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 “the end of the world” or smth so take a shot everytime the world ending is mentioned in the fic! thank you for reading and i’ll see you at the end for more yap :3
Some people say the world ended December 12th, 2012 and that we’re 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 can’t 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 he’s friends with your friends. And that distinction matters, their friend rather than your friend because you don’t 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 he’s grown to be.
Because ever since the world has ended and you’ve matched the elusive name to face, Gojo has managed to worm his way into your life. He’s there, slinging his arm over Shoko’s shoulder as if you both aren’t 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 they’d 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?
Ever since he entered your orbit that horrible day in March, you can’t 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. He’s always there, hands in pockets, bulky backpack slung over both shoulders, slippers padding lazily against the pavement like he’s just walked straight out of his apartment and into your line of sight.
“Relax.” Shoko tells you one afternoon as you aggressively wiped down a table, the cafe quieter now the day was slipping into that evening quiet. “You won’t have to see him ever again now that the semester is over. You can unclench.”
Her advice only makes you snort, giving the table one last swipe before straightening to look at her busied behind the counter. “Not true if you don’t stop inviting him to everything. What made you even think of bringing him with us to the club last Friday?”
Your best friend opens her mouth as if to defend him and that alone is enough for you to gag.
“Shoko, he showed up in a dress shirt. And a messenger bag. To the fucking club!”
“Not too much on him, he was coming straight from night classes.”
Like that helps his case. Like being top of the cohort, effortlessly breezing through the same exams that require endless all-nighters from you, isn’t enough to satiate his greedy appetite. Like the universe hasn’t already gift-wrapped him with endless talent, now he has to go above and beyond and take night classes too.
“Yeah, well. You need to separate your personal life from your work life. Work-life balance.”
“I don’t see how that makes sense,” Shoko retorts drily, speaking more to the sink than you as she washes up the last of the cups. “Clubbing and Gojo are both my personal life. If anything, you’re the one bringing him into our work life right now.”
“You’re the one that said being his friend is a full-time job.”
She sighs. “Minimal wage, too.”
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 Shoko’s shoulders as you pass behind her in the cramped space.
“Hey,” you start, voice sweet. “Let’s cut him off.”
She shoves you off good-mannerly, pushing you again in the direction of the apron rack to help you with the knot. “Cut him some slack, won’t you? Or don’t. Just forget about him. Like I said, now that the semester is over, you won’t have any reason to see him ever again.”
“That’s honestly up to you. Sure, I won’t see him in classes anymore but are you going to spontaneously invite him to lunch again? He’s not coming to our Saturday cheese tasting plans, is he? What about that aquarium we wanted to check out?”
Her hands pause before she loosens the knot and turns so you can untie her apron in return. “I’ll tell him no to both.”
“Oh, so he asked?”
“You have no idea.” As if sensing the rant already bubbling up your throat, Shoko quickly hands you your phone from under the counter. “By the way, your phone’s been buzzing the entire shift. You’re not still talking to that guy, are you?”
You take it, dragging the screen down to scroll through missed notifications. “Who?”
“The double texter.”
There’s the typical ones you’d expect, some Outlook emails about irrelevant study tips, some random Twitter notifications from the many inactive accounts you’ve 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 that’s been irritating you all week.
Your mouth tightens and you swipe it away before you can be sucked away into the ragebait.
“Y/N?”
“Hm?” You look up, realising Shoko is still waiting for a response. “Oh, no. This is… a guy from Hinge.”
The hesitation isn’t lost on her but she gives you grace and doesn’t press for the truth. “Right. Just be careful, alright? I don’t know what is going on in this city anymore but there’s been way too many incidents on the news about people going missing. You know it’s bad when all the news channels are all suddenly interviewing men in tight spandex suits.”
You snort, tucking your phone away to finish clocking out of your shift. “‘Men’ like there’s multiple. You mean that one spider guy, right? His superhero name is uncreative as hell.”
“He shoots webs from his wrists and climbs walls, what else would he call himself?”
“Anything but the first thing a five year old could come up with. That’s like pointing to a man who can fly and calling him Flying Man.”
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.
“Superhero names are hardly creative these days.”
“We’re losing the ancient texts.”
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.
“What ancient texts? There’s literally someone called Superman because he’s super.”
You roll your eyes. “That is so not helping your case.”
“It is helping my case because it proves people like straightforward names. Also, it helps with making merch.”
“How can you be so confident and be so wrong?”
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. There’s a kind of peace at this twilight, a sense of calm that feels despairing.
“Are you sure you don’t want a lift?” Shoko asks as you both slow to a step, effectively dragging you out of a potential spiral. “I can’t imagine the bus being your favourite form of transport.”
You blink at her before shaking your head, reorganising your thoughts. “It’s fine. Besides, I know you have that thing with Utahime later.”
“It’s not a thing. We’re just going to a jazz bar.”
“Sure, okay. But just the two of you.”
“We did invite you,” Shoko reminds you with an unimpressed look. “You’re the one that declined.”
“I wasn’t going to third wheel again.”
“Utahime would kill you for saying that.”
“I’d be more worried that she’d kill herself if she found out you’re not labelling it as a date.”
Shoko kicks a loose rock on the pavement, avoiding your eyes. “That’s because it’s not a date. It’s a jazz bar outing.”
“Jazz is like, inherently romantic. Haven’t you heard ‘Careless Whispers’?”
“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day. ‘Careless Whispers’ is about a man cheating,”
“Wait, are you serious?” You shake your head to dispel the song from playing in your mind, reining in the conversation before she can successfully deflect. “And I doubt that’s the dumbest thing I’ve said all day. I think I’ve had some better bangers.”
“True, 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. Don’t groan at me, I’m just saying.”
“I’m complaining about him. That has to be different.”
Shoko tilts her head, studying you up and down as she considers your words. She ends her evaluation with a hum. “I don’t know, people usually don’t spend that much time thinking about someone they actually don’t care about.”
The implications are so frankly absurd the only thing you can do is wish her well. “I’m going to kill you.”
She raises her hands in surrender, already backing away in the direction of the parking lot.“Anyway! There’s no reason to complain about him anymore. Live a little!”
“Please,” you scoff. “Like I’d ever willingly think about Gojo ever again. You don’t need to tell me that.”
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, Shoko’s words have some truth to them. It is rather easy to forget all about Gojo and his crimes against humanity (you) when you don’t 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 wouldn’t 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 wasn’t even doing the same degree. You shouldn’t 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 you’ve met once from parties and events, but it’s 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 drift—those traitorous things—to the front row.
Gojo slouches in his seat, the tiny fold-out table already pulled out in front of him, bag resting on top. He’s 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 it’s 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. “Hey, Y/N! It's been a while.”
“Hey,” you say, hoping it comes off casual and not dripped in fear. “Yeah, I didn’t 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 u’ll 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: we’re 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: it’s 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.
“Welcome to neuropharmacology3211.” When the lecturer begins the lesson, you watch as Gojo barely sits up to listen. “I’ll pass along the attendance sheet now. Just for everyone’s sanity I need to let you know that these lectures aren’t compulsory, however we do encourage you to attend.”
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 Nobara’s 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 can’t 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 can’t 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 don’t 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.
“And finally, there is a pair presentation due in week 7.” Your eyes twitch and you cast your gaze back to the front. “The details of the assessment will be explained during this week’s lab so ask your questions then.”
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.
“Your pair and topic will be emailed to you later today.” The professor continues and when groans echo across the room, they only chuckle, undeterred. “Diversity is good for group work. Your colleagues won’t always be your friend.”
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 you’re safe when—
“No way.”
Your pace stutters and against every instinct in your body screaming at you to keep walking, you freeze.
“Y/N?”
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 Gojo’s stupid face. He peers down at you, all ego and cocky exterior, like he’s 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.
“God, why did it have to be you?” you grumble, more to yourself than him. You shake off his hold, pressing your arm to your side to prevent any further contact. “Don’t touch me.”
“I knew I saw your name on the attendance sheet.” He smirks down at you, taking in the familiar sight of your frown. “Come on, smile a little. You’re making it look like I'm extorting you.”
“Don't talk to me like we’re familiar, Gojo.”
“Aren’t we?”
“We aren't.”
“We talk though.”
“You talk, I try my best to ignore you.”
“We have mutual friends.” He points out next as if this hasn’t been the sole reason for your pain and suffering. God bless Shoko’s 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.
“Unfortunately.”
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.
“What crawled up your ass and died?”
“Don’t talk about my ass.”
“Come on, are you still being a sore loser over finals? You had two whole weeks to get over that.”
That gets you. You exhale sharply, eyes narrowing dangerously as you lean forward to poke at his chest.
“First of all,” you begin, “I am not being a sore loser over finals. The one making a big deal of things is you so if you’re trying to get my attention, there are far less tedious ways.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I'm trying to get your attention?”
“Is there another reason why you won’t leave me alone, Gojo?” You sigh like it’s the most obvious thing. “Look, you’re not my type and that’s okay. Not everyone can be. But seriously, sticking to me like an annoying bug isn’t going to fix that. If anything, it worsens your chances, not that you had any to begin with.”
He waits and when you only seethe, he prompts you, “And?”
You blink, temporarily off guard. “That’s it.”
“Then why did you start with‘first of all’?”
Your eyes narrow. “It’s like talking to a genie with some of you people.”
His grin is too easy, too casual as if you weren’t fighting for your life to restrain from murdering him, as if he isn’t standing between you and your only exit from this hell.
“Hey, I just wanted to clarify,” he says, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender that only grinds your gears further. “No need to get so pissy. It’s not a good look on you.”
You grit your teeth. “No defense for the allegations though, I see.”
Gojo looks around with a hum, eyes doing a lazy sweep of the emptying lecture hall, hands lowering slightly. “You’d think after all this time, you’d finally get the hint.”
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 isn’t exactly subtle about:
flaunting his academic prowess
how much he seems to thrive off your annoyance
You pick the second. “What, that you get off to a pretty woman telling you to kill yourself?”
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.
“Do you usually spend a lot of time thinking about what gets me off?”
“Do you always have to ask me stupid questions?”
“Only because you always find a way to make the answers fun.”
“I'm telling you this now, Gojo. You’ve outgrown the age where teasing the girl you like works,” you shoot back with a snarl, unable to hide your frustration.
For a moment, something in his expression shifts.
Gojo’s eyes drop and you feel his gaze burn down your neck and drag from your top to your shoes. You can’t help but shiver at the intensity of his stare and maybe he notices because he scoffs, looking away. “That hurts my reputation. You’re not my type.”
Your eye twitches. “Bat for the other team, do you?”
“How egotistical. You think just because a guy doesn’t like you he must be gay?”
“Well, there’s definitely a higher likelihood."
“You must have tested that with a small sample size because that doesn’t sound statistically significant.”
You roll your eyes, shifting your weight to edge closer to the door. “Of course you can’t help but be a fucking nerd about everything."
“Whining doesn’t exactly help your side of the argument."
“No, but it might stop me from reaching over and punting your head in.”
Gojo whistles low, the noise sharper now that most students have left. “Are you purposefully testing me? I thought we established that I liked girls who keep me on my toes.”
You wrinkle your nose. “There’s a difference between keeping someone on their toes and wanting to throttle them.”
“You better be careful because it's a thinner line than most for me.”
“You are disgusting.”
“That doesn’t explain why you keep talking to me, though.”
“Like I have a choice. You’re 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.”
“You’re still here though.”
You sigh, exasperated. “Because you’re standing in the fucking doorway, you idiot.”
“Oh,” 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. “Move.”
“Say please.”
Your smile turns dangerously sweet. “I said move.”
“Still not hearing the magic word.”
You give up, sensing you’ll 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.
“Actually, I was thinking. Are you free this—” 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. “My bad. I was going say if you’re—”
But in the few seconds his attention is elsewhere, you’ve already bolted.
“Hey, wait!” His voice chases after you and you press on, echoing faintly against the tiled floors as you round the corner at a pace that’s just shy of running. “I’m going to count this as my win if you run away from me!”
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 wasn’t about to end, it better start looking up for you soon.
Unfortunately, the world really doesn’t 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 doesn’t 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 you’re 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 wasn’t 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 it’s still or in the moments when you wait for a customer’s 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.
It’s just one of those bad days.
The bus pulls up, blowing exhaust and humid air, and you’ve 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. It’s 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 you’ve 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, “...Spiderman?”
The blue and white figure coughs, hitting his chest with his fist. “You called?”
Spiderman looks up and freezes. It might be your imagination but he looks even more winded when his eyes lock on yours. Actually, you’re certain it’s 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. “Shit, you went down hard. Do you have a concussion?”
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. “You have got to be fucking kidding.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
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 doesn’t 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.
“I know the feeling,” Spiderman says, pushing himself upright with a wince. “That’s my exact review too.”
The thing’s head jerks in your direction.
Spiderman notices before you do, wringing out his hands and doing some jumping jacks on the spot. “And that’s my cue to ask you very calmly to start running.”
When the thing charges at you, there’s 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.
“Jesus Christ,” 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.
“I know,” he wheezes, dusting off his suit. “Everyone says that when they see me. I’m basically the second coming of that guy.”
“Are you okay? Do you need… backup?” 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 you’ve managed to fuck up your ankle in your panic.
Spiderman has his hands thrown up. “Why are you not running? I told you to run.”
“Why are you losing?”
“I’m not losing,” he snaps, affronted. “Are you always this difficult? Listen to the city’s superhero and get out of here.”
“If this is my superhero, then I’m already cooked.”
The creature roars and charges again, much alike a bull seeing red and you’re the unfortunate sole on the ground in its path.
Spiderman seems to have enough sense to conclude there’s 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 creature’s 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, it’s 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, “Hey, big guy, quick question before you maul me. Is this like, a skincare thing? Because I think whatever routine you’re on is clogging your pores. There’s a pharmacy right over there. Want me to get you some pimple patches?”
The figure ignores his provocation by charging forward again and it’s 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 there’s 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.
“That’s it, get out of here!” he calls out after you.
You grit your teeth both from the pain and general annoyance. “I’m not running!”
“What the hell are you doing then?”
“Something useful, unlike you!”
Spiderman finally looks up from wrangling with the figure. “Huh?”
You manage to limp to the pharmacy and wrench its fire extinguisher free from its bracket, using more effort than expected especially as you’re 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 Spiderman’s 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 you’re 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. “Maybe I should give this superhero thing a shot.”
“Nah, I don’t think you have the guts for it.”
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 he’s hauling you up with it, body lifting clean off the pavement.
“Wait—”
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 “Hold on, we need to go back and help that guy!”
“I’m a superhero, not a paramedic!” Spiderman calls back, voice steady despite the speed. “He’ll be fine, help is already on the way. But there’s an unconscious guy on the ground, a destroyed bus stop, at least six insurance claims, and I’m pretty sure your bus abandoned you ages ago. You cannot stay there.”
“And that’s the reason why I’m up here?”
“Superhero, my ass,” 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.
“Oh my God,” you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut again. “This is how I die. I’m going to become roadkill. I’m going to go splat.”
“That is so hurtful after I literally just rescued you.”
“I would still be grateful if you had left it there.”
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 you’re shaking, he has the decency to not make anymore comments, swinging you both up in a smooth arc.
“Okay,” he relents. “Deep breaths, I’m not actually going to drop you.”
You give your most valiant attempt of a snort. “Telling me to breathe deeply as I’m not already trying.”
“Would you prefer shallow, panicked ones then?”
“I would prefer to be on the ground!”
“Your wish is my command.”
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. It’s 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. “You do that every day?”
You can almost hear the smugness in his voice, and something else. “It’s basically my 9-5.”
It’s 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 doesn’t make any move to remove it.
A baffled laugh escapes you, more air than sound. “I can’t believe I’m still alive.”
“Do you need to sit down?”
You shake your head softly. “I’m fine… thank you for saving me, Spiderman.”
“I should be thanking you. I was getting my ass kicked out there.”
“I know, I saw.”
He tilts his head. “I thought you were thankful?”
“Both those things can be true at the same time.” Then, you go on your tippy toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “But I’m definitely very thankful.”
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. “Did you just—”
There’s something about the tone of his voice, pitched higher now in surprise, that has you blinking. “You sound…”
If you weren’t 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. “Oh, uh—you should head back, injured and stupid civilian. I know the people in the office. They should be able to get you home.”
“No wait, hold on.” You narrow your eyes, taking a step forward that he immediately responds to by stepping back. “Do I know you?”
He points at himself, backing away slowly. “Me? You might have seen me on the news or seen one of my promotional posters.”
