that snaps both of you back into motion.
Gojoâs hand goes to his pocket and comes back with the maskâof course itâs the mask. Blue and white, worn at the edges, and, hell, maybe youâre hallucinating now, but is that still the little tear you left in the fabric that night?
He hesitates just before pulling it over his head, eyes darting back to you as he says, âPlease wait for me. Just this once, please wait.â
There is no time to process the fact that his eyes look almost frightened. No time to process the fact that the voice youâve heard in your ear and the voice that has said your name in two different ways now belong to the same infuriating man. There is really no time to process anything at all.
So, shockingly, you do the mature thing.
You nod.
âOkay,â you say, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. âOkay. Go.â
You watch as Gojo stares at you, hopeless and pleading all at once, the mask slipping over his face. But now that youâve seen himâseen him bare and vulnerable and desperately hopingâthe blue and white can no longer hide it.
Spider-Man keeps looking at you even as he slings onto the adjacent wall, the sticky material catching with a faint smack.
âIâm going to explain everything,â he says. âI promise. Justâplease. Please still be here when I come back.â
He doesnât wait for your response, not properly. Maybe because heâs worried whatever words leave your gaping mouth will be a rejection. Maybe because if he waits another second, heâll stay here looking at you until the whole room caves in around you.Â
Spiderman slings out onto the adjacent wall, the web catching with a faint, sticky smack, and for one absurd second all you can think is that even upside down and half-bleeding heâs still showy.Â
Then he launches and whatever restraint Gojo had been fighting with until now is gone.Â
The host lunges towards you but you donât flinch. Thereâs simply no fight in your body anymore. Not that it matters because Spiderman meets him in the centre of the gallery.Â
What had looked clumsy and desperate when Gojo was still trying to pass for your average citizen becomes something else entirely now that heâs abandoned his facade. His body understands the room in ways you never could, every rail, every shattered edge, every unstable surface becomes a part of him when the web attaches to it, part of the fight. He lips under the hostâs first strike and plants a hand against the flood tile, driving both feet into its chest hard enough to send it skidding backward through the water.Â
He flicks his wrists out before the host can recover, pinning one arm to a fractured support beam, another line catching its ankle.Â
The black slick surges and peels away from the first web, but it's too slow. Spiderman is already gone from where he was, slinging upward into the steam and dropping back down from above with enough force to slam the hose into the floor.Â
The black mass writhes and lashes and tries to reform over the hostâs body, but now there is no hesitation in the man fighting it, no room left for restraint. Spiderman moves with frightening precision, using every opening, every recoil, every half-second where the thing peels back under heat and sound. He webs one wrist, then the throat, then the opposite shoulder, dragging the host back into the pressure line each time he tears free. The slick recoils violently, shrieking, trying and failing to hold together.
Was it just you but did it look like Gojo was taking his frustration out on this thing?Â
Your mind keeps trying and failing to fit the pieces together. It all comes together anyway, the way Gojo had always disappeared at the wrong times, the way Spidermanâs voice had felt familiar even when you told yourself that was ridiculous and known things about you he couldnât have. The way he touched you, the way the other never quite did, not completely, as if afraid of what would happen if he started.Â
All of it was him. Every humiliating, infuriating, impossible piece of it.Â
The host tears free one last time, black goo surging over his chest in a final desperate wave. But by now, it should learn that doing something over and over again is a sign of insanity because Spiderman is already there.Â
A webline catches high overhead and with a yank, the hanging steam pipe drops lower. Another shot takes the alarm cable and rips it loose in a shower of sparks. He drives forward, one hand wrapped around his web, the other braced against the hostâs chest, and hurls him back into the flooded floor beneath the full force of the steam.Â
The black mass writhes and shrieks then tears free all at once. It peels from the manâs body in one final, violent shudder and streaks away through the fractured wall paneling, vanishing into the dark beyond the gallery even as Spiderman attempts to stop it.Â
Then the host collapses, dead.Â
Then nothing. Of course, not complete silence as the alarms still ring and water still drips. But between the two of you, across the room now suddenly empty of the thing that had stood there, there is a different kind of stillness.Â
Spiderman straightens slowly. He stands in front of the steam and the ruin and the broken shark glass, chest heaving, mask still over the face you now know too well, and even from here you can see the way his body sags just slightly under the cost of what heâs just done.
You stare at each other, the gap between endlessly vast until you decide to close it.Â
Your shoes drag through the floodwater, sending up ugly little splashes with every step, and by the time you reach him, any dignity you might have salvaged from the reveal is long dead and buried beneath three inches of fish water. He stands there waiting, one hand hanging at his side while the other presses hard against his ribs.Â
Your hands fist the front of his hoodie and he lets you.
âYou are the biggest liar I have ever met in my entire life,â you say, voice trembling with the weight of everything.Â
SpidermanâGojoâlets out a weak laugh. âThat sounds about right.â
You yank the mask up without another word.Â
It catches for half a second on his nose before sliding free, damp and warm in your hand, and there he is. Just Satoru now. Heâs pale, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around the hard pull of his breathing. Thereâs blood at the corner of his mouth and more blooming darkly beneath his hoodie where heâd been hit, but his eyes are on you and only you with that same awful, naked openness they had before he put the mask on.
âSatoru,â you say, and his name comes out rough, almost wounded.
His eyes lift to yours at once, terrified of what he might find there.Â
You slap him. And honestly, compared to everything he went through less than a minute ago, compared to what he deals with everyday, youâd call the slap a puny, pathetic hit. Still, the hand from his side flies up to cup his cheek, looking more startled than in pain.Â
âThat,â you start,â is for lying to me.â
He gapes at you wordlessly.Â
Then all at once, the rest of it rises inside youâthe fear, the relief, the horrible rush of seeing that black strike coming at you and knowing, with perfect clarity, that Gojo would throw it all away to save you, even if it meant revealing his identity.Â
You lift your hand again but this time not to strike. Instead, your fingers brush his jaw, trembling against the damp skin there, tracing the shape of him you thought you knew so well. You feel his pulse leap, hear his breath catch.Â
âThis,â you whisper, steadier now that you know this is what you want, âis for saving me.âÂ
You go up on your tippy toes, lean forward, and kiss him.Â
Gojo freezes, arms held out in the air as he pieces together the scene. Youâre not mad, well maybe youâre mad, but youâre over that now because youâre kissing him. Wait, youâre kissing him? Then what is he doing just standing there?Â
A soft, startled sound escapes him, swallowed immediately by your mouth, before heâs drowning in it. The kiss turns desperate, all relief and fear and weeks of restrained feeling collapsing into one reckless, aching moment.Â
One wraps around your waist and the other catches at your back, hauling you flush against him with desperation. You feel the wound in his ribs in the way his body tightens, the way his breath catches sharply through his nose, but he ignores it completely, pressing you closer like he needs the proof of you there, solid and real and choosing him.
When you finally pull back, itâs only because breathing becomes a necessity again.Â
His forehead knocks against yours, his eyes fluttering close as he rests there, panting.Â
The alarms are still going off somewhere beyond the ruined gallery. Water still laps around your ankles, cold and foul and full of things you would rather not identify. Security is shouting in the distance, voices getting closer, but here, in this stupid little pocket of aftermath, the world has narrowed down to the heat of his hands on you and the shape of his breath fanning over your mouth.
When he finally opens his eyes again, he looks a little dazed. Not concussed, though probably that too.
âYou kissed me,â he says, and his voice comes out low and rough and almost disbelieving. âAfter everything?â
You stare at him. âDo you want me to take it back?â
His hands tighten instinctively at your waist. âNo!â The answer leaves him quickly before he swallows, eyes flickering over your face to gauge your response. âNo, please donât do that.âÂ
âIâm still angry at you, you know.âÂ
âI know.â
âYou lied to me.â
âI know.â
âYou kept lying to me.â You stop. âYou also knew. This entire time you knew and you just played me twice over.âÂ
He winces a little at that. âYeah. That oneâs harder to defend.â
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before climbing back to your eyes, slower this time, more careful.
âI kept thinking thereâd be a better time to tell you,â he says. âA version of this where I could do it right. Then every time I almost said something, it got harder because the longer I waited, the worse it got, and I knew that. I knew I was making it worse, I justâI was scared. It was easier for me that way but I also know it was cowardly and Iâm sorry.â
You nod once. âAnd?âÂ
âAnd?â he repeats before he catches the disapproving look in your eyes and starts scrambling for more. âAnd⊠Iâm sorry forâwell. Actually Iâm not sorry about that part.â
You hit him lightly on the arm. âSay youâre sorry for deceiving me.â
âRight, right. Sorry for deceiving you.âÂ
âAnd that you wonât do it again.âÂ
âAnd I wonât have sex with you in the Spiderman suit again.â
You hit him again but your mouth twitches before you can stop it, the familiarity of the banter easing the uncertainty. He catches it, of course, that tiny almost-smile, and his expression softens.
âI really am sorry,â he says again. âFor all of it. The disappearing. The missed presentation. The lies. Being me, I guess.â
âBeing you is, unfortunately, one of your biggest issues.â You pause, eyes flickering down to his lips. âBut I think Iâm willing to work around that one.âÂ
You watch his eyes drop to your mouth in turn, watch the decision happen in him, quiet and unmistakable. He leans in first this time, just enough for his breath to warm your lips, just enough to make your pulse trip over itselfâ
âTheyâre in here somewhere!â
The shout tears through the gallery from the corridor behind you, followed immediately by the unmistakable chaos of multiple people splashing through floodwater at once.
âPlease save them!â
âUtahime,â Suguruâs voice says, strained and much closer now, âif you scream at the police one more time, theyâre going to leave us hereââ
You jerk back so fast you nearly headbutt him and then his maybe concussion would have been a definite one.
Gojo blinks at you, dazed and breathing hard, his mouth still parted from the kiss you almost had before he too regains his senses and pulls back just enough to stop sharing the same air. Then, the both of you turn to that tunnel.
Utahime barrels into the gallery first, wild-eyed and soaked,hands cupping around her mouth as she calls your names, the wound on her leg now wrapped up. Shoko walks in right behind her with a tight expression that immediately crumbles at the scene. Geto is just behind them followed by two officers and what appears to be the entire remaining aquarium emergency staff.
You shove the mask still in your hand into your pocket, fingers fumbling once against the wet fabric, but donât do much more to break away from the incriminating position. His hand is still on your waist, your own fingers are still hooked into the front of his hoodie, and your chest is pressed flush against his.Â
Shoko is the first to say something. âWell. I guess you guys did make up after all.âÂ
âDid this happen before or after you took the crazy madman down?â Utahime says, deciding that is the most important detail to clarify.Â
âAre you two not done yet or should we come back in a bit?âÂ
Itâs Getoâs words that finally has you pulling apart, blushing madly and eyes looking frantically away from each other.
And when the police finally reach the two of you, shouting over one another and very tactfully ignoring your swollen lips, you feel something brush against your hand. Gojoâs fingers curl carefully around yours, warm and tentative despite everything, and, more importantly, despite the very audible snickering coming from your right where your friends have been herded aside to let the officers work, you lace your fingers through his without hesitation.
Because with Gojoâs thumb brushing against the side of your hand while an officer asks if either of you can walk unassisted, itâs hard to feel like the world is ending anymore. You had spent so long acting like meeting Gojo Satoru on March 15th at 10:12am was the beginning of your personal apocalypse. Granted, he is still infuriating and he is still a liar. But standing there in a flooded aquarium with his hand in yours and his blood on his shirt and a superhero mask hidden in your pocket, you canât help thinking maybe youâd been a little dramatic.
Or maybe not. Maybe the world really had ended when you met Gojo Satoru. Itâs just that, now that youâve survived the aftermath, youâre starting to think the next one might be better.
a/n: PHEWW thank u for making it to the end! this has been the unwanted child in my drafts for three whole years and rewriting it was a pain considering how unfunny i was but if thereâs one less lonely girl in the world then itâs worth it <3 this was a lot longer but i had to cut down for tumblrâs character limit âčïž rip to all the shoko + utahime silly scenes and the injured spiderman scene and the lab satoru scene and theâ[GUNSHOT] regardless !! shoutout to flatline as always and to all the national days we missed the deadlines to <3 see you guys on the 28th for national burger day on this fine burger month đ
a/n: episode one next !! posting this in the lab no one tell whs đââïž im slowly getting ragebaited by my microtome so i feel right at home w satoruâs gc
in which gojo satoru gets bullied onto hinge for being a virgin, girlfriend-less freak and quickly discovers he only has game when he catfishes as "toru", a humble, matcha-loving, wired earphone-wearing, suspiciously faceless man. unfortunately, his plans of being a normal boyfriend to a normal girlfriend shatters when he matches with you, a certified maneater who is determined to unmask his hinge persona by whatever means possible aka a lighthearted jjk smau !!
pairing: gojo x fem!reader
contents: social media au (smau), fluff + crack, strangers to enemies (?) to lovers, profanities, dark humour, sexual jokes, jokes about death/suicide (kys, kms etc), very stupid jokes (donât take them too seriously !!), ignore timestamps, will contain references/spoilers to jjk manga, characters will be very ooc, all characters are in college
this time i will actually complete the smau and not leaving it hanging #real . upload schedule will be every 1-3 days . please comment to be added to the taglist :3
â through this blog our aim is to give the community a transparent and open-ended outlet for readers to have close up look to the creative process of writers in the community through an interview style conversation !
nope, at the moment we are focusing on the jjk community.
can multifandom blogs apply or be requested ?
absolutely ! but a requirement is to write for jjk.