“No, because you were weird the second you saw me.”
“I was bleeding out and on the verge of death,” he says. “Let’s not pathologise me.”
“You looked right at me and said something like, ‘you have got to be fucking kidding’.”
He tilts his head and takes another step back. “Did I say that? Hm, no, not ringing any bells. Your ankle is injured, maybe stop walking towards me. You’re freaking me out and I don’t do well with girls.”
You open your mouth to say more when he suddenly points at something over your shoulder. “Oh shit, is that a bird? A plane?”
You turn instinctively. There is no one there, of course, but it’s a realisation seconds too late. Because by the time you whip back around, he’s already two steps away, web fired high above, body coiled to launch.
“Oh, you asshole—”
“Get home safe!” he calls, voice cheerful in a way that irks you.
“Wait—”
He shoots upward before the word can properly leave your mouth. You hobble forward, outrage momentarily stronger than the pain in your ankle.
“You can’t just dump me here and leave!” you yell after him. “I’m literally injured! Jerk!”
“Ma’am, can we help you?”
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.
It’s 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, they’re kind enough to drive you back to your apartment though you’re slightly annoyed the rest of the day had been wasted on telling them ‘I don’t know’ over and over again.
The moment you step back into your room, your phone buzzes with multiple notifications. There’s an Outlook email from your neuropharmacology course and three texts from an unknown number.
unknown: looks like you lucked out and we’re partners
it’s 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.
You don’t end up confirming Gojo’s plans until halfway through your morning tutorial the next day when he double texts.
DO NOT ANSWER: ?
don’t 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: (╥﹏╥)
i’ll get on campus at 12 ish so like in ten minutes
you: done
DO NOT ANSWER: >⩊<
You push the thought that as a grown man, he really shouldn’t be texting like that away, and flip your phone back down on the table just as the class ends.
“Want to check out this new bingsu place near the station?” Utahime chatters as she shoves her iPad into her tote and picks up her coffee, watching you follow behind albeit slower with dread. “They have this new Thai tea bingsu and it looks crazy good. Shoko swears by it but—and you can’t tell her I said this—it’s crazy that she went out for lunch without us. Does she not fuck with us anymore? Who did she even go with?”
You smile wistfully at her. “I wish I could, Utahime, but I already have plans after this.”
“What the fuck, et tu?” She processes your words with a frown. “Did you take on a shift today? I thought you only had this one class today.”
“No, it’s even worse. I need to lock in for my neuropharmacology assessment.”
She pauses, cup halfway to her mouth before her lips split into a wide grin. “Oh my God. With Gojo?”
You groan, zipping your bag with more force than necessary. You sling it over your shoulder and try to hurry away from her, but it’s too late and she follows quickly after.
“Don’t remind me.”
“You’re choosing to hang out with Gojo over me?” Her voice peaks at the end, and you hate how happy she looks at the thought of you ditching her.
“This isn’t a choice I want to make at all so don’t say it like that. And don’t look so happy, freak.”
“Oh, this is rich. You were bitching about him all of last semester and now you’re choosing him over me?” Utahime giggles, pulling out her phone with her free hand. “Shoko is going to love this.”
You raise an eyebrow, catching the opening. “I thought you were mad at her for getting lunch without you? You’re so fickle.”
She hums absentmindedly, already outing your situation to the group chat, no doubt. “Our friendship runs deeper than one betrayal.”
You grin as you approach the library stairs, looking back over your shoulder. “Friendship, huh?”
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. “What? Don’t say that like it’s something to point out! We are friends!”
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You’re giving me that look again. I’m not a blind masochist, Y/N. I can tell when you have something to say, and I’m not taking it lying down.”
“You’re just lucky I haven’t said a word to Shoko yet.”
Utahime grumbles, crossing her arms. “If you do, I’ll kill myself.”
You laugh, glad to get the last word. “I’ll see you later, Utahime. Go say hi to Shoko for me!”
“I will see Shoko, but only to tell her that.”
“Sure,” you say, and enter the building.
The library is busy, bustling with students as they lean over textbooks and clack away at their laptops. It’s 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 you’ll find Gojo.
You swallow your pride and pull out your phone.
you: i’m here
where are you?
DO NOT ANSWER: not her eyet wa it
wait
smth came up
You frown. He’s 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. “Fuck.”
“Did I scare you?”
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 it’ll fix his disheveled appearance. The buttons of his shirt are mismatched and one side of his collar is tucked inward.
“Hey,” he greets with a lopsided smile.
“How are you late when you’re the one who said to meet at twelve?”
Gojo shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal and flops into the seat next to you. You had intended for him to sit across the table but you didn’t have the time to slip the words into the conversation before he starts talking.
“Didn’t I tell you? I had something to do. Did you read my texts with your eyes closed or something?”
“If you think I could have deciphered that from what you said, then you’re dumber than I thought. Did you run into an electric fence or something?”
He smiles at you like your words had been an inside joke. “I told you after that part.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously? This is worth twenty percent of our grade. You can’t just mess around and expect to still do well.”
“Can’t I? It’s always worked before.”
And because you don’t doubt that, it only serves to piss you off even more. He catches onto your scowl, smirk widening.
“Relax, you’ll pop a blood vessel. We still have weeks to get this done so who cares?”
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. “Me, obviously. Look, I’m only staying on campus until two, so let’s just get this done quickly so we can both leave. I’m sure you don’t want to be here either so let’s just be adults and get this over and done with.”
You take a deep breath and prepare yourself to look back at him and point out what you’ve already planned on the document but stop short when you find him already watching you.
You grimace and edge away slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.” 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. It’s only when he pulls out yet another accessory, a mouse pad, that you blurt, “Do you seriously carry a whole gaming laptop setup with you every day for class?”
Gojo holds down the power button for a couple of seconds, the fans whirring to life and filling the library with insistent static.
“Yeah, I love this thing. It can handle all my programs and I can play League on it too so what’s not to like? It can run Sims 4 and all my CC’s without any lag, it’s literally my baby. It’s only right that I give it everything it needs in return.”
You scrunch your nose. “You play into the stereotype way too much.”
“What stereotype?”
“What else? The nerd stereotype.”
He huffs, apparently offended. “I’m not a nerd.”
“Aren’t you?” You eye him up and down. “You tick off all the boxes. The glasses, the smartass attitude, the gaming laptop—”
“You wear glasses.” He starts listing, holding out his hand to count.
“I wear contacts.”
“But you wear your glasses in the morning. For morning tutorials and lectures and stuff,” he continues, undeterred. “You carry yourself like you’re better than everyone else—”
“I do not—”
“Though you’re probably too broke to buy a gaming laptop so I guess it’s better to be a nerd than whatever you are.” 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.
“I don’t carry myself like I’m better than anyone,” you decide to clear up.
He makes an unconvinced sound. “You do.”
“I don’t.” You press your lips together and sigh, breaking the eye contact though not without effort. “Stop trying to waste my time.”
“You found me out. “Through 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. “Let’s talk. Why do you hate me so much?”
Your fingers stutter on your keyboard. Sucking in a deep breath, you turn your head and face him on. “”I don’t hate you. Obviously.
“Obviously,” he repeats, the curl of his lips an obvious indicator that he doesn’t believe you. “But you’re always frowning when we talk.”
“We don’t talk,” you emphasise again and against your attempt at nonchalance, your brows pinch together. “And I don’t hate you.”
“Right? I haven’t even done anything to you.”
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 you’ll be having to Shoko later at the cafe.
“Gojo,” you start calmly. “We have four weeks to do this assessment and frankly, I still have a life to live outside this so let’s just get this over and done with, okay?”
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.
“Alright,” he says finally. “Add me to the document.”
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. “I already looked at some sources so you can just start off one of those.”
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. He’s already typing away and when you click on the animal to find his cursor, he’s finishing off a second sentence notably not under one of those articles you had found. You frown as you read.
“Hold on.”
He sighs, fingers pausing. “What now?”
You point to your screen at where he’s stopped typing. “You can’t just say things like this without a source.”
“I’ll cite it later.”
“That’s now how you research. You’re meant to find an article first and then write your own interpretation afterwards based on it.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Potato, potahto.”
“Okay, no. We are not doing this.”
“See, this is where your pretentiousness kicks in.”
“What, because I know how to research properly?”
“Because you’re trying to control every little thing.”
“I’m not being controlling, This counts to my grade too so I have a say.”
“And where’s my say?”
“You’re thinking too far, maybe focus on actually saying something useful first.”
“See? Pretentious.”
“Pot calling the kettle black.”
“So you admit it?”
“Maybe, do you?”
He leans in, sneering. “I’ve gotten top marks doing it my way and I’m not going to change it now just because you have some inferiority complex over me.”
You flush, leaning back. “Well, I’ve gotten high marks doing it my way! And I don’t have an inferiority complex, much less to you.”
“Then you can use your method and I’ll use mine. We don’t have to collaborate any more than we need to.”
You hate to admit that he might be right. Outwardly however, you grit your teeth and summon an inner peace. “Gojo. Find an article before you start talking out of your ass.”
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.
“Fine, fine. Geez. You’re really annoying, you know that?” he grumbles, slouching in his seat.
You’re 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 hadn’t been stunlocked on that tab yourself earlier that week.
hoping there’s a modification of kumamon’s line, r/digimon.
“Wait,” you blurt, placing your hand on his arm.
He freezes under your touch, though you pay no attention to the sensation. “What?”
“Was that a Digimon Reddit thread?”
Gojo doesn’t 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. “…No?”
You don’t 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 you’ve spent the last week arguing in the comments. “You’re in the Digimon subreddit?”
“Don’t do this. You already give me enough shit about carrying a gaming laptop. Don’t ruin this nostalgia for me,” he mutters, looking away, and you finally realise that his tense shoulders might be because he’s bracing for an impact that isn’t 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 he’s the second coming of Jesus.
You laugh in disbelief.
He only stiffens more until you exclaim, “Gojoverrated?”
“Look, I made that username when I was twelve and it just stuck, alright? I’m sure your usernames at twelve were much worse—”
“So it was you that wrote that stupid rant about Kumamon’s evolution! It was like, a thousand words!”
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. “You pronounced Kumamon right. You know about the post? You read it?”
“Are you questioning my reading comprehension skills now?”
“No, I—” he stutters, actually tripping over his words in front of you which only makes your smile widen. He clears his throat and tries again. “I just meant—you read this?”
“Read it? I responded to it, smartass.”
There’s a long pause, and you wait for recognition to dawn. He straightens slowly, eyes opening wide. “There’s no way. You’re not—”
You beam. “I’m Digimonlvr3000!”“Surprise aside, you should not be saying that username with so much pride.” But then he stares at you like the ground beneath him has just fallen through. “But shut up, there’s no fucking way.”
“You seriously hate the transition from Grizzmon to GrapLeomon?” 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.
“You can’t 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.” 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.
“I mean, this is Digimon, not Pokémon. You know, digital monsters? They’re allowed to be crazy.”
“Yeah? Well, I want bears.”
“Then Pokémon might be the franchise for you.”
Gojo flinches like you’ve insulted him personally, more than any of your actually hurtful insults have ever managed to make him flinch. “Don’t even joke, Y/N. It’s not a crime to like coherent evolution lines.”
You shrug. “The randomness makes it fun. It’s Digimon’s whole brand.”
“And 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.” His lips quiver as he talks, eyes still wide, shock lingering. He can’t 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. “Um, actually, there is, though. The whole theme of grappling and fist-fighting? Does that ring a bell?”
“That’s the same argument you used in your comments.”
“The same comment you have yet to respond to.” You pause, thinking. “Just like right now, actually.”
“Yeah?” he starts, and you know you’ve got him again. He presses on regardless. “Well, you’re the one who made that post about disliking Rhinokabuterimon more than Daipenmon.”
“And I stand by that.”
“Oh my god,” he says slowly, taking you in. “You’re worse in person.”
“Your Kumamon rant got locked by a mod,” you remind him. “Somehow that makes sense. You’re as annoying online as you are in person.”
“It was locked for too many off-topic replies, which is partially your fault.”
“I wasn’t going to let you have the last word.”
“Last word, huh. Great segue to—”
“No, don’t bring that up, stop—”
“—to your Digimon fanfiction account that you have linked in your bio.”
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, “How would you know? Did you read them?”
“Of course I did,” 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. “So. Do you play the TCG?” he asks, despite the fact that he knows he’s seen your username floating around in the Digimon TCG subreddit.
You pull your hands away with a start. “Do I play? Is the sky blue?”
Gojo’s lips quiver upward. “Duel me.”
“Okay,” you say quickly, too quickly, and you clear your throat in an effort to reset yourself. He doesn’t seem to notice, already digging through his bag for something. “Oh, you meant right now.”
He pauses, looking up. “Yeah. Do you not have your deck?”
“I don’t carry it on me, no.” 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 you’re not quite there just yet. Instead, you laugh softly. “Next time then,” you say, enjoying the way his smile returns to his face. “What colour do you play, anyway?”
“Purple, obviously.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course you’re a purple player. You saw the post about how purple wins just about every big event in EX7, didn’t you? Let me guess. Leviamon?”
“Actually, I play DexDorugoramon. You?”
You hum as if that makes complete sense. “I play yellow. Not for any particular reason, I just like the Digimon in the decks.”
“Yellow, huh? So you’re a feelscrafter.” He bites back a goofy smile, but it shows.
“Don’t say that word like it’s a slur.”
“Do you even play the meta?”
You scoff. “Of course I do. But playing good isn’t even fun anymore.”
Gojo laughs, and from behind him, you catch a few students looking over with narrowed eyes. He pays them no mind, leaning in. “See? Pretentious.”
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. You’re 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. There’s a warmth in your stomach that’s hard to get rid of.
What the fuck.
You’re not eavesdropping. That’s simply not what you’re doing. Though it isn’t 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 can’t make out the conversation.
“Alright, yeah, I got it. I’m not, so don’t even start. God, shut the fuck up, Suguru. I’ll be over, give me ten minutes. Ten minutes. Yeah, probably, but you’re pissing me off, so I’ll be there in ten. I’m already doing you a favour, man, so quit it before I change my mind.” You catch him rolling his eyes, his freakishly long eyelashes lifting and falling. “You owe me.”
Gojo hangs up and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, sorry about that. I have to go.”
You look up at him with a start. “Go? You just got here! We’ve only been working for…” You glance down at the bottom right of your laptop screen. “An hour and a half?”
He grins, though it’s small. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“Neuropharmacology is hardly fun.”
“No, but the company is,” 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, “I’ll text you when I’m free next.”
“We hardly got anything done today,” you find yourself saying. “No thanks to your distraction.”
“Mine? You continued it. If you really cared, you would have told me to shut up.”
“As if you ever listen.”
It’s far too easy to fall into a rhythm with him, you think begrudgingly. He’s 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. “Whatever, Gojo. I’ll do my part as long as you do yours.”
He watches you for a second longer before taking a step back. “I’ll text you.”
You give him a half-hearted wave. Only when you’re 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 you’re pissed, that that’s 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?
It’s 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 you’ve 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 it’s 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 you’re still free then?
academic freak: no worries
let’s 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 you’ve ever video called someone, and it’s not like he matters, but something akin to nervousness settles in your stomach. He's just your annoyingly good-looking, annoyingly smart project partner. Shoko’s 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. There’s no dignified way out of this, so with a sigh, you hit call. The screen rings once, twice, and you suddenly jump up, nerves—or whatever the hell you want to call it—causing 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 couldn’t you see it? Would Gojo be able to tell?
Before you can answer any of those questions, your phone flickers to life.
“Hey,” Gojo says, grinning as his camera turns on. He’s 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.
“Hi.” You clear your throat, adjusting your phone so it sits upright on your table. “I wasn’t waiting for your text, by the way. You just messaged me just as I was about to message you. That’s all.”
He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face. Thankfully, he doesn’t push. “Sorry for ditching you earlier, but I’m here now.”
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 there’s an assortment of plushies on his bed behind him. You narrow your eyes.
“Is that Agumon?”
Gojo glances back, then shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He guards my bed.”
You stifle a laugh. “Still getting nightmares at your big age?”
“Don’t tell me you’re too cool for plushies.” 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. “There we go. That’s more like it.”
His praise does things to you that you don’t 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. It’s 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 don’t 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 doesn’t.
Clearing your throat, you finally drag your gaze up to his face. “We should—” you start, but cut yourself off. “What?”
“Hm?” He blinks when your eyes meet.
“Why’re you staring at me like that?”