will you branch out to other fandoms ?
maybe/probably. we haven't decided yet.
who can apply ?
small, starting, rising, established and known writers.
what type of blogs will you interview ?
any type of blog that does not fall under the categories in the 'few disclaimers' section. but it includes blogs that do, smau's, one shots, series, sfw & nsfw.
can i ask for an interview for myself ?
absolutely ! please don't shy away from contacting us, it's not cringe and it's not desperate. the goal is to give visibility to up and coming writers and to learn from more established writers to keep growing. spreading art is a gift.
through which means will the interview will be done ?
it can be through direct Tumblr DMs or discord.
are there pre-made questions or is it in a go with the flow ?
there are pre established questions set up but as we ask and receive answers additional questions may rise.
can i decline being interviewed ?
yes.
is this blog only going to upload the interview and nothing more ?
no ! we will constantly reblog new pieces of smaller writers, so we encourage readers and writers to follow the blog along to discover new writers and people to create a community.
what made you two decide to make this blog ?
so, seeing the whole debacle started by the gossip blogs, ngl, we lurked and saw how many authors were accused of publishing stories with ai solely or with ai assistance and how rightfully pissed off they were. or how many writers are feeling defeated with having zero growth/engagement on the platform. so the idea came up to give them a voice and common ground.
what is your stance on generative ai ?
it's shit from the ass.
can minors interact with this blog ?
we might host nsfw, so no.
â if any further questions arise, send us an ask or dm !
â this is a side blog so likes/follows/dms will come from my main (miitoru), thank you tumblr.
âTHIS IS NOT A GOSSIP BLOG đđ
â we do not interview known problematic people for whatever reason (be it to clarify 'drama' or anything related to such) as that is not the purpouse of this blog. and the one's that we may interview but may have been roped into controversies might feel uncomfortable reliving that period of time so we don't ask anything relating to a situation that might have occurred.
â we will go through a thorough investigation on the author before we reach out with our 'interview-ish' style questions.
â we reserve the right to comply with an author or reader's request we feel uncomfortable engaging with. that may be due to a variety of factors like: extreme content, generative ai authors or use generative ai in any way, fetishizing content, known to have horrible behavior/attitude, etc.
â we wont be interviewing strictly mini drabble blogs, we apologize for that but we have our own criticism on that topic.
â we are not liable if the author we feature here turned out to be problematic or venture into problematic behaviors in the future, clearly we had no idea if the situation arises and maybe throughout the investigation we missed something. what we can do in response is to just delete the content promoted here.
The writer's guild stance on generative AI: https://authorsguild.org/resource/ai-best-practices-for-authors/
Ellipsus survey on the rise of generative AI: https://www.tumblr.com/ellipsus-writes/814445896842559488/right-yall-we-worked-our-way-though-over
Writing website against generative AI scraping: https://ellipsus.com/
pope leo's encyclical: MAGNIFICA HUMANITAS: ON SAFEGUARDING THE HUMAN PERSON IN THE TIME OF ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE (i (ria) may not be a practicing catholic anymore but this man is right)
gojo satoru, heir of the famous gojo fortune had disappeared from the public eye and to you, his best friend. he comes back just as soon as nanami kento pops the question and asks for your hand in marriage. will sparks reignite or is the flame fanned out?
FEATURING: bruce wayne! gojo x fem! reader x two face nanami
CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ content, MDNI. some angst. main character death. blood. smut. gojo being a stalker (heâs peeping thru ur home camera :p) m masturbation. jealousy. fingering. unprotected p in v. nanami using his tie as a blindfold. use of pet names.
NOTE: technically not even really a triangle, kind of like a line and then a dot and another line. but anywho, i hope you enjoy the read :3
gojo satoru doesnât have any fears left.
before tonight, he wouldâve scrawled out a similar answer to his peers in a blue crayon. bats, sharks, maybe even clowns. whatever preconceived notion of a threat his nine year old mind had configured and exaggerated.
the thought of losing his parents wasnât one he wouldâve entertained. it was impossible to even imagine, his parents were meant to stay with him forever. the thought maybe mightâve come to him in the middle of the night, in some freak nightmare where he woke up sweating and screaming, but that would be all.
just a nightmare. a figment of his imagination.
a nightmare that had quickly become a reality. his parents shouldnât have been out tonight, shouldnât have left the confines of their tightly guarded manor.
and yet, satoru had insisted on going to catch the last showing ofâwhat movie? he doesnât remember nowâdespite their reluctance. he tugged, he begged, he threatened to run away. when none of that worked, he settled for throwing a tantrum. his pouting and cold shoulder was enough to get even the most stubborn of the gojosâ to get dressed and out the door.
âitâs unbecoming of a young man to indulge in so many sweets,â his father spoke, lip curling at the sight of the cherry slushy in the young boyâs hand. in the other, boxes of overpriced candy and chocolate were barely juggled onto the counter in front. âyouâre a gojo. people are always looking at you.â
satoru would like to say that no oneâs noticed them during the entirety all of five minutes that theyâve been here. but he could feel peopleâs stares boring into their faces, cameras discreetly positioned around to snap a photo of the family. and yet, he canât bring himself to let go of the sweets in his hand.
he can practically see the headlines now: gojo heir seen gorging on sweets, are the parents truly capable at what theyâre doing or does this mark the end of gojo industries?! more on chapter five
his mom shakes her head, a placating smile on her face. âheâs the smartest in his class, he should have some indulgences once in a while.â sheâs taken the role of playing peace between the twoâoften spoiling satoru in ways that his father normally bristles in. she unzips her birkin, unflinching at the fifty dollars she just spent in the concession stand over candy.
the showing room is deserted, reserved for no one else but the gojo family. the carpets had been cleaned just hours prior, the smell of lavender floor cleaner overwhelming the further they stepped in. no signs of popcorn spilt, no signs that it had ever been meant for anyone other than the family. even the leather seats had been polished, shimmering underneath the yellow hue overhead.
satoru takes a seat in the middle, allowing him for what he thinks is the perfect view. his mother takes a seat next to him, occasionally grabbing a bite of chocolate from an open box before itâs gone. itâs quiet except for the sounds of chewing and slurping, and well, his father complaining every five minutes. about how unrealistic the plot was, how quality in tv had gone down.
maybe heâd just ask just his mom to come with him next time.
he doesnât remember when the first two shots rang out, too distracted by the sound of his own voice over the honking cars down the street and a police siren echoing through the crowd. âoh man, when that girl killed that guy, i was like woahâmom, are you listening?â
what he does remember is the sound of milky white pearls clattering against the dirtied concrete, each one stained crimson. the scent of rubber grating against asphalt, burning as the car screeched away at 60 miles an hour to escape the crime scene.
he remembers blood dripping onto his hands, staining the expensive valentino suit heâd been excited to pick out for tonight. he clutched onto his momâs dying body, watching as the life slowly faded away from her vibrant, big blue eyes. they softened up every time she looked at him, crowsâ feet prominent with every smile that she sent his way.
her face was still soft, still warm in that way he remembers. but her eyes turned grey, unfocused and dull. each breath that leaves her lips is ragged, each one more difficult than the last. âiâŠlove you, satoru,â one last ragged whisper leaves her mouth, lost in between the sounds of the night.
his hands dig into expensive fabric, shaking her limp body over and over like a ragdoll. willing for her to wake up, for her to scold him. waiting for the moment that this stops being a nightmare. âmommy, mom,â he whimpers, head buried against her stomach, âi love you too.â
sobs racked through his nine year old body, shaking him to the bone. tears blurred his vision, prickling at the edges. religion had never been embedded deeply into his life, but he found himself whispering a prayer he heard alfred say over and over again.
gojo had seen his father in a variety of statesâoverjoyed when a merger went through, when a mistrial happened on a case against the enterprise, angry when he broke an expensive vase, when he got less than a hundred on a test. but heâd never seen him look so weak. so frail. desperately clinging to stay alive and failing at the same time.
help never did come.
expensive stilettos clacked against concrete, calm and precise, sharp eyes focused forward. briefcases brushed against his shoulder, the men around him walking as if blood wasnât sticking to their shoes. as if each step that they took wasnât staining the floor underneath red.
he shouldâve called gotham pd, satoru knows that. shouldâve done something other than just keeling over, bawling his eyes out until a headache slowly started throbbing in the back of his skull. but he canât bring himself to move, canât bring himself to go through his motherâs corpse to find her phone.
gojo canât help but wonder why heâd been kept alive, if he should even be alive right now. he didnât register how long itâd taken the police to arrive at the scene, putting up yellow tape over the perimeter and leading him out. âheâs in shock,â he thinks he hears one of them say.
âno shit, his parents are dead,â his comrade mutters, immediately freezing up at the cold look satoru shoots his way. itâs too late to back up now. the officer merely clears his throat, gaze averted downwards, âiâm sorry kid.â
alfred picks him up at the station immediately after the call had been made, rushing him back home. the ride had been silent, everything had been silent. the old butler worried, brows furrowing in concern, but he didnât say anything. didnât make the young gojo do anything other than grieve.
the older man shooed away the paparazzi as best as he could, keeping them away from satoruâs school, from the manor, from any recital places that they would dare sink their claws in. even so, he couldnât avoid the whispers from his classmates. the long stares, the silences that lingered when he stepped foot into the room. alfred didnât protest when he left gotham years later.
the years hadnât been kind to satoru, torso littered with slashes and cuts from fights heâs been too stubborn to back down from. fears had been molded into a weapon of strength, into an emblem of resilience. and yet, he thinks his biggest fear as of yet is seeing you get married off to nanami kento.
he doesnât even have a reason to hate the manâtrust him, heâs tried. gojoâs spent the last day scouring through database after database, reading through articles once, twice, even three times to try to find something that isnât there. heâs tapped into security cameras, hoping to catch what emails donât capture.
hoping to catch him coming out of a building with a suspicious lip stain on his collar, with a singular blond hair out of place, only to find nothing in return.
gojo quickly comes to learn that nanami leads a very dreadfully boring life.
nanami works as the district attorney, voted in just the past year. one of the only few men in a position of relative power that wasn't influenced by how much the penguin had or how much he could be paid by whatever politician was running for mayor in the city. just a knack for justice and for prosecuting cases that paid less and cost more than they should.
when heâs not working on behalf of the state, nanami makes his way back home. back to the shared apartment he has with you, unwinding with an amber glass in hand and easy conversation. sometimes going off to dinner in a restaurant satoru wouldnât dream of stepping in, often times choosing to stay in.
gojo canât even be madâyouâre not the one who left, he is. ran away to a mountain halfway across the world, half dead before aid came to his rescue. he didnât send so much as a letter, so much as a goodbye. just a simple âweâre overâ after school senior year before he disappeared into the wind.
repenting for a crime he didnât commit with each day he pushed himself further in his training, trying to make his survival amount to something. amount to anything. gojo molded his body into a weapon, taking punch after punch only to stand back up again to do it all over again.
he hadnât even mentioned coming back into gotham cityâthe news reporters that ventured near the manor would have a field day if they knew. instead, his arrival comes in whispers shared in the dead of night between mobsters, their fingers tightly pressed around the 9mm in their back pocket.
nightly patrols are taken with much more caution, much more vigilance. their eyes dart around their surroundings, hold around the gun tightening all that much more when they so much as feel a breeze nearby. when they see a shadow that doesnât quite belong. and yet, no matter how many precautions are taken, gojo takes them down before they even realize a fightâs started.
knocks them down with one swoop to their calves, back slamming against the cold concrete. they rush to dig their gun out of its holster, unsuccessful in each attempt as the batman starts punching them. information dropping from their blood soaked, swollen lips like water, all too eager to be let go. batman doesnât kill, each punch however making these criminals wish that he had killed them instead.
however, when satoru gojo does dare to make an appearance, itâs nothing short of a spectacle.
cameras flash from every direction once he steps out the backseat of a slick, all black cadillac. âis that gojo satoru?â someone whisper-shouts from a distance, all too eager to poke their head in. âdidnât he leave gotham?â another whispers back, voices getting drowned out by the sound of reporters clamoring around like blood thirsty vultures to a fresh pile of rotting flesh.
âgojo satoru, whyâd you leave gotham?!â
âgojo satoru, do you still plan on continuing the gojo enterprise?!â
âgojo satoru, is that your girlfriend?! thatâs utahime iori from the famous singer group!â
âgojo satoru, just five minutes of your t-â
swarovski crystals adorn the ceilings, expensive chandeliers bathing the room in a warm, golden light. hushed conversations fill in the empty pockets of silence that the jazz music couldnât quite grasp, talks about the menu, about the weather, about expensive golf courses. your heels clack against the floors, nanamiâs hand splayed out against the small of your back.
a nice date night in celebration of managing to get one of the penguinâs henchmen to spill the beans about an offshore account in exchange for thirty years.
he leads you to the table heâd managed to get a reservation for (âŠafter three months of no avail), following the waitress over. she gives you a warm smile before setting down a set of menus, assuring sheâd be right back to take your drinks. nanami is nothing if not the perfect gentleman, pulling your chair before you even have the chance to blink.
commotion stirs at the front of the restaurant, the doors swinging wide open to reveal a white head of hair youâd never thought youâd see again. the line of guests immediately start to protest, watching as he walks past without so much as needing to give his name, muttering about the quality of the restaurant.
âweâve been standing here for thirty minutes,â a woman complains, disdain mustered as best as possible on her botox filled face.