Gojo lets the silence drag on for a little longer until he chuckles, dropping his head to look down at his own laptop screen. “Who said I was looking at you?”
You arch a brow, glancing over your shoulder, then around your room. “Is there someone else in the room with me now?”
“Ask that question again when we have a Ouija board.” He types something, and you watch the words pop up on your screen. “I was just thinking how different you are when you’re not on campus. You’re quieter, for one. Less teeth-baring.”
“If you want me to insult you, you only have to ask.”
He grins, eyes lazy with amusement. “See? Even that lacks any bite.”
“Says you. I’m surprised you haven’t made a comment on my glasses or something,” you say, unwilling to be outdone.
“And what, your messy desk?”
You shove your textbooks out of frame. “I knew it.”
He shrugs offhandedly, returning his attention to his laptop. You follow his lead, blinking in surprise when he doesn’t continue with another snarky comment. It’s silent again for a while.
“It suits you. You look nice with your hair tied back.”
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 didn’t just casually compliment you, as if he hadn’t just thrown a curveball into your carefully built defences. You swallow hard, blinking as heat creeps into your cheeks.
“I… you look nice too?”
You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth, though you can’t completely regret them, because they’re what finally cause him to look up at you, his hands frozen over his keyboard. Then he’s laughing, and you take back that last thought just as quickly.
“Alright, alright, let’s just work on our project,” you mumble, ducking your head. He’s still laughing, and you grit your teeth with effort. “If you keep laughing, I’m going to hang up on you.”
Gojo’s laughter lingers, soft and amused, as he savours the heat on your face for a second longer before nodding. “I’ll stop, I swear.” His fingers return to the keyboard, but you catch the flicker of something like warmth—or maybe surprise—in 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 you’ve made, or corrects something you’ve 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 you’ve 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 hadn’t realised they were roommates.
“You free tonight, Satoru? Haibara’s having a get-together in a few hours. He asked me if you wanted to come along since you ditched halfway through the—oh.” Geto’s voice trails off, as if he’s only just noticed Gojo’s pinched expression. “You’re on the phone to someone. Who? Let me see.”
“It’s none of your business!” He throws you a frantic glance and you shrug. “And knock first!”
“You never knock.” You hear the shuffle of someone entering the room. “And you have three friends, and I’m one of them. Is it Nanami? Shoko?”
You hear Gojo’s 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 it’s a blur of black and red.
“Back off, Suguru, I’m not going to Haibara’s party—”
“Is that a girl?”
“Hey!”
There’s a whirl, and then you blink, biting your cheeks at the face suddenly staring back at you. Hesitantly, you raise a hand. “Hey, Geto.”
Geto stares at you for a second before laughing, a low melody that has you shifting nervously in your seat. “Y/N? I didn’t know you and Satoru were so close. I always thought you two had this rivals thing going on—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence because Gojo snatches his phone back, and you watch a tilted view of the interaction.
“Tell Haibara I won’t be showing up.”
“Something more important to do, Satoru?”
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. “It’s not what you think. We’re working on our group project. It can’t just evolve past Rookie stage on its own.”
You watch as he shoots a quick glance at you, eyes searching as if to ask, Did you catch that?
You can’t help but grin a little, biting back a laugh.
“Sure, that’s all. I’ll go tell Haibara you’ll come to the next one.” The light dims slightly and you assume Geto is closing the door. “You owe me.”
When the light finally fades, Gojo turns back to you with an apologetic smile. You’re 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.
“Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s okay. You guys seem close.” You absentmindedly rub at your chest, wondering if this is a sign of cardiovascular disease. “You two dorm together?”
“We 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.”
You rest your cheek on your palm, watching him through the small screen of your phone. “I never knew you two had so much history. I guess that makes sense, considering I never see you two apart.”
“Hey, it’s not that bad.”
“Isn’t it? Gojo and Geto, Geto and Gojo. There’s even a name for you two. Goge, though I prefer Gego.”
He frowns, brows pulled together. “There’s a difference?”
“Yeah,” you say, and leave it at that, unwilling to explain the difference. Reading over his last few words, you highlight them with your cursor. “Gojo, this doesn’t make sense. The rebuttal team will definitely have something to say about this.”
Gojo huffs, and you watch as he backspaces the sentence. “You know, I almost miss the days when you were comfortably mediocre. Now it’s like I’m back to being ten years old and getting taught long division by my dad.”
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, “What a universal experience.”
He looks up at that. “What, not going to tell me to kill myself for comparing you to my dad?”
“Was that an insult? You’re losing your touch.”
“Says you. You don’t even seem mad.” 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. “You okay?”
You pause, bracing for the usual deflection to leap off your tongue. But there’s something about the way he’s 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. “Guess I didn’t really care for grades back then.”
He snorts. “Seriously? 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.”
You don’t move. “It was just luck.”
“And all your nineties since then? That all luck too?”
You shrug, but your mind screams the answer.
Gojo frowns, as if sensing that this goes deeper. “What is this really about, Y/N?”
For once, you’re thankful for his directness. When he says it like that, you find that you can’t 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. “It’s nothing serious. I guess I’m just a little worried that I’m too late to be good at this for real.”
His head tilts on-screen. “Huh?”
Heat creeps up your neck. “You 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 we’re in our last year. I feel like I’ve wasted too much time.”
When he doesn’t immediately say anything, you barrel on. “You’ve always been…” You gesture vaguely at him, still not meeting his eyes. “Good. Effortless. And I’m just now cramming to keep up. Like, what’s the point, you know? Maybe I’ll never catch up. Even if I do, it’s too late for it to matter. Maybe that’s 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.”
You try to laugh it off, but it comes out small and brittle.
Gojo doesn’t answer right away. His usual smirk is gone, replaced with something more thoughtful. Finally, he leans forward, chin resting on his palm.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You really think you’re behind me?”
“Well, aren’t I?”
He snorts softly, but there’s no bite to it. “You’re the one who wrote the outline to this report. You’re the one reading through and correcting everything. Half of this project looks as good as it does because of you.”
Your stomach flips. “You’re exaggerating—”
“I’m not.” 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. “Look. Who cares when you started? You’re here now. And you’re 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. That’s more than most people ever figure out, even if they’ve been trying since day one.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Don’t I?”
“It’s easy for you to say. You’ve got it all figured out.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious about catching up to me?”
The heat creeps back up your neck, hot flushes spreading across your back. “Forget it. Just forget everything.”
“No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” He runs a hand through his hair, forcing the surprise back. “I thought you knew the feeling was mutual, that I’m making sure to catch up to you. If anything, you’ve been making me work harder than I ever have. If this is you ‘too late,’ then I’d say you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
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.
“…You’re ridiculous,” 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. “Ridiculously right, you mean, since you know I always am.”
You shake your head, biting back the urge to argue—and 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, it’s in his usual drawl. “So, am I supposed to fix the discussion section, or are you going to keep having an existential crisis about being secretly smart?”
You let out a shaky laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Shut up and start writing, Gojo.”
“Yes, ma’am,” 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.
The weekend has slipped through your fingers quickly, leaving much to be desired, and before you know it, you’re waking before the ass crack of dawn to shuffle to the university café. The streets are empty this early out, with only the hush of the wind and the distant hiss of a bus pulling away filling the campus.
Not for the first time, you regret picking up the opening shifts, and you haven’t even clocked in yet.
When you look up to behold the café in all its glory, you freeze. There’s someone standing just outside, leaning against the brick wall and absentmindedly kicking a pebble along the footpath. At first, the figure is just a silhouette.
But then you walk close, and the picture clarifies.
Spiderman kicks another loose stone, both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie that hides the bright blue and white design of his tight-fitted suit. He’s leaning against the wall of the cafe and you hope you’re not misunderstanding that he’s waiting for it to open.
“It’s you!” you exclaim, walking faster. “You jerk, you ditched me!”
Spiderman pushes off the wall in a heartbeat, body snapping upright with practised reflexes even before he lifts his head. He looks at you in silence and you take the chance to close the gap.
Before he can make the smart move and leave, you’re already grabbing his hand.
“You left me to talk to the police for hours after that day! Do you know how many questions I answered with ‘I don’t know’?”
“Oh, great,” he mumbles, voice low and muffled by his mask. “Just what I needed. What are you doing here?”
“That’s my question. I didn’t think our cafe was famous enough to be visited by a superhero. Are you checking out the student discount or something? Are you a student here too—”
He cuts you off. “Guessing my identity kind of defeats the purpose of the whole masked hero thing.”
You squint at him. “Can you even breathe in that?”
“I’m still standing here, aren’t I?”
You raise your hands in surrender. “So, what, you’re here to sightsee?”
“Do you think I have the luxury for that?” When you only raise your eyebrows pointedly and shrug, he continues. “I was supposed to meet someone here.”
There’s only one other person who works morning shifts.
“Shoko?”
Spiderman seems to pause. “The answer isn’t no.”
“Shoko’s doing closing shifts now so I’ll be taking over the morning shifts. Also, you know Shoko? And she didn’t tell me?”
“Secret identities will do that to you,” he groans. “I can’t believe you tortured that information out of me.”
“If anything, you confirmed it out of your own volition.”
He shrugs, taking a step forward as if to leave. You look over at the cafe door beside him.
“You’re here for a drink, right? Give me a couple minutes to open and I’ll get started on your order for you.”
He shifts, almost imperceptibly shrugging. “Forget it. You really shouldn’t be involving yourself with me.”
Before he can take another step, you reach out and grab his wrist. The movement is firm enough to make him pause, though if you thought he couldn’t pull away, you’d be sorely mistaken. “Don’t be shy. Come on, get in here. I’m not letting you leave that easily again.”
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 you’re 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 yesterday’s coffee grounds.
Spiderman hovers awkwardly by the door where you’ve abandoned him, rocking on his feet. You pretend not to notice how he’s poised to bolt the moment you turn your back and for that reason, you never do.
“You can sit, you know,” you say lightly, switching on the espresso machine. “You’re allowed to touch the furniture.”
“I’m good here,” he mutters.
“Where did all your spark go, Spiderman?”
He shifts at that, his weight rocking between his feet. “You make me sound like a rescue dog.”
“You’re acting like one,” you note with amusement. “You’re all twitchy and skittish. Should I put out a bowl of water? Or, better yet, you can tell me your order and I’ll get started on that for you.”
He pauses. “Iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup. And a caramel rim. That’s the best part.”
Your mouth hangs open, ink bleeding into the side of the cup as you try to process his words. “Are you kidding? That’s literally just pure sugar. Are you insane?”
“Someone has to protect the city, sweetheart.” 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. “And whoever is doing it needs something to keep the sleep away.”
You shoot him a look as you cap the pen and get started. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Two nights ago. For, like, four hours.”
“You know, you should be sleeping seven to eight hours every night otherwise your brain isn’t able to clear proteins. When those accumulate they turn into the amyloid plaques and tau tangles they talk about in neurodegenerative disease.”
“Oh my God,” he groans, waving your clinical concern away. “Does this cafe only hire worrywarts? Shoko never shuts up about that.”
You look up sharply. “So you do know her.”
His hands come up in a placating gesture. “I thought you already came to that conclusion.”
“No, because you dodged it. How the fuck do you know Shoko? And why the hell has she never told me?” You let out a thoughtful hum as you create his disgusting drink. “Maybe she was embarrassed to know you.”
His hands come down slightly as if baffled. “I saved your life and the only thing leaving your mouth is criticism. The public loves the suit, I’ve gotten no complaints until now.”
You narrow your eyes as you reach for the syrup bottle. “So you are dodging.”
“I’m protecting the innocent. I hope you know that you also need to keep a tight lip about me.”
“Spare me, Spiderman. You’re really not all that.”
“You’ll be surprised.” He makes a show of stretching and flexing his muscles in the tight suit. “I’m irresistible.”
You bark a short laugh despite yourself, setting the cup down harder than necessary. “One of these days you’re going to look at yourself in the mirror and reconsider why exactly you chose tight spandex as the go to material for your suit. You know what people are doing on the streets these days? Catching print.”
“What’s that?”
You swirl whipped cream on the top of his drink and drizzle it in caramel before forcing a dome lid on top. Plucking a straw from the dispenser, you slide that and the drink over to him. He catches it easily enough, eyes not yet looking away from you.
“Here’s your drink. Next time, just get more hours of sleep instead of torturing your local barista.”
He lifts his mask just enough to sip, bunching it up under his nose, and you catch the barest flash of his grin before it’s covered again. His shoulders relax, like he’s settling in despite himself.
“Still good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, louder: “At least you didn’t mess it up.”
“That’s the thanks I get?” You rest your elbows on the counter and lean in, your eyes narrowing at him.
“This is your job, isn’t it? Why should I thank you?”
“I thought since you did unpaid labour for the city, you’d know just how good a thanks feels.”
He chuckles, reaching into his pockets to pay. His fingers close around his phone before freezing, the faint weight of realisation settling in. He doesn’t carry cash, and he can’t pay contactless like he usually does with Shoko, because then you’d recognise his phone case.
You notice his hesitation. “Unpaid labour indeed.”
“Caught me,” Spider-Man admits easily, leaning against the counter. “So, what are the chances you put this on my tab?”
You laugh under your breath. “Just make sure to bring cash next time.”
There’s a beat of quiet before he tips his head, considering. “Next time, huh?”
You shrug, busying yourself with a rag on the counter. “Didn’t you say you needed that sugar bomb to stay awake?”
“Touché,” he says, lifting the cup to take another long sip.
The room falls into a quieter rhythm, the hum of the machines filling the silence. You watch as he lingers by the counter, fingers drumming against the cup as he enjoys his drink. It’s surreal seeing him so close, joking like he’s just any other person and not some masked figure who swings through the city on webs.
You speak up again when the silence drags on a little longer and you begin to worry that the moment might get interrupted by another customer. “You gonna stand there all day or actually do some superheroing?”
He makes a thoughtful noise. “Depends. Doesn’t seem like there are any damsels in distress right now.”
“Oh, really? Well, I still need some floors mopped and napkins restocked, so—hey!”
Before you can blink, he’s already tugging his hood back up and slipping towards the door, the same restless energy in his shoulders that he came in with. “And that’s my cue to leave.”
“Don’t forget,” you call after him. “Cash next time!”
He lifts a hand without turning, a half-wave, half-promise, before opening the door. He flicks his wrist towards the nearest streetlight and, with a tug, shoots forward with a burst of speed that leaves you blinking, impressed.
“Show-off,” you mumble fondly, a small smile tugging at your lips as the door swings closed behind him. His presence is quickly forced to the back of your mind as another customer walks in, and you fall back into the familiar rhythm of your work.
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 you’ve even fully woken, the relentless beep of the espresso machine—it 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 can’t 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 won’t last long. A sudden movement behind you makes your stomach tighten, and a voice murmurs close to your ear.
“I thought the cafe opens at six.”
You turn to see Spiderman hanging upside down, both hands holding onto his web, feet pressed together to keep balance.
“It does,” you say in lieu of greeting.
“Really? So why did you only get here at 6:13am?”
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.
“I could report you for tardiness, you know. And being mean to your customers.”
“I didn’t know you were a snitch,” you tease back.
“What can I say? I care about the university’s upkeep,” 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.
“Another deathly sweet drink for you I’m assuming?”
“Someone has to keep this city up and running.”
There’s 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.
“Oh,” Spiderman had started, the whites of his mask flicking from you to the cup. “You already made this for me?”
“Yeah. Unless you’re planning to grab something new today.”
His fingers had curled around the cup, mumbling something that sounded like, “No, that’s fine. This is fine.”
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.
“I’m not going to kick you out just because you have your drink now. You can stay. I like talking to you when I open.”
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.
“You know,” he muses now, conversational and casual. “I 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 I’m the one with the secret hidden identity.”
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, it’s ‘Spy x Derman’.
“You also know where I work,” you say, topping his disgusting drink with cream and another drizzle of sweet sticky syrup. “And my name. But honestly, it’s your fault for being so naive and open.”
“I’m trying to say I want to know more about you.”
“And I’m trying to tastefully deflect the conversation elsewhere.”
He chuckles. “What harm is there if you tell me something? It doesn’t have to be anything crazy. This isn’t a first date.”
“Hey, that’s my line.” 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.
“Fine, I’ll bite. What do you want to know?
He shrugs, looking around the place. “Surprise me. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
“Well, first of all, I’m a normal person. Which means my coffee order isn’t diabetes in a cup.
“Tell me your order, then.”
You’re surprised to see him so interested in something so mundane and useless. “I guess I usually get a vanilla soy latte. Oh, but if they have matcha or something, I’d get that instead.”