âi know, canât believe theyâre just letting anybody in,â another utters in response, mouth agape when the mystery man of the hour drops his sunglasses. sheâs met with a pair of aquamarine eyes, a shade of blue that makes it feel like dipping into the bluest of rivers.
the protests die down. thereâs nothing more to say, nothing more to do than hope a table clears up for the rest of the guests. his eyes scan through the crowd, spotting you and nanami sitting in a table in the far back.
perfect.
you donât pay too much attention to the man up front, chalking it up to pure coincidence. how many men had naturally white hair in gotham? (not many, but the chance was still there.)
âwould you like some wine?â nanami questions, breaking you out of your stupor when he tilts your chin up. youâve been staring at the menu for a few seconds now, trying to pretend like youâve been struggling to decide what to get.
âiâd love some wine, sure.â
âiâll get a bottle of your pinot noir, please.â the waitress quickly scribbles your order down, swerving through the tables in the dining room like a maze sheâs figured out by now. it doesnât take long before sheâs returned with the chilled bottle, setting down your glasses. nanami fills up your glasses halfway, the restaurantâs atmosphere almost making him look dreamy.
bright chandelier lines illuminate the chiseled lines of his face, his arms bulging with each movement that he made underneath his blue button down. âto us,â he murmurs, his glass hitting yours with a clink. âto us,â you echo, finally taking a sip of the pinot. itâs not intense going down your throat, the taste of berries and cherry lingering on your tongue.
you canât wait to get him home. to stop hallucinating youâre seeing satoru gojo, of all people.
â
gojo, meanwhile, leads utahime to the back, her hand wrapped around his forearm as their steps fall into tandem. satoru stops in front of you, clearing his throat. your name slips from his lips like something sacred, like something still worth holding onto. âandââ he finally turns to look at your date, lips curling up into a forced smile, ânanami kento, pleasure to meet you.â
definitely not hallucinating.
âthe famous gojo satoru,â nanami states dryly, unamused at the man standing in front of you, âiâve been told all about you.â the two men exchange a handshake, veins nearly popping with how firm theyâre exchanging the gesture. each one is hesitant to pull away first, awkwardly gripping each otherâs palm for a couple seconds before pulling away.
âi certainly hope not.â your smile falls at gojoâs words, clearing your throat. nanami turns to look at you, not questioning it yet, but making it clear he intends to. satoru still manages to read you like a book, changing the subject immediately, âso, letâs put a couple tables together. catch up for old timeâs sake.â
nanami looks around, all the tables in a close proximity occupied to the max. âiâm not sure that theyâll let us,â he muses, âit looks pretty full in here.â he wasnât lying, the place was filled to the brim and even more people were waiting outside, sweating off their louis vuitton in line underneath the scorching hot afternoon sun.
âah, but they should, nanamin,â a small smirk makes itself known on gojoâs face, patek phillippe glinting underneath the lights as he lifts his hand. âi own the place.â he gestures with his fingers for another table, the restaurant immediately shifting in order to accommodate his whims.
waitstaff nearby scramble off their feet, every order that came before discarded in favor of satisfying satoru gojo. a table is pushed beside your own, chairs scraping against polished floors as theyâre adjusted in a haste. the chairs are lined up to the perfection, right in between the table like one inch off would be enough to set off the owner.
which, maybe it would.
âah, i forgot to introduce my date. how very rude of me,â he lets out a dramatic sigh, gesturing over where said date was standing. she was tall, a scar running from the side of her face that looked beautiful on her. they looked like the perfect pair. the thought stung a little, you werenât sure why.
she had on a floor length burgundy velvet dress that fit her like a glove, molding onto every curve as if it was designed with only her in mind. an expensive (if you had to guess) fur coat across her shoulders, holding a chanel bag in hand. âutahime, nice to meet you both.â her embrace is simple, a handshake, but it was still nice. just nice enough.
âoh, youâre the main singer from the kyoto sorcerers,â you snap your fingers, âwe have tickets to go see your show next week, youâre very talented.â
utahime gives a small smile, one that feels more like itâs out of politeness than anything else. âah, well i canât wait to see you there. gothamâs certainly been⊠interesting.â with the look of disgust on her face, youâd bet gojoâs manor she was almost robbed.
probably counting down the minutes until she was on the first plane out of here.
âcome on, the cityâs not that bad. i grew up here, yâknow.â gojo has a playful pout on his face, leaning back in his chair. heâs grown up from the boy in high school who used to sneak sweets to basketball practice, who used to pick whatever flower he found off the ground to give off to you.
heâs filled out into the suit heâs wearing, back and biceps stretching out nicely into the jacket heâs wearing. not as big as nanami, but heâs bulked up. heâs grown his hair out, sporting an undercut you canât help but wonder what itâd feel like to run your fingers through. aquamarine eyes no longer look full of life, no longer gentle, jaded but still just as beautiful as you remember.
you canât help but wonder what it wouldâve been like if heâd stayedâif heâd be the one sitting across from you right now. if itâd be his ring youâd be wearing, the person youâd be laying next to every night. but wondering that is silly, right? youâre engaged.
to nanami kento. a great man who youâre out with dinner tonight. youâre happy, ecstatic even. itâs just the wine making you linger on nostalgia for too long. just the wine, nothing else.
nanami merely raised a brow. âi wasnât aware the gojo manor was within city limits.â you could practically cut the tension with one of the perfectly sharpened gold encrusted steak knives at the table. satoru merely let out a laugh, taking a sip from the glass of water in front of him.
âthe palisades? sure, they are,â gojo hums, glancing over at you through a narrowed gaze. almost daring you to contradict him. you shrink in your seat when nanami turns to face you, both men putting you in an awkward situation. âyou really should start learning the bounds of your jurisdiction, nanamin. very important to keep it in that noggin of yours.â
you only gulp down a generous portion of the wine in front of you, fingers tightly grasped around the stem of the glass. satoru doesnât miss the glimmer coming from your ring finger, chandelier lights catching onto the small gem adorning a golden band. he wouldâve gotten one bigger.
luckily enough, utahime was there to your rescue unknowingly. enbolded by the wine, she started off, âiâm talking about the kind of city that idolizes a masked idiot like the batman.â both men now turn to face her, a welcome distraction from staring at you. she takes a generous sip of wine before continuing, âwhat the city needs is someone like you, nanami. elected officials working for the law..â
âah, well, the batman shows gotham that even a regular citizen can be a hero. itâs empowering to the people around gotham.â itâs not usually the answer givenâmost people rightfully arguing about the legality of the vigilanteâs actions, about how far heâs willing to go.
utahime raises a brow, letting out a quiet scoff before taking another sip from her glass of wine. clearly, sheâs not satisfied with that answer. âor maybe youâre the batman,â she deadpans, bringing the menu card up to nanamiâs face. she covers up the top portion of his face, trying to mimic the effects of the cowl.
it doesnât look right.
âpretty sure someone wouldâve noticed if i left the house at night to play vigilante,â his hand clasps against your own, thumb rubbing small circles against the back of your hand. you donât miss the way both of them turn to look at the ring on your finger.
obnoxiously clearing his throat and attracting the attention of every one in a one foot radius, gojo leans forward to study the ring on your finger. he taps on his chin, âmarriage, huh? never took you for the type. thought you wanted to graduate and travel, all that nice stuff.â
you really wished the earth would swallow you now. maybe that the joker would appear and damage your dinner plans just to have a way out. but no. nothing extraordinary.
âpriorities change. people change after a decade.â you donât mean for the words to come out as cold as they do, but they land with a sharp sting to his chest. gojoâs smile falters, lips pursed into a tight frown.
âiâm aware, thank you. i just mean, itâs a big change from what you wanted in your life, is all,â he shrugs, nonchalant about the situation like he hadnât resurfaced old wounds, âone canât help but wonder how truly happy you are.â
nanami and utahime watch the scene like a ping pong match, now looking at you. awaiting for your response. âi am perfectly happy with nana-â
before you can continue, the waitress decides to approach the table with a stack of menus in hand. she sets them down, defusing the tense atmosphere in seconds. âiâll be back to take your orders.â you pluck yours off the table, immersing yourself into the world of twenty different variations of caviar and wagyu.
the rest of the dinner goes surprisingly well after getting through those road blocks, with gojo even promising to host a fundraiser for nanamiâs reelection campaign coming up in a few weeks. âtrust me, a fundraiser with one of my buddies, and youâll never need to campaign again.â
begrudgingly, nanami came to accept. even if the idea of taking money from a bunch of billionaires didnât sit quite right with him, it was a help that he greatly needed against the corrupt agents heâd be going up against. you make your way out of the restaurant around eleven, waiting for the valet to bring kentoâs car back over.
nanami doesnât hesitate to take off his jacket the moment he notices youâre shivering in your spot, sliding the material over your shoulders. it faintly smells like him, like his expensive cologne. you wrap it around yourself like a blanket, wanting to engulf in the scent.
of course, gojo couldnât leave without a proper goodbye. he approaches nanami first, extending his hand out. thereâs not as much tension between them, though it still lingers. ânanami. a pleasure to finally meet you.â
and then he turns to face you, his hand reaching out for your own. you hate the way butterflies take flight in your tummy at the sight of him pressing his lips against your hand, even more so when he says, âeven if youâve changed since we last seen each other, you look nothing short of beautiful.â
nanamiâs jaw clenches upon hearing that much, your own agape. the drive back home was silent, the atmosphere tense and awkward. you thought about breaking the silence a couple timesâsaying something about not knowing what gojo was saying. but nanami didnât seem interested, intent on keeping his focus on the road ahead.
â
gojo hadnât meant to stumble into such a private moment between you and nanamiâhadnât meant to stumble onto his fingers pistoning in and out of your sopping cunt.
heâd meant to check in, truly.
see if youâd gotten home alright. if you were starting to get settled in for the night.
he knows utahime would come over if he asked nice enough and threw in a new dior bag with the deal. any woman in gotham would come over, really, if he asked. and yet, here he is.
tugging his sweatpants down his beefy thighs, legs spreading out as his twitching cock springs out to hit his stomach. precum dribbles from his flushed red drip, a hiss leaving his lips when he drags his thumb across the slit. âf-fuck,â a soft moan leaves his lips, his other hand moving against the computer.
zooming in onto your cunt. as good as nanamiâs home security system has been, it was nothing compared to gojoâs bat computer. he starts off slow, fingers wrapping around his shaft and jerking himself off at the same pace nanamiâs fingering you in. your cunt squelches, moans filling the expensive sound system in the bat cave.
âdo you think gojo could fill you up like this?â nanamiâs voice lowers into a taunting whisper, his fingers just slowing down enough to leave you bucking your hips back against him, âfuck you like i can, sweetheart?â
you shake your head fervently, ân-no, no! just you ken,â you all but whine, wiggling your hips in front of his dripping fingers, âi donât want gojo, i just want you, please.â
that only makes the man behind the camera start to jerk himself off faster, one of his hands coming down to massage at his balls. his head rolls back, eyes fluttering shut. precum smears over his fingers, coating his shaft with each pump he gives himself. gojo lets himself imagine being thereâimagining watching nanami fucking into you.
his thumb rubs at his swollen head, each touch like livewire against the sensitive skin. gojo pushes himself to the edge only to let go of that pleasure, each time pushing himself further and further before halting right at the precipice.
kento works you open, fingers scissoring inside your walls to stretch you open, his thumb rubbing at your clit in quick, little circles. âso good so good, fuck ken, fuck!â youâre a blabbering mess, face pushed against the couch cushion underneath. his fingers switch from scissoring you to prodding at your g-spot, pushing you closer and closer to your orgasm.
you turn to look back at him, cock throbbing and tenting against his dress pants. still, his own pleasure is foregone in sake of yours. âneed to cum,â you whine, your abdomen tightening up like a coil. each push of his hips, each touch against your clit, all of it pushes you closer and closer.
âdo you deserve to cum, my love?â
*gojo would like to take this moment to say that no, he doesnât think so. but well, heâs not in the room.
you shake your head, trying to keep yourself from squirting over his hand. itâs hard, counting down until ten, until twenty. ân-no, but i need to, please.â your face scrunches up, brows pulled together as a loud moan rips from your throat. âplease, please, please.â
âgo on, then. take it, take whatâs yours.â he keeps moving at the same pace, keeping it steady while his fingers push you over the edge. you bury your head into the cushions, cunt clenching tightly around his fingers beforeââoh, fuck!â your release washes over you like a wave, eyes rolling back as euphoria settles in your body. slick dribbles down to his knuckles, a loud squelch! vibrating through the walls when he pulls out.
gojo chooses that moment to let himself cum, his wrist twisting his hand around his throbbing cock and the other rubbing at the tip, rubbing at the frenulum. âo-oh, just like that, just like that!â he thanks the gods above he decided to soundproof the batcave, now that heâs desperately whining as he shoots strings of sticky cum up into his hand, onto his stomach.
nanami pulls his hand away, sticking his fingers in his mouth. the taste of you lingers on his tongue, fills his senses with the finest of ambrosia. he wraps his lips around the digits, tongue sliding up his fingers to get every single last drop. âyouâre so good to me, you taste divine.â
nanamiâs fingers pull at the cheetah print tie heâd donned for the night, pulling the satin fabric over your eyes. youâre submerged in darkness, dexterous hands tying a quick knot at the back of your head. âis that okay?â he questions, his fingers moving against the knot to ensure itâs not tight.
âyeah, itâs fine.â every sense is acting on overdriveâlistening intently to each shuffle of fabric as he unzips his pants. nanami does quick work of discarding his clothes, pushing them off to the side before taking hold of your hips.