He hums. “Personally, I usually get an iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup with a caramel rim.”
You laugh, wiping up the counter after yourself as you’ve been trained to do. “I never asked, and yes, Spiderman, I know. Trust me, it hurts my pure barista hands to make your drink every time.”
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, he’ll 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.“So, any plans this week?” 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. “Not really? I guess I have an assessment due next week so I’ll be grinding for that.” You pause, assuming the silence that follows after is because he’s waiting for more. “You?”
“The usual. Saving cats from trees, escorting senior citizens across pedestrian crossing, the typical.”
“Does that actually happen? Cats getting stuck in trees?”
He shrugs. “Not really. If anything, it’s usually street poles they find themselves in. Anyway, so you’re otherwise free this week? Say, super random day that means absolutely nothing—Tuesday?”
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. “I mean, I guess I am, for the most part. Why?”
He straightens a little, looking over at the dessert display. “No reason.”
You narrow your eyes at him, a little wary. “Are you sure? I feel like you wouldn’t ask that question unless there was something going on.”
“No, I’m just wondering what the average citizen’s schedule looks like.”
“Oh, really?” You clean off the steamer with an unimpressed look. “Verdict?”
“Boring!” He stretches out the word, loud in the acoustics of the near empty cafe. “Do you even know how to have fun?”
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.
“It’s not my fault the exam period is coming up,” you say, trying to subtly memorise the bottom of his face without seeming weird. “And I definitely do know how to have fun.
“Right, sure you do. What do you do for fun, then?”
You bite the inside of your cheeks. “You first.”
“Need time to think?”
“This is so unfair, you can literally fly! Obviously what I do for fun isn’t going to be as fun as leaping through the air and shooting webs from your wrists!”
“Not with that attitude you won’t. But come on, humour me a little. Tell me what you usually do in your free time.”
“Are we on a bad first date right now? What’s happening?”
“Deflect all you want but I’m immune to it by now. Come on, just tell me,” he coaxes you with a grin, straw between his teeth. “Do you, again super random and means nothing at all, go to anime related events?”
You narrow your eyes at him slightly. “I guess I do.”
“Okay.” He looks around as if inspecting the interior design. “Have you heard about that thing that’s happening at the main city library?”
You, in fact, have. “Sure. I saw the post on their Insta.”
“Was that something you wanted to check out?”
“With… you?”
Spiderman laughs like you’ve said something particularly funny. “You’re joking right? Obviously not with me. Spiderman doesn’t do outings, sweets.”
“Forgive me for assuming that when you literally asked me when I would be free mere minutes ago.”
“I told you, I’m just curious about what normal people get up to.”
You eye him, noting how relaxed he now seems and how there’s a silence that drags out after his last words. “Were there any more questions you wanted to ask, or just the one about when I’m free and if I wanted to check out the shounen showcase at the library?”
“No, that was it.”
You nod, slowly. “Right.”
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 you’re 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 hasn’t 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 he’s not looking at you.
A man stumbles in, unsteady on his feet, eyes darting around like there’s someone watching him from the corners. At first, you assume he’s simply clumsy or perhaps nursing a killer hangover so you steel yourself for a tricky conversation.
“Good morning, what can I get started for you today?” you start, looking him up and down subtly to see if he’s 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 he’s saying something, though no sound leaves his dry lips.
You try again. “Sir?”
“Coffee,” he rasps.
You force another polite smile because of course you want a coffee from a cafe, don’t waste my time, and reach for a cup. “Of course. Would that be a cappuccino or latte or something else?”
Instead of answering you, his head jerks to the side as if hearing a conversation you can’t. In doing so, his eyes meet Spiderman’s and they widen almost comically, his body jerking away.
Spiderman stiffens, shoulders tensing as he shoots the customer an incredulous look. “Woah, chill. It’s just me.”
The man staggers back another step, chest heaving, breath rattling like something is crawling up his throat.
You frown. “Sir, you’re looking a little pale. Maybe you should sit down and—”
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 wasn’t talking to himself, but to something else.
The man’s head jerks to the side again, harder this time. “Won’t stop… won’t stop talking…”
You swallow. “I mean, it’s kind of my job to ask you.”
His answer comes out distorted, two voices overlapping. “We said leave him alone!”
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.
“Um, Spiderman?” you whisper, hands clutching the side of the counter as you back away from the man. “Want to do your job or…?”
Before you can even process what’s 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 it’s 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.
“Hey!” 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. “Let me down!”
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. “What the—I’m keeping you safe. Stop wiggling!”
You can hear it then, the sound the man’s 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 man’s shoulder.
It doesn’t hold.
The black substance simply absorbs it, melting it away like cotton candy in a river.
“Okay,” Spiderman mutters, kicking the table into the man too and watching as he easily smacks it away. “That’s new.”
The creature lets out a distorted laugh. “Spiderman,” it sneers.
“That’s me. Have we met before?”
Spiderman doesn’t wait for an answer, slinging a web at the man’s 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. “You’re wrecking my cafe!”
“Seriously? That’s what you’re focusing on right now?” Spiderman shoots back, ducking. “File an insurance claim or something!”
He swings a chair into the side of the figure and you watch mournfully.
“My chairs…”
“Again, there might be bigger things to worry about!”
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.
“Spiderman!”
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.
“Is this another tactic of yours? I think you fight better on both feet!”
Spiderman spits blood through the cuts of his mask.
“Yeah,” he wheezes, “That’s the plan.”
The fist hands there for one awful second, huge and glistening and very much about to redecorate the floor with Spiderman’s 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.
“Spiderman!” 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. “Can this wait? I’m in the middle of something.”
“The espresso machine!”
“What about it? Do you want a latte before I die?”
“The steam, you idiot!”
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.
“Okay,” he starts. “And how do I use this exactly?”
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.
“The knob! Turn the silver knob on the side!”
Spiderman slaps the wrong thing and a burst of frothy milk sprays across the counter and onto the floor. “Is that it?”
“The other one!”
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 thing’s chest and face.
The black mass recoils with a horrible, scraping cry that makes you wince, and begins to peel back from the man’s 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.
Spiderman cranks the wand harder, and the machine gives one final screech before coughing out another blast of steam. The goo convulses, writhing up the man’s neck and shoulders almost as if hesitating. The man underneath drops to his knees gasping, his face finally visible beneath the slick black sheen.
Spiderman doesn’t hesitate and fires a web at the industrial kettle behind the counter, yanking it straight off the shelf and hurls it at the goo.
The kettle smashes into only the creature and bursts with boiling water, prompting the symbiote to let out another inhuman sound before tearing free and sliding away.
For a few seconds, all you hear is your own pulse in your ears.
Spiderman staggers to his feet, a faux-casualness to his posture that is betrayed entirely by the way his eyes never leave the man.
“Okay,” he pants. “Crisis averted.”
You glare down at him from your cocoon, still swaying gently. “Did you have to take out half the café to do so?”
“It was a necessary evil.” When the man doesn’t move, Spiderman finally relaxes and places his hands on his hips, letting out a slow exhale. “Jesus, that really sucked. The worst part is, even after all of that, the real enemy still managed to escape. But no casualties, no broken bones this time, and I saved a citizen. I’d call that a job well done.”
He grins up at you.
You pull your lips into a smile. “Great. I’m so happy for you. Can you please get me down now?”
Spiderman tilts his head thoughtfully. “True. This isn’t your best angle.”
“Spiderman.”
“Alright, alright.”
He fires a quick web and you drop. Before you can scream, he catches you in his arms and starts cutting through the web with a small knife.
“You okay?” he asks softly, his mouth ghosting the shell of your ear.
You nod, your heartbeat still racing from it all.
When he pulls away, the webs falling off you like they had never clung to you at all, the two of you survey the café. Distantly, you hear the cry of multiple sirens.
“What is that thing, seriously?” you whisper. If you had a penny for every time you had come face to face with an ooey, gooey monster, you’d have two pennies—which wasn’t a lot, but it was strange that this had happened twice. You turn to Spiderman for answers, but he looks just as blank.
“I think it’s something like a symbiote. Takes over a human host and all that, like a parasite.” Catching your frightened look, Spiderman straightens. “Hey, don’t look so glum. You handled that better than most.”
“I’d rather never be in the position to find that out in the first place.”
He reaches over and ruffles your hair playfully, ignoring both the involuntary wince that escapes him as he raises his arm and your feeble protests. “You did great. The steam idea saved us.”
“The steam… the espresso machine!” You hastily pull away to look around the café again, this time properly taking in the damage. “You broke everything!”
“I saved your life?” he offers, edging away subtly.
“My manager is going to have my head!” As if on cue, you feel a vibration against your thigh. Reaching down into your pocket for your phone, you read through the notifications with a growing sense of dread.
manager: ?? what’s going on
why am i seeing a news reporter outside my cafe
why am i seeing it on the news right now
why is the door off its hinges
is that a hole in my window?
y/n pick up
You wince. “Spiderman, mind explaining to my manager what happened—Spiderman?”
When you turn around, you’re met with nothing, just the sight of tables and chairs on their side and the glass of the window shattered. The sirens get closer and something like deja vu creeps in.
“You fucking jerk!”
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 i’ll try!
meet u at our usual table ><
You climb the stairs up to the library, chuckling softly at the memory of Gojo’s 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.
“You didn’t stand me up.”
You chuckle drily, pulling out your seat beside him and sitting down. “What is this, some bad first date?”
Gojo grins like you’ve said something particularly funny. “Is that your go-to line or something?”
“What?”
“Oh, uh. Nothing.” He looks away, swiping his finger across the trackpad.
When he doesn’t say anything else, you take it as your cue to take out your things, still eyeing him. “Didn’t bring your mouse today?”
“You remembered?”
You make a face at his sudden hopeful expression. “You’re being weird.”
He slumps back into his chair. “Yeah, I gave myself the ick. I’m just nervous.”
“About?”
He hums, looking away at the rest of the library. “Stuff.”
You let that sit for a moment, then try to steer things back toward the reason you’re 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 hasn’t 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. “Something else you’d rather be doing?”
He stills at once, like he’s been caught. “Maybe,” he admits after a second. “Kind of.”
You narrow your eyes. “Kind of?”
Gojo huffs out a breath and glances at you, then away again. “Okay, don’t laugh, but there’s this shounen manga pop-up showcase at the central library right now. And I thought—since we’ve talked about Digimon and all that stuff—maybe you’d want to go check it out with me.”
You blink. “Go together?”
He scratches the back of his head, suddenly finding the edge of his laptop intensely interesting. “I mean, yeah. Not like a date or anything. Just as friends. Or whatever. We’ve both been staring at the same five pages for the last twenty minutes, so I thought maybe we could take a break before coming back. I heard they’ve got themed pastries at the ground floor café too, and I’m pretty sure there’s a huge stand of that one character you like.”
You can’t help but laugh softly. “Friends, huh? Alright, sure. Sounds like fun.”
The relief that flashes across his face is immediate and almost embarrassingly obvious. He leans back in his chair, grinning so widely it’s hard not to laugh again. “Really? Alright, cool. Cool. Friends. Totally casual.”
He slams his lid close and starts shoving it into his case. You blink before mirroring his gesture with your own belongings.
“Oh, you meant right now?”
He looks up, already halfway done packing.“Is there any better time than the present?”
There probably is, considering you had both technically come here to study, but the fond exasperation that thought should bring never fully arrives. Instead, you find yourself closing your laptop too, slipping your charger back into your bag as he waits with barely restrained excitement.
If you told the version of yourself from a few months ago that you’d willingly abandon studying to follow Gojo somewhere, you would’ve laughed in your own face. But the walk turns out to be fun. More than fun, actually. He talks the whole way, hands moving animatedly as he jumps between topics and drags you along with him, and by the time the central library comes into view, you’re almost disappointed the walk was so short.
Gojo’s eyes are bright as the automatic doors slide open. He looks almost boyish like this, all open excitement and easy chatter, and you’re still watching him when that expression falters.
You follow his gaze around the corner and toward the signs for the display, your own smile quickly dropping.
It’s underwhelming, to put it lightly. A small corner of the library has been cordoned off, just a few tables with stacked manga, a sparse display of badges pinned to a board against the wall, and a few posters of famous shounen series plastered against the nearby walls.
Gojo slows, his shoulders slumping as the excitement drains from him. “Oh. Uh.” He takes in the scene though, it doesn’t take long due to the size of the exhibit. “It’s… smaller than I thought.”
“That’s what she said.” You glance at him, trying to mask your own surprise at the tiny setup. “Hey, it’s okay. Maybe there’s more elsewhere!”
He follows you like a lost puppy as you explore the nearby areas, though it quickly becomes clear there’s nothing more than the original display. Even the café at the entrance is lacking. It only has one themed dessert, and it’s a poorly designed cake pop of Happy from Fairy Tail, his tiny round chocolate eyes seemingly staring off to the side where a normal chocolate chip cookie sits. Gojo winces at the cake pop and you offer to buy it for him. He shakes his head, hesitant to separate it from the cookie since it seems like it wants it so badly.
When your feet circle back to the pathetic tables, even you struggle to stay upbeat.
He shakes his head, a small, defeated grin forming. “Man, that sucks. I guess I just imagined it being a little more… epic. You know, life-sized statues, endless merch, chaos everywhere, not”—he gestures to the badges—“badges.”
“Badges can be cool,” you try, tracing the edge of one.
“There are only badges of all the mainstream anime,” he mumbles, coming up to stand beside you. Due to the tiny display, you’re shoulder to shoulder, your arm brushing his. “God, 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.”
You frown at his dejected tone, and when you look over, he’s 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 didn’t 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 can’t help but smile at the clueless look in his eyes.
“Ask me a yes-or-no question,” you say. “To try and guess what character’s badge I just pinned on you. C’mon, I bet you won’t get it.”
For a moment, you think your forced enthusiasm has put him off and that he won’t play along. But then he suddenly scoffs, his lips tugging up. “Are they a girl?”
“No.” It’s contagious and you find yourself smiling back.
He purses his lips, and you recognise the signature glint in his eyes when he’s concentrating. He hums, thinking a little more seriously. “Is the series he’s from released before 2020?”
“Yes.”
“Is he part of a trio?”
“Seriously? We’re talking about shounen right now. Almost every shounen series has a trio.” You giggle. “But no, he isn’t.”
He rolls his eyes. “Is the character the main character of the series?”
“No, but I’d say a lot more people like this character over the actual main character.”
“Is he from a sports anime?”
“No.”
“Could he be in a sports anime?”
That catches you off guard and you scrunch your face up in thought. “I honestly can’t imagine him doing any sport. He might be a perma-benched player that’s only there for strategy.”
“Is he, like, a mentor character?”
You pout a little at how on-the-nose his question is. “Yes.”
“Does he have powers?”
“Yes.”
He clicks his fingers. “Ah. Does he have a signature weapon?”
“Well, he uses a gun often, but his powers aren’t related to his weapon of choice.”
“So his powers aren’t offensive?”
“Exactly.”
He hums, a smile growing on his face. “Is the manga based in the modern era?”
“Yes.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, but there was a moment when everyone was freaking out because it almost seemed like he was dead.”
“Brown hair?”
“Yes.”
Gojo clicks his fingers in realisation. “Okay, I’ve got it. Is it Dazai?” 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.
“Close your eyes. It’s your turn.”
You do so. “I bet I can guess it with fewer questions than you.”
He snorts. “You’re on.”
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.
“Let me buy that for you,” he says with a lingering smile.
You raise an eyebrow but let him take it off your hands. “Who said I even want this?”
“Come on, it’ll be like we’re matching.”
“They’re not even from the same series.”
“Not to anyone else,” he muses, thumb stroking the front of the badge like it’s something precious. “But we'll know they’re connected and that’s good enough to call them matching.”
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. “Let’s go see what else they’ve got. Sure, we came for the pop-up, but we’re still in a library.”
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.
“Have you read this?”
“Not yet,” 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 he’s 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.
“And I swear the author gave up halfway through the series. The manga finished in 2023, by the way, but I think by the end he’d 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 it’s not even good foreshadowing because, come on, the final fight was so cheap. Like when—” He stops himself abruptly. “Oh, wait. You can’t know that yet.”
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, it’s impossible to be annoyed or bored when he’s 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.
It’s 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 he’s 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. “Uh, you still with me?”
You blink a few more times, then shake your head slightly as if to clear the haze. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”
Gojo tilts his head, clearly amused. “Really? Because you look a little dazed.”
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. “Yeah, of course I was listening. Something about deus ex machina, right?”