âarch a little for me, sweetheart,â he orders, your ass in mid air as you hoist yourself up on your hands and knees. youâre still dripping, cunt clenching around nothing at all. nanami canât help himselfâlapping up a string of slick dribbling down your folds, âjust like that, perfect.â
one hand grips around the base, giving himself a few slow pumps before starting to push himself in. even his fingers hadnât worked you enough, your walls clenching tightly around his thick cock. ârelax for me, just like that, you can take it,â he assured you, pushing in another inch. your fingers grip at the cushions in front of you, digging into it as he finally bottoms out, heavy sac against the plush of your ass.
it doesnât take much for gojoâs cock to stir back to life again, despite having just cum all over his fingers. just the sight of having nanami inside you in 4k was enough to have his previous softening cock twitching and throbbing again, his fingers gripping at the base once again.
kento starts off slow, retracting his cock before pushing it back in. slow and deep, letting you get adjusted to the stretch. one of his hands rests against the small of your back, forcing your back to arch even further. slick dribbles from your cunt like a faucet, smearing his shaft with each push. squelch squelch squelch!
when you start wiggling your hips against him, trying to fuck yourself onto him is that he finally decides to speed up. his fingers grip at your ass, tip hitting your cervix with each snap of his hips. âo-oh fuck, fuck, fuck, ken!â you babble, eyes rolling back behind the blindfold. heavy balls smack against your ass with each thrust, plap plap! painting the room in nothing but moans and the sound of skin against skin.
nanamiâs normally gentle when he makes love to youâtaking his time to make sure that youâre comfortable, to make sure that youâre being loved the way you deserve. itâs gentle, itâs devoted. and not to say that he isnât doing the same nowâbut heâs moving rougher. trying to implant the idea gojo couldnât fuck you like this. one of his hands moves across your body, goosebumps raising underneath his fingertips as he glides through the flesh.
his fingers move down in between your legs, your clit throbbing underneath his fingertips. he swaps between rolling the nub in between his digits to rubbing quick little circles, your cunt clenching impossibly tighter around his cock. like a serpent wrapping itself around its prey, only you wanted to push him past his limits.
âcum for me, sweetheart, come on, take it, itâs all yours,â nanami whispers right by your ear, all the hairs on the nape of your neck standing up. this orgasm hits you unexpectedly, your walls spasming around his shaft before youâre coating him in your slick. it dribbles down to his balls, his thrusts faltering as he struggles to keep his own orgasm at bay.
it doesnât take long after for nanami (and gojo) to cum, thick spurts of cum painting your walls white. he slowly pulls out, fingers quick to push back the cum dribbling down your thighs, down to your folds, inside. kentoâs chest heaves, now working on sliding the blindfold off your face. you blink slowly, getting adjusted to the moonlight pouring into the room.
itâs quiet for a moment, everythingâs at peace between the two of you. your own chest heaves from the intensity of your orgasm, muscles slightly aching as you roll onto your back to relax. but peace before the storm doesnât last very long, does it?
"are you still in love with gojo?" the question lands like a bucket of ice cold water, post orgasmic bliss quickly fizzling out. you blink slowly, a nervous laugh bubbling from your lips, âwhat?â nanami merely shakes his head, retreating into the bathroom. the sound of running water follows, drops landing onto the ceramic sink when he squeezes any excess water from a washcloth.
âyou are many things but you are not dumb, my love. please answer me that question.â he rubs the washcloth against your sensitive cunt, and though the action is gentle, careful even, you feel as though itâs mechanical. like heâs simply forcing himself to go through it.
the thought makes your heart sink.
where gojo was chaos and unpredictability, nanami was peace. nanami was reliable and secure. he was someone you could have the white picket fence and a golden retriever with. gojo was someone you could have a reckless time with, a time that youâd enjoy but youâd be counting how much you had left of.
which makes you sound like a car salesperson, you quickly come to realize.
itâs not fair.
to nanami or yourself.
âi do,â you hate how small you sound when you speak, words spoken as nothing but a whisper, âand i love you. so so deeply. but⊠i think that a part of me will always love satoru gojo.â
âi see.â nanami pushes himself up from the bed, sheets rustling underneath. he plucks his glasses off the nightstand, fixing them over the bridge of his nose. âthank you for being honest with me, however i need to reevaluate this situation.
iâm not sure i can get married to someone who loves someone else.â he says situation like itâs a merger gone wrong, a business deal that didnât pull through.
the front door slams with finality. you canât bring yourself to sleep that night, awaiting for kento to come in through the door late at night. you never do hear a creak, never feel the comfort of his body next to yours.
the flashing red light youâd seen earlier from the corner of your eye fades into nothing, leaving you in the darkness of the room.
nanami kento wasnât supposed to be out tonight. wasnât supposed to be out in gotham city at the same time the joker was out terrorizing the city, maniacal laughter trailing each step that he took.
â
the next time you hear from nanami is from a hospital bed.
"hi, we're calling from gotham metropolitan hospital." itâs still early in the morningâbedside clock reading 9:59 a.m, but those words immediately have you shooting up in bedâeyes crusties be damned.
"we're calling you because you're listed as nanami kento's emergency contact. would we be correct in that assumption?" worry bubbles deep in your stomach, your hands shaking against the grip on your phone. a shaky breath leaves your lungs, barely registering as the nurse speaks up again, âhello? are you there, maâam?â
you clear your throat, trying to muster up enough courage to continue the call, âiâm here, sorry. yes thatâs me.â
âheâs been admitted late last night. nanami suffered from some heavy burns and heâs now in the icuâŠâ a ringing sound echoes through your head as she continues speaking, your gaze directed onto the front door.
this was all your fault, wasnât it? he wouldnât have left the house if it wasnât for you. why couldnât you have lied to him, said that you didnât love gojo anymore? that you only envisioned a future with him?
â
antiseptic and lysol cleaning spray seeps through the walls in thick, relentless waves, the stench embedded into the hospitalâs every corridor. people gather around waiting rooms, some with family, some alone. a couple look tired, worn down from sitting down on a stiff chair for hours while others tremble anxiouslyâboth anticipating and fearing any updates.
you make your way into the icu, giving your name at the front desk. a nurse hands over a sign-in sheet and a name tag, âheâll be right behind that curtain,â she gives you a polite smile once you plaster the name tag on. âjust, keep in mind he looks different from the last time youâve seen him.â
passing through the hallway, your eyes scan through the whiteboards on the window. trying to find nanamiâs room. some are here for high blood sugar, for surgery, and finally, you meet his room at the end of the hall. the door creaks, hinges squeaking in protest when you step inside.
nothing couldâve prepared you for the sight behind the curtain.
nanami lays on a hospital bed, wires littering his arms and connecting him to a barrage of machines on the side. a heartbeat monitor filled the silence, the sound steady and grounding. gauze covered one half of his body, a light dressing enough to keep germs away from the exposed wounds.
away from the burnt half of his body.
he turns his head to look over at you, no sign of any displeasure of you being here. no sign that the argument was still in mind. âyou came,â he whispered, voice hoarse.