He snorts softly. “I finished talking about the ending minutes ago. You don’t have to pretend if you weren’t paying attention.”
You roll your eyes, hoping your embarrassment isn’t as obvious as it feels. “Fine. Maybe I got a little distracted.”
His grin widens at that, though it softens around the edges as he steps a little closer. “Distracted, huh? By what?”
You hesitate, heart doing something strange at the way he’s looking at you. “Nothing.”
“Really?”
“Really,” you shoot back.
“Alright then,” he concedes, though the glint in his eyes never fades. “I guess I’ll just have to step up my explanations next time so you don’t get distracted again.”
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. “Your turn.”
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 it’s a masterpiece. When it’s 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 you’ve handed him the world.
Eventually, the two of you leave the library with less merch than you’d expected walking in, but with two badges that mean more than you’d ever dare admit. He doesn’t 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.
“C’mon.”
“Where?”
“Cafe run. My treat.”
You raise a brow. “Since when do you buy me coffee?”
“Since you saved this disaster of a day,” he says matter-of-factly, already steering you toward the street with a hand at your shoulder. “Besides, it’d be cruel not to feed you after I made you listen to my manga rants for hours.”
You snort, but you don’t 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 doesn’t leave you disgusted.
You’re still mulling over the drink options when Gojo steps up to the counter to order.
“Can I get an iced matcha latte—” He cuts himself off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just an iced matcha latte, thanks. Oh, and a vanilla soy latte.”
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.
“Are you drinking two drinks?”
“Stupid.” He pokes your forehead in a way that, annoyingly, you can’t bring yourself to hate. “One of them is for you.”
“The… vanilla latte?”
“Yeah.”You dip your head, trying to catch his eye. “Why aren’t you looking at me all of a sudden?”
He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the blank wall behind the counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You study him for a second before letting out a small laugh. “Well, you got lucky. That’s kind of my go-to order. How did you know?”
“I guess you just look like you’d want something like that.”
You stare at him. “Oh yeah? I just have the look of someone who likes vanilla lattes?”
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.
When he comes back, he hands you the vanilla latte. You take it with a small thanks, then pause as something occurs to you.
“Oh. Send me your bank details. I’ll transfer you for the merch and the coffee,” you say, already reaching for your phone.
When he doesn’t mirror the gesture, you look up.
“It’s fine. I got it.”
“What? No way. I don’t want to owe you anything.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I got it for you because I wanted to.”
Slowly, you take your hand back out of your bag. “You did? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I would’ve thought you’d know me a little better after today,” Gojo says, finally looking at you with a smile. Then he gestures toward the door. “Come on. You’ll miss the bus back to the dorms.”
“You’re being very weird, you know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with the kind of smile that only proves your point. He brushes past you, not unkindly, and takes the lead toward the bus stop.
You stare at his back for a moment before letting out an amused huff and hurrying after him. “So you’re a matcha person, huh? How performative.”
“Please. I liked matcha before it was cool.”
“So you’re claiming to be an OG, then? Quick, name every matcha brand.”
“That would take forever. I can tell you where this one came from, though.” Gojo takes a sip of his drink and hums in exaggerated thought. “This matcha was ground from the soils of Shizuoka Prefecture. I can even give you the row and column of the specific tea leaves used to make this drink.”
You snort. “What is it then?”
“32C, 82G.”
“Are we playing Battleships?”
The two of you share a short laugh at the bit, and the thought hits you strangely hard: you never imagined one day you’d be joking around like this with Gojo of all people.
By the time you reach the station, the two of you stop beneath the shelter.
“What number are you catching?” you ask, pulling out your phone to check the bus times.
“Oh, I’m not catching the bus. I take the train.”
You look up at him, incredulous. “What? Then why are you here?”
He tilts his head, straw slipping from his mouth as he looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “To make sure you get on the bus safe, obviously. It’s fine, I’m already here anyway. I’ll just wait with you until it comes.”
“That’s… actually really nice of you.”
Gojo shrugs. “I guess I just really care about the wellbeing of others.”
“Wow. Your compassion for helping citizens would go crazy on a superhero résumé.”
He laughs, though the sound comes out slightly off somehow, enough that you notice even if you can’t place why. “What? That’s insane. You think I’d make a good superhero? Me? That’s ridiculous. I’m a clutz and a nerd and hardly cut out for the whole saving-the-world thing.”
You think back to the cricket incident and giggle softly. “Don’t count yourself short. I think you’re a lot more capable than you give yourself credit for, Gojo.”
At that, he turns his head quickly and takes a sharp sip of his drink. “Satoru.”
“Hm?” 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.
“Everyone calls me Satoru but you,” he says, still not looking at you. “You might as well just call me Satoru too. It’s weird if you don’t.”
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. “What a cheesy thing to say. Don’t tell me you’re—”
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. “Forget it. I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.” 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. “Sorry for dragging you all the way out here today. Your bus is probably coming soon, so I’ll head off—”
You gape at him. “Wait!”
He freezes and turns back slightly. “Going to tease me? Save it for tomorrow.”
“No,” you say quickly. “I was just surprised you wanted me to call you by your first name. I thought you hated me.”
“Me?” he scoffs, turning around fully now. “You have to be joking.”
“I’m serious,” you insist. “You were awful to me. I mean, you literally went out of your way to embarrass me when we barely knew each other.”
He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “Yeah, I know. I was… bad at that. I never hated you, Y/N. I just didn’t know what to do with you.”
“The moment you start making sense, the world is going to end. I’m sure of it.”
He laughs quietly, then looks at you again. “I’m 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 I’d started noticing you. So yeah, maybe I did start tugging on your pigtails just to get your attention. You were just so—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind.”
“Hold on,” you say, stepping closer. “You can’t do that. Finish it.”
“Sorry. Free trial’s over. If you want me to keep going, that’ll be 200 diamonds—”
“Satoru.”
He closes his mouth immediately, eyes widening a fraction before he sighs. “Damn. I should’ve never asked you to say that.”
You tilt your head, catching his gaze. “Please?”
Something strained flashes across his face, like the word is lodged somewhere painful in his chest. “You were just so…” He exhales through his nose, defeated. “So bright that it was annoying. I couldn’t ignore you, even if I tried. Every time you laughed, my head would already be turning, and I hated it because you weren’t smiling at me.”
You laugh awkwardly. “We weren’t exactly friends.”
“No,” he says softly. “That was the issue. But even then, I wouldn’t have been satisfied.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The confession settles between you, large and impossible to ignore. You’ve given up trying to look at him because there’s a strange tightness in your chest making it hard to breathe, and Satoru looks like he’s doing everything in his power not to bolt.
“Does that bother you?” he asks.
Unable to speak, you shake your head.
“Okay.” He exhales slowly. “Then can I try something?”
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 don’t take it. Mostly because your feet feel rooted to the pavement beneath you.
“Satoru,” you whisper, and he seems to find whatever answer he was searching for in your eyes.
He leans in slowly, like he’s 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 mouths—
Then a sharp buzz cuts through the quiet.
It doesn’t 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.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.
“Everything okay?” 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.
“Yeah,” he says, forcing a crooked smile. “I, uh, have to go. Family emergency. Again.”
You smile back. “I hope everyone’s okay.”
“Right. Yeah.”
“You should probably go.”
“Right.”
He lingers for another beat, phone held uselessly in his hand, before clearing his throat and stepping back. “I’ll call you tonight?”
“Yeah. Tonight.”
“Cool,” he says. “Cool, cool, cool, cool. Get home safe, yeah?”
“Yeah.” You keep smiling even as he starts to walk away. “Thanks for today.”
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.
Spiderman’s 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. There’s a gash above his eyebrow that’s 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. “Spiderman down on his knees. What a sight.”
Gojo smirks under his mask even as his knees ache and cold air brushes the exposed skin around his mouth.
“I hate to break it to you but I’m not into oversized ink blots,” he spits. “And don’t get so cocky too soon. Haven’t you played Darkest Dungeon? Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.”
“There’s always a response rearing to go from that tongue of yours, isn’t there?” Venom hisses. “Always so self-assured, always so prepared. I wonder how long that peace you know will last.”
“If I wanted my fortune read I would have gone to a tarot card reader.”
Venom laughs and the sound is suddenly so achingly familiar that Gojo freezes, something primal overturning into his stomach telling him to run. But there’s nowhere to run, not when his wrists are tied behind his back, not when he’s 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 Venom’s face, appendages retracting with a wet slurp, revealing—
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 couldn’t 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 he’s 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.
“What the—Y/N? What are you—” He cuts himself off when you laugh, soft and familiar, a sound far too beautiful for a grungy place like this.
“What’s wrong, Spidey?” you purr, voice lilting with mock innocence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe—”
He’s almost certain he stops breathing altogether as you roughly tilt his chin up with one long tendril, staring at your face because there’s nothing else to do.
“You see something you like?”
He splutters. “This is bullshit. You’re not Venom, you can’t be. This has to be some kind of symbiote mind-fuck trick.”
“What’s wrong? You’ve lost your composure all of a sudden.”
Gojo growls, a feral sound dragging up his throat. “Don’t fucking look into my mind. Stop looking like her!”
You coo, lips pretty and downturned. “Stop? How can I? Spiderman, I am her.”
Your words make him shudder and you press on.
“Ah, so it’s about that, is it? Poor, little Spiderman, torn in so many little directions. You can’t decide whether to be Satoru or this silly attempt at being a superhero.”
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.
“No snarky response this time?”
“You can’t be her.”
“Why not? I could be anyone.” You lift a foot and press it against his thigh, pushing it outwards casually. “Why don’t we be truthful for once, hm? And stop hiding behind all these secrets? It’s not that I can’t be her, it’s that you don’t want me to be. You’ve always vented to Suguru about how nice it would be to have it both but this is the one thing you don’t want to share with Spiderman. Me. And yet, you go against yourself and seek me out as both. Why?”
Gojo grits his teeth. “I don’t have to explain anything to you. You know nothing about me.”
“Oh, but I promise you I don’t miss much.” Your foot trails higher, nudging now against his inner thigh and despite the situation, he flinches, that unfamiliar feeling spilling into something scarily recognisable.
“Hold on—”
“Looks like you’re still not being completely truthful, Satoru,” you purr and he hisses.
Your foot presses against the bulge straining his suit, the pressure firm and deliberate. Gojo’s hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp exhale escaping him as you drag your sole along his length.
“Get off me,” 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.
“Make me,” you taunt, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
You don’t 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.
“This…” His eyes flutter as you press down particularly hard, forcing a smirk even as his breaths come out ragged. “This is your master plan? You’re more of a—ngh—pervert than I thought.”
You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Master plan? Do I need a reason to do any of this? Maybe I’ve finally decided to do something about all that eye-fucking you’ve been giving me in class. Thought I wouldn’t notice?”
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. “You’re… not her. Can’t be. She'd never—” His words cut off as you twist your ankle, dragging the boot’s toe along his balls through the tight fabric, making them tighten and draw up.
“Never what? Touch you like this? Make you beg with just a foot?” You lean in closer, whispering in his ear so soft he almost can’t hear over his pounding heartbeat. “Admit it, web-head. You've jerked off thinking about me pinning you down, haven’t you? All those stolen glances in the hallway, pretending you didn’t pop a boner every time I called you out.”
Gojo’s breath hitches, his cock leaking pre-cum that soaks through the suit, darkening the material. He shakes his head but it’s weak, his hips rolling up to chase the friction despite himself.
“Shut up. Just—hah—fuck off.” 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. “Such a pretty liar. Look at you, kneeling there, dick pathetically hard. Bet you’ve never even been touched like this before, huh? Who knew Spiderman was all talk and no action.”
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. “N-not… your business.”
But his body’s 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, you’re losing. I could…fuck, I could break out anytime.”
You grin, a tendril slashing his suit to free his cock. it springs free, hard and leaking, tip flushed and begging to be touched. Gojo’s 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.
“Admit it feels good. Or are you going to keep pretending you’re not leaking over my boot right now?"
He bites his lip hard. “Feels like…feels like nothing. Barely notice it.”
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 you’re saying anymore, not when you’re twisting your ankle like so, rubbing his sensitive tip and he can’t hold back a throaty moan, his body arching into it.
“Nothing? Your dick’s twitching like it’s got a mind of its own.”
“I could break these cuffs anytime,” he mumbles again as if convincing himself as if his hips aren’t thrusting up greedily, fucking into the rhythm.
“Break them then. Or don’t. We both know you won’t.”
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.
“Oh, fuck—” Gojo rasps, voice a wrecked mess of gasps and moans.
“Too much? Gonna cum for me?”
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.
“Come on, pretty boy. You're so close,” you coo.
“No… shit, I—fuck!” 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.
“Come on, Satoru,” you purr. “Show me how much you hate this, how much you need it.”
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.
“Fuck, yes—oh God, Y/N!”
His hips jerk helplessly as you keep stroking him through it, dragging every last shudder from his body until he’s wrung completely dry. He’s 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 don’t let him hide from it, your hand only slowing once he’s been pushed so far past pleasure it borders on cruelty.
“Not bad for a virgin,” you murmur, voice sweet in that way that makes humiliation burn twice as hot. “Bet you’ve 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?”
Gojo’s face burns crimson, shame and bliss tangling together until he can’t tell one from the other. “Shut up,” he breathes, though it comes out broken and weak. “That didn’t mean anything.”
“Really?” you ask, and the smile you give him is devastating. “Then 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, you’re licking your lips slowly, deliberately, and his mouth goes dry enough to hurt
“Want me to show you what you’ve been missing?” you ask. “Or are you still going to pretend?”
Gojo isn’t a weak man, he really isn’t. 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, please—
And then his eyes snap open. The darkness of his room hits him like cold water.
For a second he can’t 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.
He’s alone.
Flat on his back in a bed that’s 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.
Gojo is unfair.
He knows he’s unfair. It’s 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 isn’t on his list of worries. It’s 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 he’s unfair.
A crash in the street, someone yelling for help, and he’s already pulling on the blue-and-white mask and swinging out the window, because apparently good looks and a big brain weren’t 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, he’ll still pass top of his class like always—
“97%?”
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 it’s someone you don’t recognise.
Gojo narrows his eyes. “How did someone like you get a 97?”
His words come out too harsh to be surprise and lacking any warmth to come off as a congratulations. Because you don’t look like the kind of person who’d 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 you’d 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.
“What the fuck does that mean?” you hiss back. “Do you mind? Don’t look over my shoulder like a creep.”
He smirks warily but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a 97. That’s something to gloat about. Didn’t think it would come from someone like you though.”
“So you’ve been saying. What does that even mean? I don’t look like the type of person to get a 97?”
“Yeah,” 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. “Do I even know you?”
“It would be hard to miss me,” he shoots back. “I’m the one that's been topping these quizzes since the semester started.”
“Fell off, did you?”
“Please, this was a fluke, princess.”
You practically hum with irritation at the nickname. “And what did you get?”
He puts up a firewall immediately. “That's nunya.”
“What?”
“None of your business.” He grins.
You grimace at his evidently childish nature. “I don't think you can say that after shoving your ugly face into my business.”
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, “Hah!” 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 doesn’t even know your name. All he knows is that ever since the finals season began, you’ve 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 you’re learning by tracing words and formulas in the air. He doesn’t stay for long but the next day you’re 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.
You’re 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 humour—a good one too, God forbid—he only seemed to hate you more.
Because he is unfair, yes, he knows that. But there’s something restless in his chest and you’re unfair in a similar way, but finding a fault in you would be an impossible task.
And that doesn’t 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. He’ll duck his head when people talk to him, do their part in the assessment because it’ll be as easy as opening his laptop and writing the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t care what anyone says about him, doesn’t care that they think he’s 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 don’t 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 it’s to scold him or praise him he doesn’t care, just wants to be close again.
“Satoru?”
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.
“Hey,” he says, breathlessly. “Oh, uh, want to sit? I mean—what are you doing here? I thought you were going for lunch with… Shoko.”
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.
“I’ve 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.” 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.
“Stalking me?” he teases softly, eyes searching your face.
You bump your shoulder against his. “As if. This is a chance meeting.”
He chuckles, unable to take his eyes off you. “So you're free for the rest of the day, then?”
“Should be.”
“Okay.”
You look up at him and he whips his gaze forward.
“Are you?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you free right now, Satoru?”
“Uh—yeah! Yes, I am. Free, that is. I’m free right now.” He clears his throat when his voice comes out a little gravelly, ears burning as his own words come back to him. “Sorry, I’m just…”
Thankfully, you laugh, eyes curving into cute little crescents and he thinks that even though you’re always pretty, this might be the best look on you.
“Just what?” you ask, tilting your head. There's something unbearably fond in your expression, so unlike the start of the semester when you’d barely give him the time of day.
“Nothing,” he lies instantly.
Your brows lift and he caves under the weight of that look almost at once.
“Not nothing. I mean—” He drags a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m just being weird today.”
“Please, you’re always weird.”
He turns to you, scandalised. “You always say such nice things.”
You smile. “You know what I mean.”
He does, and that’s 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. He’d call himself weird if he was in your position, perhaps crueler words, but you don’t say them even if he’s deserving. It makes his chest feel too full, like there’s 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. “You okay? You’re fidgeting.”
He looks too. His fingers are indeed twisting the headphone wire around and around, enough that it’ll probably knot if he keeps going. He stills them immediately.
“Am not.”
You give him a look. “Nervous?”
He lets out a laugh at that, because it’s either that or admit the truth and simply die on the spot. “What would I be nervous for?”
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.
“I don’t know,” you murmur. “You tell me.”
Gojo stares at you.
There are moments in life, he thinks, that split everything into before and after. Like how there’s 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. “Actually, I've been trying to.”
Your expression changes, playfulness softening. “Trying to tell me something?”
“Yeah.” His voice comes out rougher than he means for it to. “Yeah, I—”
He stops. should he really start this off with ‘yeah’?
"I’ve kind of been meaning to say—no, that sounds equally as stupid.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Not stupid, just—I had this whole thing in my head, and it sounded way better in there, so now I’m trying to find it again and it’s just—”
You’re staring at him like he’s hung the moon which makes things infinitely worse. Maybe that’s your default look. You do always look so pretty.
You open your mouth to say something but he beats you to it.
“No, wait, I can do this.” 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, it’s just every time I look at you, I forget how words work. Which is honestly humiliating and I probably shouldn’t have said that, so if you could stop being—stop looking at me like…”
“Like?”
You have to be messing with him at this point.
“Just—can I say something mean?”
You huff, pulling back a little. “What the fuck?”
“I just—I feel like I could fight with you for hours over stupid lab questions, and I always know exactly what to say then, but now—” He shakes his head, cheeks hot. “Now I can’t even get through one sentence. So maybe if I just say something mean like I always do, I'll—”
You place a hand on his arm. “Don't ruin this. I’m not rushing you. You can take your time.”
His body stiffens under your touch, fingers tightening around the wire in his lap. He loosens them forcefully only to tighten them again.
“I think,” he starts, then winces. “No, I know that when I’m with you, everything just feels different. Like, way better. I like being around you, I like hearing you talk even when you’re telling me I’m 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 that’s—something I probably deserve.” His mouth twitches despite himself. "I like walking you home. and I like when you ask me things you could’ve easily googled just because you know I'll know the answer.”
There’s a small smile on your face as you lean in again, hanging off his every word.
“And I—” he stumbles over the word, heart pounding in his chest. "I th-think, maybe, what I’m trying to say is that I—”
He cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Jesus Christ."
A laugh slips out of you and he blushes.
“Don't laugh,” he says, mortified.
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You're definitely laughing at me.”
“Okay, but only a little.” You smile wide. “But didn’t you say you like that about me?”
He groans, covering his face with his hands. “That wasn’t originally in the script.”
“Satoru.”
There’s something in the way you say his name that makes him look up again at once. You’re close now, pretty face taking up his field of vision, and he hadn’t even realised you’d moved closer. Or maybe he’s 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 doesn’t say it now he never will.
"I want to kiss you,” he blurts, the words tumbling out, crooked and breathless. "I really, really want to kiss you, and i’ve been trying not to notice for a while now because I wasn’t sure if I can and I wasn’t sure if you—if you maybe—and I know this is probably not the smoothest way to say this but I just—”
Wait a minute, did he end up saying ‘I like you’ or did he just out that he’s been staring at your lips for the past five minutes now?
It doesn’t 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 he’s 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.
“Sure,” you say. “You can kiss me.”
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.
“You kissed me,” he says at last, intelligent as always.
"I did.”
“On purpose?”
You laugh, and he thinks he might pass out. Oh yeah, he really does like it when you laugh at him. “No Satoru, by accident.”
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.
“Oh,” he says.
Your brows pinch together in a fond little crease. “Oh?”
“Sorry, I’m still stuck on the part where you kissed me.”
“Do you need me to do it again?” you offer, smiling. “Though first, I think there’s something you still need to tell me. Want to give it another try?”
Before he can answer, before he can even begin to think of an answer that wouldn’t 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 there’s only one thing he can think of as his stomach drops.
No.
Not now.
You glance down toward the noise. “You should probably get that. It sounds urgent.”
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.
You’re watching him now, the softness in your expression touched through with concern. “Everything okay, Satoru?”
He forces a laugh that sounds thin even to his own ears. “Everything's fine, I just…” his mind scrambles wildly for something plausible, something ordinary, something that won’t make you look at him any closer than you already are and find the gaps in his lies. "It’s Suguru. He needs me.”
That at least is believable. Suguru has needed him for stupider reasons.
“Right now?”
Guilt crashes through him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. Because your lips are still pink from kissing him, because he hasn’t even had a chance to kiss you back properly, because this is the moment he’s wanted for so long and now it’s slipping through his fingers before he can hold onto it.
But people will get hurt if he doesn’t go.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” Your hand finds him again. “It’s okay.”
It is absolutely not okay. Still, he nods.
“I just—” He swallows. “Can I…can we…”
You smile, though he wonders if it’s truly genuine. “Yes, idiot. We can talk later. Only if you promise to call me tonight.”
“I will,” he’s quick to say. “I promise.”
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.
“Smooth,” you quip.
“Be nice to me,” 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 he’s spent far too much time pretending not to memorise. Now that he’s up, now that he’s about to leave, it feels close to impossible, almost absurd like every part of him is pulled to you.
“Go,” you say softly. “Before Suguru gets himself in a mess.”
He huffs out a breath. Then, because he’s greedy and because you’ve 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.
“I’ll definitely call you tonight. Please wait for me.”
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 don’t 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 doesn’t mind being swept away at all.
Like a girl experiencing the lows of a situationship, your phone remains mercilessly silent the entire night. It’s 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.
That’s 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 he’d 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 he’s 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 you’re running on an accumulated two hours of sleep and you’re 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 he’s 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 didn’t show up.
You bite your lip, hard.
He didn’t show up.
You glance down at your phone and swipe. No new notifications.
He didn’t 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 you’re 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, you’re 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 you’re pulled into the narrow strip of wall between two noticeboards and a vending machine.
“Wait!”
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 there’s a stiffness to his movements. not that you care, not after this.
“Am I—”
“You’re late,” you blurt, all venom and wounded pride. “Actually, you’re absent because late implies you cared to show at all.”
His expression crumbles. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he swallows, voice rough. “I know.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
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 hasn’t just ripped out your heart and stomped all over it.
“Something came up,” he says. “I couldn’t help it.”
You laugh, ugly and tired. “That’s crazy because something came up for me too. Does the presentation ring any bells?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m serious, something did come up otherwise I would have been here. Look, I know how this looks but my phone broke.”
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.
“I know how it sounds, trust me, I wouldn’t believe you either If I were you—”
“You’re right, I don’t believe you.”
“That's not fair,” 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. “You dropped your phone? What else did you drop, your common sense? Your sense of responsibility?”
“Come on, that’s not fair. You’re not even letting me apologise.”
“You don’t have a choice,” you snap back. You take a deep breath to reset your thoughts, exhaling out any emotion leaving your voice empty. “Look, 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.
“Y/N—”
“Maybe it was my mistake for ever thinking that. So I’m sorry I’m so gullible.” Once you start, you find the words rushing out without much thought. Briefly, a small voice wonders if you’re really going to crash out like this in the middle of the busy science building, but oh well. There’s a twisted kind of satisfaction when you watch his face crumble. “I almost believed you really cared about whatever the fuck was happening between us, friendship or—whatever the hell it was. If this was revenge for everything that’s happened before, then you’re a real piece of shit, Satoru.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“And I’m supposed to do what with that exactly?”
“Believe me.”
You scoff. “Why should I?”
His eyes widen a fraction and you press on.
“Seriously, 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, you’re gone again. So why should I believe you now?”
“Because I’m here now,” he says, sharper than before.
You laugh. “Now. You’re here now.”
“I came as fast as I could.”
“And I was supposed to know that how?”
His nostrils flare. “What do you want me to say?”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” you demand. “Because 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 don’t care about anything that was happening between us so, whatever. I don’t care either.”
“That's not true.” 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. “I do care.”
“But not enough to show up to the day of the presentation?” You make noise of disbelief. “Not showing up doesn’t even have anything to do with us, it’s just common sense if you care about your grades like I know you do!”
“Exactly, so do you really think I wanted to miss out? Obviously I didn’t want to miss out on 20% too!”
You can’t help it, you feel petty and latch onto his words. “Oh, so that’s your biggest concern after all, huh?”
“Don't twist my words, you brought it up first.” He runs his free hand through his hair. “What are we even… look, I didn’t want to make you present by yourself. Something just genuinely came up.”
You find a small part of yourself believing him. “What came up? a family emergency?”
He doesn't say anything. You laugh. Nothing about this is funny. You feel like you’re losing your mind. “Okay. Sure. Something came up. You definitely didn’t do this to piss me off.”
He groans. “Not everything is about you.”
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. “Wait—”
“Okay, great.”
“I didn’t mean to say that.”
“No?” Your laugh comes out thin and shaky. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m not making this about me, Satoru. You made it about me the second you promised something and then disappeared.” Your voice catches, but you force it steady again. “All I did was believe you.”
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 won’t answer.
“What?” you ask, because your voice has to be empty or you will break. “What exactly do you want from me?”
He stares at you like the answer should be obvious.
“Time,” he says at last. “Just give me more time.”
For one beat, two, you can’t even process his words. Then something hot and sharp tears through your chest.
“You cannot be serious. more time?” you repeat disbelief making the words go thin. “You 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 you’ll tell me later again too?”
“Just listen to me for a second.”
“No.” You take a shaky breath and it does nothing to steady you. “No, I am so tired, Satoru. I am tired of feeling stupid around you, I always have. I’m tired of guessing and I’m tired of every conversation with you ending like this, with me standing here waiting for you to stop looking at me like there’s something you’re dying to say but you won’t say it.”
“That's not what this is.”
“Then tell me what it is!”
“I can’t!”
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.
“I can’t,” he repeats. “Not here. Not like this.”
You press your lips together. “Then maybe whatever this is isn’t worth it.”
The words shatter the conversation. You don’t mean them and you know you don’t mean them the second they leave your mouth. But you’re 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 doesn’t recognise you for half a second, the sight making regret flash hot and immediate through your body.
“Satoru—”
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 you’ve 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 he’s lost you even before you shake his hold off, stepping back and looking away.
His hand moves toward his pocket and stops. “Okay, I know this is really bad but please just wait.”“Enough, Satoru. I don’t know why you’re even making this that big of a deal,” you choke out, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll succeed in placing something stronger than your self-restraint between the two of you. “The project is over whether you cared to show up or not.”
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 he’s trying to hold the moment together through sheer force.
“Listen to me—”
“I need to get home,” you say.
He steps forward. “I’ll walk you to the station.”
You actually laugh and when you speak, you hate how tired you sound, how flat. “Why 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: “of course!!!!!!” 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 wouldn’t 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 aren’t paying attention. The silence that settles in the space left behind is slow and heavy and Gojo feels like he’s drowning.
He tells himself it’s for the best. Maybe he flew too close to the sun and now he’s melting and falling and nothing, not his spider instincts nor his web, can catch him. You’re 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 you’ve blocked him? And why can’t 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 didn’t have this restrictive masks on so he could run a hand through his hair and shake out his thoughts. Because he doesn’t 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, he’s simply making sure a kind, helpless civilian gets home safe now that the sun has set and night creeps in.
After all, you’re 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 isn’t used to, and it hurts him to believe it might be his fault.
“This is stupid,” he reasons. “I look like a creep.”
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 won’t have him as Gojo, he’ll take being Spiderman.
Spiderman drops down in front of you in one smooth motion, feet hitting the pavement with a soft thud. “Hey—”
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 he’s flipped onto his back on the ground.
Your face softens as you look down at your perpetrator. “What the—Spiderman?”
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.
Kind and helpless civilian, my ass.
“Are you okay?” you fuss, hands hovering uncertainly. “I mean, that was kind of your fault for scaring me though. But are you okay? Seriously, don’t do that ever again you could get hurt. But are you hurt?”
He winces, rolling his shoulder once more before chuckling. “There goes any worries I might have had about you.”
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a city to save?”
Spiderman drops his hands to his side. “It’s strange because it sounds like you don’t want me to be here.”
“It took you this long to realise?” you tease with a smile.
“Actually,” he says, quieter now, “I wanted to thank you.”
That catches you off guard enough to still. “For what?”
“For all the help recently.” He lifts one shoulder in a careless half-shrug, but there’s something more deliberate under it, something oddly sincere. “I don’t 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.”
“That was…” You blink. “Almost nice. Thanks?”
“Don’t get used to it. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Is that what this is?” you ask. “A gratitude tour?”
“God, no. I do enough free labour as it is.” He watches you laugh for a moment, eyes softening behind his mask before he says, “So. Are you free right now?”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Is this another deeply scientific survey on how normal civilians spend their evenings? Because your sample size is getting weirdly specific.”
He huffs a laugh and rocks back on his heels. “Not exactly. Although for the record, your data has been invaluable. Very compelling stuff. Lots of sarcasm. Mild threat level. Surprisingly strong upper body.”
“Flattery is not going to save you here.” You study him for a second. “What do you mean, then?”
He gestures vaguely down the street, then up at the skyline like he hasn’t fully committed to the idea himself. “I mean… you look like you’ve had a rough week, and I’ve had a rough week, and I thought maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve property damage or mutual yelling.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Geez, that narrows it down a little, doesn’t it?”
“I’m being serious.”
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 he’s trying to sound casual about something he clearly thought through before showing up, you feel something warm blossom in your chest.
“And what,” you ask slowly, “does Spiderman do when he’s not concussed?”
He spreads his hands. “Tonight? He was hoping to take a very pretty girl on a low-budget date.”
You stare at him stunned before laughing softly, looking away before flickering your gaze back. “I bet you only say stuff like that behind the mask.”
“That was smooth, you can be honest.” He grins behind the mask, you can hear it in the shape of his voice. “But that complaint doesn’t exactly sound like a no.”
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, you’re smiling despite yourself. “I’m free.”
“Great,” he says immediately, a little too fast, then reins himself back in. “Great. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. You said yes. That’s good, that’s great, even.”
You snort. “So where are we going?”
He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to let you in on a secret. “That depends. Are you going to scream if I say I had something less walkable in mind?”
It takes a second for the meaning to land, and when it does you gesture sharply upward. “Please don’t tell me you’re slinging me up there again. That’s happened to me twice now and neither of those experiences were fun.”
“I wouldn’t sling you,” he says, offended. “That sounds so careless and crass. I’d hold you very, very securely. In my arms, even.”
“Can you even hold me? I just flipped you onto your back.”
He laughs, then offers you his hand, gloved palm open between you. “Come on, just one swing. I’ll take it slow this time.”
You eye his hand, then his mask, then back to his hand. “You didn’t take it slow last time.”
“In my defence, we were under attack by sentient goo both times. Be gentle with me.”
You hesitate before gently placing your hand in his. “Fine. But if I die, I’ll come back as a supervillain and haunt you specifically.”
His fingers curl around yours, warm even through the suit.
“No promises.”
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.
“There it is,” he says, voice bright with delight and close to your ear. “That’s the exact reaction I was hoping for. My masculinity is doing just great, by the way.”
“Do not make this about you,” you snap, though the words come out thinner than intended.
“Bit hard not to,” he says lightly. “You are, technically, in my arms.”
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.
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 you’re 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.
“Oh my God,” you choke out, voice snatched by the wind. “Oh my God, I’m flying. Oh my God, this is how I die.”
He laughs, shameless and much too pleased with himself for someone who is holding your life in his hands. “That’s a little grim. If you’d only open your eyes, you’d see how beautiful it is.”
“Open my eyes?” you repeat, incredulously. “Spiderman, my eyes will dry out and roll out of my head!”
His hold shifts just slightly, firmer at your waist as he catches another web and swings you both into a smoother arc. “Trust me,” he says, quieter this time, the teasing still there but softened around the edges. “Just for a second. Look.”