âi came,â you easily respond, though your voice shook at the edges. you didnât want to cryânot in front of him. so you settled for doing the next best thing. passing over the water in his styrofoam cup over, watching as he struggles to sit up.
he takes the cup with a quiet thanks, taking slow sips of the water before setting it down. âiâm glad that you did. i wanted you to know that i apologize for the way i acted. i know that you love me.â
you shake your head, one of your hands reaching out to take his own. nanami feels cold to the touch, something youâre not quite used to. heâs like a furnace, normally, warming you up better than a blanket can. your fingers squeeze against his hand, holding him tightly.
âit wasnât fair to ask you to be okay with me loving someone else,â you murmur, âbut i wanted you to know that i only do want you.â youâre not sure when warm tears started streaming down your face, only feeling his thumb wiping away the droplets.
conversation comes as easily as it once did between the two of you, no mentions of the joker or what happened last night. only about the future, about what youâd be doing for your wedding. âi was thinking weâd go to a honeymoon in malaysia. the east coast islands have some of the prettiest waters,â he suggests, âitâs been a while since weâve had a proper vacation.â
âiâd really like that.â you didnât mind where it was, didnât mind if it was just in the comfort of your apartment or in a resort in a beachâyou just wanted to be with nanami. he quickly fell asleep, sedation working overtime to keep him from being in excruciating pain 24/7. despite everything, he looked peaceful. relaxed.
youâre not sure how long passes by in between watching his chest rise and fall slowly with each breath and updating his mother on his conditionâassuring that everything seemed to be fine for the most part. but you start to grow tired in the chair as well, start to feel the letters of your keyboard blurring into one mess.
your eyes flutter shut, about to let yourself relax too, just enough to take a quick nap before heading back home. itâs calm and quiet for the most part, just the sound of rolling carts passing by in the halls anâBEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
eyes shooting wide open, youâre met with the sight of nanamiâs heart monitor beeping rapidly. the line on screen had settled into a straight line, no sign that his heart was beating. flashing red lights go on overhead, the intercom system calling over nurses. you stand up in a panic, rushing out the door. âhe needs help, please!â
everything passes by in a blur. a huddle of nurses usher you out the room, the rest practically trampling through the door while they push a cart in while they speak about a code blue.
you watch helplessly from the small window on the door, a nurse rubbing paddles of a defibrillator together. a shockâs delivered, currents administered throughout nanamiâs veins. his chest jerks up from the movement, limp body flailing upwards. he doesnât wake up.
âadminister another shock.â one of them orders, paddles rubbing against one another before landing on his chest again. another shock gets sent through his body, another shock that wasnât enough to get his heart started back up.
âtime of death: 15:45.â
â
the apartment that you once shared with nanami now feels empty, feels like the space itself is mourning his loss. the walls feel bland, constricting with each step you took further into the space. like it knows youâre not the one supposed to here right now. thereâs no warm smell of vanilla and flour welcoming you in, nothing but the space that kento left behind.
you canât bring yourself to go into the bedroom yet, canât bring yourself to face that maybe, just maybe, if you wouldâve said the right thing, he wouldâve been standing right beside you. so, you settle for sitting down on your worn down couch. wrapping a blanket that smells like a mix of expensive leather and oud cologne and fabric softener, a scent you want to catalogue and imprint to the back of your head before it fades away. before the last traces of nanami leave your life.
you think he wouldâve looked at you with that same tired but fond smile youâd grown accustomed to, pulling at his tie while relaying about his day. about haibara mixing up the blue and red ink again. about higuruma inviting him out for lunch, offering a case to do together pro bono.
but youâll never have that again, will you?
youâll never see him stumble in through the door again, never see him look at you with that same adoration again. never cuddle up under the blankets together, watching tv with a home cooked meal on your lap. the screen in front of you remains off, only showing your reflection. your red rimmed eyes, your trembling hands.
something catches your attention from the corner of your eye, an envelope that wasnât there before. reluctantly, you step over to the kitchen, fluorescent lights too bright when you flick on the switch.
a letter sits on your kitchen table, no kind of indicative from who it was fromâbut you knew already. gojo. you grab the letter, words blurring at the edges and tears smearing over the ink.
i wasnât sure how to start this letter out, but i want you to know that i deeply care about you. your friendship is one i have greatly appreciated. i want to apologize that my whims got nanami involved in business that shouldnât have been his to handle, and so, i have decided that you are no longer part of my life. i canât handle losing you too. but i love you.
attatched to the letter in the back was a check for eight million yen, enough to cover the funeral expenses. part of you thinks about ripping it up, but you donât. he deserves to be remembered, to have his ashes scattered in malaysia. so it sits on the kitchen table next to the letter, waiting for you to accept the fact nanamiâs not coming back.
or gojo for that fact. heâs rebuked you from his life, from even being a part of it, in hopes of keeping you safe. without so much as letting you get a word in about the manner.
youâre all alone.
you decide to turn the tv on, the blanket no longer feeling as comfortable as it once did. the fleece itches against your arms, the material itself knowing it wasnât right for you. that you werenât its rightful owner. itâs covered in every news media outletâa citywide hunt now taking place for the joker.
the same people that were grieving over nanamiâs loss yesterday, each one offering their condolences spoken into a microphone and in front of camera, were now the same ones that were tearing away his reelection posters today. ripping each one away like itâd never been there in the first place, ripping them at the edges in a haste, while plastering whatever candidate they could find in such short notice.
they played the part well, coming over to express their sympathy while simultaneously making smear campaigns the moment you turned around. you didnât care about their sympathy, didnât care about their fake smiles, or offerings.
your pocket buzzes with a new notification, the words 'your wedding invitations have been delivered!' shining brightly on the screen. your grip on the wedding band in your palm only tightens, eyes brimming with unshed tears. you were meant to be wearing a white gown, preparing for the biggest day of your life, memorizing and reading over your vows. instead, you were reading over your eulogy and smoothing over a black dress.
you were so, so close.
taglist: @sextier @suguruss1ut @bygeto + link to join
EEEKEKKK URE TOO GOOD im so happy i found ur fics i love long fics more than anything and the way u write is just so perfect oh my goodness AND U LIKE GOJO OMG its like my prayers were answered to find the best fanfic writer ever u deserve all the notes reblogs and kisses i cant wait to start the spiderman one I have exams rn so ill start it after đ„čđ„č
youre beyond sweet like my heart is so full rn đđđ thank you so much this genuinely made my day !!! im so happy u like long fics bc i literally have no self control when it comes to writing satoru LMAOO
please focus on ur exams first!!!!! its what spiderman!gojo would have wanted mhm mhm i hope u sleep incredible and smash through them good luck anon !!!!! all the best :3