You crack your eyes open in narrow slits, and for one disorienting beat all you can really see is him—mask 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.
“There,” he says, gentler now. “That’s better. I told you I’d take it easy this time.”
“You said a lot of things,” you mutter, though some of the panic has begun to leak out of your voice replaced by quiet awe. “Most of them were stupid.”
“Yeah, but were they charming stupid or just regular stupid?”
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.
He must feel the change in you because after a moment, he turns his head just enough for his voice to reach you clearly.
“Okay,” he says. “Now that you trust me a little more, let me take you somewhere.”
You lift your head to look at him. “Somewhere? I thought this was the date.”
“This is the foreplay.”
You grimace, wishing you weren’t being held hostage miles above deep water to pull back. “And just like that, I’m dry.”
He laughs, the sound warm and easy. “But your complaining has finally stopped so I’d take that as a win. And for the record, I meant there’s more I still want to show you. I’m not blowing my entire budget on just one dramatic entrance.”
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.
Spiderman watches you from the side, the light from the nearest streetlights in your eyes. His body is uncharacteristically still, mask tilted toward you.
“Woah,” you breathe out at last.
His shoulders relax just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Thought you might like it. And look, I reserved the entire place out for you. It’s all yours for the entire night.”
“That’s because it’s closed.”
He grins and holds out his hand. “Come on. I know a way for you to get a view of the city high up and without your eyeballs drying out on you. I’m trying to be accommodating now that I know you’re apparently very fragile about flying.”
“As any normal person would, I fear.”
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.
“You’re very confident for someone who almost got flipped onto concrete five minutes ago,” you say, but take his hand anyway.
“What can I say?” he shrugs, fingers warm as he interlaces them. “I trust you not to do it again. We’re close like that, right? But seriously, can we stop bringing that up? It’s a sensitive topic for me.”
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 he’s standing beneath the ferris wheel, metal bones creaking softly.
Spiderman glances up then looks back down at you, holding out his hand in a flourish.
“My lady,” he says, dipping his head. “Would you care to have a go?”
“Real original,” you say but don’t protest when he guides you into one of the empty carriages.
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. There’s 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.
“Is this what you see everyday?” you ask.
Spiderman hums, relaxing into the seat opposite you “Maybe something close adjacent.”
“Well it’s gorgeous. I can’t believe I forgot how freeing it feels to go to amusement parks. There’s just something about being so high up, you know? But I guess I don’t need to be telling you that.”
“Enamoured already? We haven’t even reached the top yet.” He stares at you for a moment. “Okay, pop quiz. Which do you like better, the ferris wheel or the swinging?”
“Definitely the ferris wheel.”
“That hurts.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder to shoot him a cheeky grin. “Why are you sitting on the other side? Is the view better over there?”
He tilts his head and looks at you for a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says at last. “It’s pretty.”
He doesn’t 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 it’s especially funny.
“You’re really pulling out all the stops today, aren’t you?” Your gaze flicker from the view back to him. “Is this something you do with all the civilians you save? I’d hate to embarrass myself by thinking I’m special.”
“Would you compliment me back if I said it was just you?”
“Maybe. Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes.” He turns his body slightly so he can rest his elbow on the back of the seat, unabashedly staring right at you. “It’s just you.”
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.
With nothing else to do, you laugh again, buying you some much needed time to figure out what to say next. “If you needed a boost to your ego, you could have just said so. You didn’t have to bring me to a half-abandoned amusement park and make me stare at the harbour to get it.”
“And the compliment?”
“I guess you’re not as annoying as I initially assumed you were.”
“My ego definitely does not need the help,” he says easily. “And what kind of compliment is that? Give me something a little more impersonal.”
“You’re humble,” you observe with a good mannered snort.
“It comes with the whole superhero thing.” 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 doesn’t move away.
“How have you been doing?” 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. “You seem a little quieter than usual. Not that I’ve been paying attention or anything. I just have, you know, a lot of care for the citizens of this city.”
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. “That was subtle. Really invisible work there.”
“Thank you,” he says. “I pride myself on my restraint. I could’ve been much creepier about it.”
“I’m sure that was difficult for you.”
“It was,” he says with a sigh. “You have no idea how hard I’m working right now to seem normal.”
You look back out over the water, the lights trembling across the surface. “I’ve been fine. That’s the official answer.”
“I think I’ve earned myself the unofficial answer,” he says quietly.
You fold your arms loosely over your middle. “It’s ridiculously stupid. Like, who hangs out with a superhero and starts ranting about their situationship?”
He makes a little choked sound which makes you look over in concern. He quickly covers his mouth and waves you on. “Situationship? I didn’t know it would have counted as a situationship.”
You frown because what exactly does he know about what ‘it’ is? “It’s 2026, everyone’s idea of love is warped. If it doesn’t have a label then people will just slap the word ‘situationship’ over it and pray for the best.”
“Right, right. Please continue.”
“Well, there was someone. Obviously.” You stop and let out a sigh, slumping. “Or maybe there wasn’t and I just made him into someone in my head. I can’t really tell anymore, it’s 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 don’t talk. So.”
“Did you want there to be something?”
Ignoring the fact that you’re having a love life talk with Spiderman, of all people, you answer honestly. “Of course. I wouldn’t be this annoyed if I didn’t.”
Spiderman lets his head knock against the window as he groans. “Okay. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. Of course you wanted something, of course.”
You glance sideways at him. “Why do you sound like that?”
“Second-hand sorrow.”
“I think they call that empathy.”
“I just think,” he says, his voice a little rougher now, “it would’ve been easier if you’d said no. I’m only saying that because I’m looking out for you, obviously. As a public servant.”
You snort despite yourself but the heaviness settles back in quickly enough. “It would have been easier if he just kept being an asshole like when it all started. If he’d 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.”
Spiderman goes very still across from you, shoulders pulling tighter and chin dipping just slightly so he’s staring a hole through the floor of the carriage. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone quieter.
“Yeah,” he says. “That does sound pretty bad. Especially if he knew what he was doing.”
You frown. “I don’t even know if he did. I can’t tell if he was just oblivious, or if he really did mean something by it but then freaked himself over nothing.”
“That’s not better,” Spiderman retorts. “That makes him sound very pathetic.”
You look at him properly now, the dim lights from below catching on the higher points of his face. “You’re taking this really personally for someone who doesn’t know him.”
He lets out a short laugh. “Maybe I just have strong opinions about men disappointing women. Somebody has to, the bar is in hell.”
You exhale a laugh through your nose. “Exactly.”
The carriage gives a small creak as it keeps moving and for a few creaky moments, neither of you say anything. The quiet isn’t awkward, and he hasn’t said enough to put you in your thoughts, but it’s quiet anyway. Then Spiderman clears his throat and leans forward, elbow braced on his knees.
“Okay, I’m going to say one more thing about it and then I’m going to stop being so emotionally available. It feels a little off brand to what we have going on.”
You snort. “Sure, go for it.”
“I think,” he starts carefully, “that if someone made you feel seen and hopeful for more and then disappeared, you’re allowed to think he’s a jerk. You don’t have to make excuses just because he also had some good qualities. Because being kind in some moments doesn’t cancel out making you feel abandoned in others. But maybe…”
He takes a breath. “Don’t give up on him. Please.”
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 Spiderman’s heart like that.
“Thanks for the love advice, Spiderman.”
He nods solemnly. “No problem.”
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.
“There you are,” he says. “I was wondering what other crimes I’d have to commit tonight to fix the mood.”
“We’re going to have to circle back and talk about the lockpicking eventually.”
“As long as it isn’t today.”
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.
“Oh.”
He looks out too. “That sounded like a bad oh. What kind of oh was that?”
You look past him, past the window, toward the stretch of harbour and the city beyond. “I think we missed the top.”
He blinks. “What?”
“The peak,” you say, sitting forward. “The very top of the ferris wheel? We were talking and I didn’t even notice we’d already gone over it.”
“Oh wow, that guy is the worst. He stole your ferris wheel climax too.”
“Is it also part of your superhero job description to ruin every moment with some sexual innuendo?”
He lifts both hands. “Okay, fair, I’m 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 I’m the bad guy.”
“Right? How do you do it?”
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 ‘thanks for tonight, see you first thing in the morning!’, Spiderman leans forward.
“Don’t look so ready to go just yet, there’s still the aftercare part.”
You sigh but don’t berate him. “There’s still more? Someone save me.”
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.
“Come on,” he says, voice soft in the wind. “Don’t go home yet. Stay with me a little longer, that’s all I’m asking. Let me be the part of tonight you remember better.”
You look at the hand he’s still holding half between you. Then, before you can overthink it, you slip your hand into his.
“But only because I’m curious what exactly counts as better.”
He turns his hand, catching yours properly, and something in your stomach flips at the gesture.
“Good,” he says, low and warm. “Because I’ve been trying very hard all night not to ask too obviously.”
You lied before. Swinging is leaps and bounds better than sitting stationary in a small carriage inching along at a snail’s pace. It’s exhilarating and freeing, and yes, your eyes still hurt when you open them too wide, but you’ve 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 isn’t 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 city’s architecture doesn’t 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.
“Think you can handle a little more?” 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 else’s 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. “Nice catch.”
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.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice warm and low. “I kind of do this for a living.”
You laugh softly, and he shivers when your breath mists against the fabric over his lips.
“Do you remember when you first saved me?” you ask.
“Yes, I slammed into a bus stop and ruined it forever. I also remember telling you to never mention that again,” he says immediately.
You nod, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “We were so different back then. I almost thought you were shy the amount of times you ran away.”
He is quiet for just long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, softly, “Pretty girls fluster me.”
You snort, but there’s 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. “I want to know who you are,” you say softly.
He flinches. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” you ask, voice gentle. “You don’t trust me?”
“That’s not it.”
“Really?” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Because I would’ve accepted that as an answer.”
He goes oddly still. “What?”
Spiderman’s stunned silence makes you smile, and a quiet laugh slips out of you at how easy he is to read despite the mask. “What’s wrong? I’ve read the comics. I’ve seen the movies. I know what happens when the superhero reveals his identity.” You tip your head, eyes never leaving him. “Something bad always follows. It’s 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.”
He recovers quickly enough, his arms tightening around your waist as if instinctively holding you closer. “You think I couldn’t save both you and the world?”
You ignore the implications of his words, biting back a smile. “And that would be the hubris part.”
He scoffs, though the sound comes out a touch too strained to be convincing. “That’s not why I can’t tell you my identity, princess.”
“Then tell me why.” Your voice drops lower, soft as breath. “Because right now it feels like you’re making up rules as you go.”
He hesitates. It is brief, but not brief enough.
“You wouldn’t…” He swallows. “You wouldn’t feel the same. It would change things. It would change whatever this is.”
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. “Do I know you?”
Spiderman flinches again. “No.”
You laugh softly at how bad he is at lying. “Alright. Are we friends?”
He doesn’t react quite as strongly to that, which tells you enough to keep going.
“Do we not get along?”
“Hold on—”
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 it’s 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.
“Are you a student, or—”
He hisses loud enough to cut you off. “Don’t guess. Don’t you dare. If you have to know, it’ll be because I told you, not because you stumbled into it by accident.” He pauses, then adds, more mutinously, “And I definitely don’t need to hear who you think I am. I’m sure you can imagine how terrible that might be for my ego.”
You tilt your head, amused. “I get that, but I was only going to ask if—”
“No.”
“But I—”
“I said no.”
“Spiderman.” Your tone sharpens just enough to shut him up. “I was going to ask if you’re 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.”
Spiderman doesn’t say anything for a long while. “What?”
You laugh under your breath. “I definitely told you about her before. Or—” you pause, smiling to yourself, “told you about you, maybe. The one who always comes through drive-thru.”
“Princess,” he says dryly, “I am not sixty years old.”
“Perfect,” you reply. “Then I’m sure I wouldn’t otherwise care who you are.”
And then he’s 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 this—him, here, now—is real.
He’s talking again, you realise belatedly, his mask shifting with the movement of his mouth, but the words barely register. You’re 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.
“Can I?”
“You can’t,” he whispers, just as softly, though he doesn’t move away. If anything, his hand only tightens on your waist.
“I won’t look, I promise.” Your thumb traces small circles against his neck, your gaze locked on his. “I just want to touch you.”
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. “This is a bad idea.”
“If you tell me to stop, I will.” Looking down, you slip the tip of your finger beneath the narrow break between his bodysuit and the edge of his mask.
“My arm is going to cramp,” 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 doesn’t stop you.
You wonder how far he’ll 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. “Was that all you wanted to see?”
You lean in slowly, stopping just short of him to gauge his reaction. When he doesn’t move away, you close the distance until your nose brushes his.
“For now,” you whisper.
His eyes search yours through the mask, and whatever he finds there makes his mouth flatten into something almost pained.
“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” you murmur, and though you mean it, there is a terrible hollow ache opening in your chest now. Gojo’s face flashes uninvited through your mind and you shove it back, determined to bury it, though it’s clear enough from the way Spiderman goes tense that you haven’t done nearly as good a job as you’d hoped.
You don’t 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 that’s why you have been able to tell him things you can’t 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.
“Please.”
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 don’t 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 over—
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.
“What are you—”
“I’m taking you back,” he says, voice rough.
“What?” You twist, trying to look up at him, but he keeps you tucked in tight against him. “Wait a minute!”
“I’m dropping you back at your dorm.”
“Hold on a second!”
“I can’t.” The words come out strained, almost frayed at the edges, and because his voice sounds like that—because the kiss is still there between you, lingering like heat—you 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 can’t just disappear again.
“You didn’t want it?”
He doesn’t 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. “I’m sorry it was bad.”
He makes a vague movement, like he wants to run a hand through his hair and has only just remembered the mask. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” The desperation in your voice makes you cringe the moment you hear it, but it’s too late to take back.
He looks at you for a long, silent moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is unbearably soft.
“You said it yourself, didn’t you? Revealing my identity would only hurt you.”
Your grip on his arms tightens. “I’m fine with that. I don’t need to know who you are. It doesn’t matter.” The words rush out now, tripping over each other. “The one I—” You falter, heart hammering. “The one I care about is you.”
Spiderman watches you wordlessly as you trip over your own tongue. Then, after a beat that feels much longer than it is, he says, “I never said it was your mistake.”
You inhale sharply and, before you can think better of it, lean in and steal a kiss from his lips. There isn’t enough time to consider what the hell you’re doing because he answers immediately.
Whatever hesitation he’d 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 doesn’t feel like enough. A low groan tears from him into your mouth, impatient and wrecked, and then he’s 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 isn’t 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 don’t 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.
“You should probably check that out,” you murmur, more to break the thick, dizzy silence than out of any real conviction.
He hums, the sound warm against your skin. “Then why aren’t you letting me go?”
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 you’d usually hate, but his answering chuckle is filthy and starved enough to make warmth bloom through you.
“Stay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I won’t go.”
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. “No. Stay.”
He doesn’t 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 he’s 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 doesn’t let go. He just keeps hold of you, standing close in the dimness of your room, eyes fixed on your face.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
You don’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t.”
Something in him softens at that, though his voice stays low. “I still can’t let you see me.”
You shake your head and close your eyes before your nerve can fail you. Your hands rise to the seam of his mask. “Trust me.”
And because he does, he lets you pull it away.
Truthfully, there’s 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. You’re 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.
Don’t 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. He’s greedy for your attention, for the spark in your eyes to flare up the moment his eyes lock on yours, he’s 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 he’s 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 doesn’t 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 he’s 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 don’t leave you for long.
“God, I've wanted you for so long.” he nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. His hardness presses against your thigh, leaving you with no doubts about his words. "I can’t stop thinking about you, every time I close my eyes, you’re there. You're haunting me.” 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, it’s all too much and you let out a whimper.
He groans softly against your skin, his restraint fraying even further at the noise.
“Stop teasing me,” you gasp, tilting your head to give him more room and hating how needy you sound.
His answer is rough and low. "I can’t help it.”
Deciding you’ve 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 you—the 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 this—panting softly, body tense with barely contained need. It's intoxicating, knowing you can unravel him like this.
“You're killing me,” 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. “Please don’t stop here, touch me more.”
Your finger grazes his boner through the tight fabric of his suit and he hisses, bowing inward.
“Shit!”
You pause. “A thought has occurred.”
He lets out a long suffering sigh. “Please don’t ruin the mood.”
You laugh softly, dragging your nails over his erection over and over, drinking in every flinch you feel from where you’re pressed against him. “I can’t help you if you’re still in this… spandex.”
Spiderman huffs again but you feel him pull back and unzip his suit, wherever that zipper might be. “I’m so glad you can’t see me right now. There was no way I could get out of this suit in a hot way.”
“Trust me, my imagination isn’t doing you any favours either.” You pause. “Do you have to wear a thong under your suit?”
“The mood was really good five seconds ago. Don't ruin it because you’re curious about what I’m wearing underneath.”
You giggle and your nerves evaporate. Sure, you’re about to have sex with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman and that might forever change the trajectory of your relationship with him, but at least it’s 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.
“What are you—oh fuck.” He inhales sharply, hands never leaving you for long as they find purchase in your hair. “Fuck, you look so pretty.”
His thumb traces your bottom lip, feeling it give way under his touch. He curses again. “I need your mouth on me, pretty girl.”
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. “So you do wear boxers?”
“Y/N, please. The mood.”
You tug his boxers down, slightly upset you can’t 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.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches you. Despite his apology, he doesn’t make an effort to loosen his hold that much.
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, you’d tell him he’s average size. Truthfully, he’s thicker and longer than you’d 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.
“Take your time,” he manages to grit out though it’s breathless. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You wonder who he’s talking to because you’re sure as hell not going to take your time. Instead, you lean in closer, your breath ghosting his length and smell him—musky and hot after being trapped in that suit for so long.
“You’re shaking already,” you whisper. “Haven’t you ever had a girl on her knees for you?”
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.
“No way? The amazing Spiderman gets no game? My god, I almost feel sorry for you,” 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. “All that heroic web-slinging but no one’s ever taken care of this?”
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. He’s not huge but he’s certainly responsive, hips twitching like he can’t help it, fucking shallowly into your mouth.
“Shit—oh God, your mouth!” 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.
“There’s no way you’re going to cum already, are you?” Once again, you desperately wish to see him, to see him writhing under your touch, flushed with his eyes rolling back.
“Don’t stop,” 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 out—actually cries out—head thrown back, and you feel powerful, desired, even as the mean streak in you wants to edge him until he breaks.
But you’re 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.
“Not yet,” 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.
“Please,” he pants. “Let me touch you. I need to—”
You cut him off with a kiss, letting him taste himself from where your mouth met his cock. It’s messy and you rock against him harder, chasing that pressure on your clit. But it’s not enough. You need more.
Pulling back, you guide one of his hands between your legs, pressing his fingers against your clothed pussy. “Feel how wet I am? It’s all for you. Now do something about it.”
His fingers tremble as they slip under the fabric and brush against your folds, making you hiss at the contact. He’s 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.
“Like this?” he asks, voice small and eager, and you nod, biting your lip to stifle a moan as he pushes inside.
He’s 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.
“Faster,” 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.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs in awe, free hand roaming your body, squeezing your breast through your shirt, pinching the nipple until you arch. “So wet for me. Fuck, I could do this all night.”
But you can’t 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 everywhere—stroking 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. It’s 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.
“Give me a second,” he mumbles. “I want to take my time with you.”
“Please don’t,” you whine. It’s infuriating, having him so close you can feel his heat against your skin and yet, it only emphasises the emptiness inside you. “Please just touch me.”
“I’ve got you, baby.” 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. “Tell me what you want, Y/N. I need to hear how badly you need me.” 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. “I’m not going to beg you, jerk.”
He ruts up, the tip catching on your entrance and you almost believe it’s in until it slides right past. “Beg me,” 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.
“Come on,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “Just say it. Tell me you want my cock inside you.”
Your pride wars with the ache until it’s finally too much. “Fine,” you gasp, nails raking his back. “Fuck me. Please, just—put it in. I need it.”
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.
“Oh God, yes,” he groans, stilling for a moment to adjust, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re perfect. So fucking tight.”
You clench around him deliberately, and he whines, that puppy-like desperation surfacing again.
“Move,” 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, it’s 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. “Feels so good,” he mumbles between thrusts. "Like you were made for me. Can’t believe—fuck—”
The tension coils tight in your belly, pleasure spiking with every plunge. He’s hitting deep now, tip kissing your cervix, and you arch sharply.
But he’s 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. “Cum for me,” he pleads, voice hoarse. “Wanna feel you squeeze my dick. Please, Y/N.”
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 doesn’t 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, there’s only the aftershocks and his softening cock still twitching inside you. Then he lifts his head and kisses you softly, reverently.
“That was incredible,” he whispers.
You smile lazily, fingers tracing his jaw once more. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t 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. It’s intimate, this post-climax haze, and it stirs something softer in you despite the teasing edge you cling to.
“You're still hard,” you murmur, shifting your hips experimentally and feel him twitch inside you. He groans, low and needy, burying his face in your shoulder.
“Can’t help it,” he admits, voice muffled. “You feel too good. Like... I don’t want to stop. Ever.”
The confession hangs there, vulnerable and raw, and you can’t resist poking at it.
“Aw, puppy,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair.
He nips at your collarbone in retaliation, but there’s no bite to it. “You like it,” he says, confidence peeking through the desperation. “The way I beg. Admit it.”
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. It’s lazy and sensual and builds up friction without urgency.
“Maybe,” you concede breathlessly, hands guiding his head. “But don’t think it makes you special.”
“Liar.” He chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending tingles down your spine.
His pace picks up slightly, one hand sliding down to where you’re joined, thumb circling your oversensitive clit. You gasp, the pleasure sharp after your orgasm, but he doesn’t stop, drawing out whimpers you can’t 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.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” 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.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes. “I always thought you were but when you’re like this… fuck.”
The praise warms you and you reach for him blindly, fingers finding his chest. “Shut up and fuck me harder.”
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, it’s not because you’re making the conscious decision to keep your eyes closed. The afterglow lures you to sleep and he holds you throughout it all.
But Spiderman—no, Gojo—lies 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 he’s 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 doesn’t 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 didn’t 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.
You’re 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. There’s a mark near your collarbone he has to drag his gaze away from before he becomes truly pathetic.
“Don't do this to me,” he whispers, though whether he means you or fate or himself, he isn’t sure.
Obviously, no one answers him.
It would be easier if you weren’t 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 isn’t. 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.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers softly.
Then he’s 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. It’s 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.
“Spiderman?”
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 hadn’t 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 doesn’t, 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?
Gojo swings through the city as he does every morning. It’s a habit that comes from the obligation, something Geto had said in passing about the responsibilities of being a superhero—or something. Satoru never really listens when Geto scolds him and he certainly doesn’t care enough now to pull those words to the surface.
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 it’s fine.
Because speaking of guilt, that’s what he should be feeling right now. But he doesn’t. In fact, Satoru is having a rather fine and dandy day.
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 ‘leave the store and then web cash to the worker’s chest’ bit that he always does. He smiles at the senior citizens when they eye him even though he knows the gesture won’t show through the mask.
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.
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.
Gojo settles down on the ground and ducks into a thin alleyway, pulling out his phone to check.
It’s 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 his—
He shoves his phone back into his pocket and hurries back to his dorm.
Ignoring Geto's casual greetings, Gojo opts to instead ceremoniously flop into his top bunk the moment he slings in through the open window.
“How was patrol?”
“Don’t ask me stupid questions.”
“Okay.” Geto looks up from his book, turning in his chair to look up at the blue and white lump. “What’s wrong with you?”
Gojo tugs off his mask, ruffling his hair as it falls messy before faceplanting back into his unmade bed. “Nothing.”
“You left the dorm beaming like everyday is just sunshine and rainbows to you, and now you’re back sulking. I wouldn’t call that nothing.” He pauses when he receives no response, before sighing. “Just make sure to ditch the attitude before we meet up with Shoko. And don’t take it out on Y/N.”
Gojo can’t help it, he chokes on his own breath. Geto , of course, notices.
“What was that sound?”
“That’s just how I breathe.”
“You don’t always sound like a kicked puppy when you’re breathing.” His roommate stands to peek over the frame of the bunk bed, raising an eyebrow when he’s met with Gojo's devastated state. “Is this about your tragic loss to Venom? Look, he’ll come back and you’ll get another shot at being a good superhero, I promise.”
“It’s not that.”
“Is it Y/N then?”
Gojo lifts his head just enough to give him an incredulous look. “How did you…?”
“I saw what you were reposting on Tiktok.”
Gojo flops onto his back, hands over his face, feet kicking about in frustration. “God, even when she’s not around she drives me crazy!”
“Not that I’m not super sympathetic about your situation, but maybe it’s not the best idea to freak out about your normal civilian life when you’re Spiderman-ing. It’s better to keep those things separate, you know?”
Gojo grabs his pillow and shoves it over his face.
“Was that an agreement or an act of rebellion? Satoru, I’m serious. You can’t mix your personal life and your superhero activities together.”
He stays quiet, or maybe he’s suffocated himself. Gojo kind of hopes it’s the latter if it’ll save him from telling the truth.
Geto shakes his shoulder. “Dude, stop moping. We have that thing to go to and Shoko won’t be happy if you flake.”
Gojo remains limp and after a few more shakes, Geto frowns with the tiniest hint of worry.
“Okay, out with it. What did you do?”
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 roommate’s face.
“Please tell me you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“How bad? Does she know?”
Gojo lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Worse.”
“You kissed her.”
“Worse.”
Geto's mouth drops open. “You fucked her? Satoru, what the fuck?”
“I don’t know, okay, it just happened!”
Geto pulled his hand back as if burnt. “Just happened? These things don’t just happen! Sex doesn’t just happen!”
Gojo groans into his pillow. “We were both consenting adults in this, Suguru, it’s not a big deal!”
“That’s not the issue! She doesn’t know who you are, Satoru!”
“I know that!”
“Do you? Because if you did I don’t think you would have done that!” He runs a hand through his hair. “How does she not know?”
“She kept her eyes closed,” Gojo says.
“You kinky bitch.”
“It was the only way she wouldn’t see!”
“Really? Because I can think of other ways. Have you considered the tactic of just not fucking her in the first place?”
Gojo frowns as if in genuine thought before shaking his head.
“Hell. This is my superhero. We’re all fucked.”
“Suguru, you have to help me.” Gojo sits up, head ducked slightly so as to not hit his head on the ceiling above. “I fucked up okay, I know I did. But it’s complicated, alright? Y/N and I aren’t… good right now. I thought we were and then I dropped my phone and then we fought and now she’s blocked me on everything. Even Linkedin. And Spotify!”
“Satoru, 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 doesn’t involve emptying your guts into a toilet. I’m not helping you when you fumble a girl.”
“But what if I fumbled her because I’m Spiderman. I feel like that counts, right?”
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. “You still haven’t told me what happened.”
“Y/N and I broke up.”
“You weren’t dating.”
“A friendship break up then. A situationship break up.”
“Fine, 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.”
“Things were going well. I almost kissed her like, five times. The sixth time would have definitely been the charm.”
Geto makes a face.”I feel like that’s an indication that things aren’t going well, but okay.”
“Anyway, remember when venom showed up a few days ago and I broke my phone?”
“And how you were knocked out for a night? I remember.”
“Right well,” Gojo takes in a deep breath that indicates he’s about to ramble, “because I broke my phone I wasn’t able to tell her something came up and I wouldn’t 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 don’t take her seriously. and I can’t 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.”
“Damn, she’s serious.” For a moment, Geto seems genuinely apologetic. “That sucks man, I’m sorry you were cockblocked by Venom.”
“Well, it comes with the powers and responsibility and all that.” Gojo falls back onto his bed, starfished as far as his limbs can go before they hit the sides of his bunk bed. “You always have a solution to everything. Can’t you fix my love life too?”
“I can’t perform miracles, dumbass.”
“That's not your line. You’re meant to be sympathetic and helpful. Do you even care about me?”
“No,” Geto says mournfully. “Unfortunately you’re the only one saving our city these days so I kind of have to stick around to make sure you don’t mess that up.”
Gojo grabs his Agumon plushie and throws it down over the side of the railing. He doesn’t have to look over the edge to know it hit its target. “I’m serious, Suguru.”
Geto catches the plushie with ease and gives it a pat on its head, placing it gently on his lap. “I’m 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 don’t do that.”
“Woah, thank you, Mr sunshine and rainbows.”
“Life isn’t sunshine and rainbows.”
“It is when you have the eyes to see it,” he sighs dramatically. “Is it too much to ask that I can just be Satoru and Spiderman without losing anything?”
There’s something in Gojo's voice that makes Geto pause. Maybe it’s the lack of that whiny tilt to his cadence, maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoved his face into another plushie on his bed, voice muffled and hiding the desperate sound.
Geto wants to tell him the truth, that if the world was good and just he could be every side of him, that he shouldn’t have to pick between being a weapon for the city’s safety and an actual person with hopes and dreams and wants. Geto wants to tell him that he shouldn’t have to pick being a superhero over being a person, but he can’t tell him that. Because as the world stands right now, Gojo simply can’t have both.
“There's still that outing,” Geto finds himself saying. “Look, it sounds like you really hurt Y/N but she’s not unreasonable, you know that. I’m sure if you talk to her you can clear things up. Or just apologise now that time has settled.”
Gojo shuffles a little and sits up to look down at his roommate. "Weren't you just telling me I shouldn’t mix personal and work life?”
“You see Spider-Man as work?”
“Answer my question, man.”
Geto sighs. “The part of me that just wants to make sure you’re not hurt doing this whole superhero thing wants to tell you that. But the part of me that’s your friend doesn’t. 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 you’re happy with Y/N then I hope things work out between the both of you.”
No one says anything for a while. Geto looks up.
“Dude, what did you eat today to make you sprout all that feelings bullshit?” Gojo mimes throwing up.
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, he’s smiling.
“So, any tips?”
“Just be yourself.”
“I was and look how everything turned out.”
Geto hums. “Then maybe let’s start with your wardrobe. If you’re going to win Y/N back, you can’t show up to the function wearing the same one shirt.”
The aquarium is a shitty place to take someone you’re no longer on speaking terms with.
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 weren’t currently trapped in a dark blue tunnel feeling like shit.
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.
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.
The entire place is built for wonder and you are having a terrible time.
“Look,” you say from beside Shoko, pointing upward with none of the enthusiasm the gesture should probably contain, “a fish.”
“I think that’s obviously a shark,” Utahime says, squinting upward.
Geto hums, a telltale sign that he’s about to launch into his typical ragebaiting. “I’m pretty sure sharks are fish though, so what do you mean by that?”
“Oh come on, Geto. You know what I mean. There’s fish, and then there’s shark. If I say fish, no one is picturing that. They’re thinking of, like, a normal fish. Small, swimmy, not that giant thing above our heads.”
“So now we’re racially profiling fish and sharks?” Geto pauses as if in deep thought. “So then by your logic, is a stingray fish-looking fish or shark-looking fish.”
“A stingray is its own thing,” Utahime snaps. “Don’t piss me off in public.”
“Seems complicated. Not very obvious then, is it?”
On any other day, there’d be nothing more joyous than joining in and annoying Utahime. Today, however, you’re still figuring out how to move around without being touched.
“At least give yourself the chance to have a good time,” Shoko remarks from beside you, none too impressed with your sulky mood.
You know it isn’t fair to her but to say you’re 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.
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.
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.
“See, that wouldn't be a fish,” Geto is saying from up ahead.
You can hear utahime through the murmur of the crowd. “I figured.”
“Can’t be too sure.”
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.
Gojo’s 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.
“Sorry,” he says quietly.
You don’t bother with a response, looking in the opposite direction as if you had suddenly gained a deep appreciation for marine life.
Shoko glances back over her shoulder to make sure she hasn’t lost either of you, and catches the way the two of you repel from each other. Her eyes flick from your face to Gojo’s, and narrow.
Great, so not only are you miserable, but now you’re probably going to get grilled.
“You two are weirdly quiet,” she cleverly deduces.
“We’re in an aquarium,” you reply. “The whole point is to be quiet and to look at the fish. Or the sharks or—whatever.”
“Are you at least having fun?” she tries again, though judging from her look, it’s clear she already has an answer in mind.
“Definitely,” you mumble at the same time Gojo says, “So much fun.”
You keep your mouth shut, refusing to look over at him. And Shoko, bless her patient heart, only tries again.
“We’re about to reach the actual shark section. You love sharks, don’t you, Y/N?”
“Partial at best.”
“Or we could divert to look at the rock pools and touch some starfish. Doesn’t that sound like fun, Gojo?”
“I guess.” He kicks at the ground, stubbornly glaring at the path.
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 there’s space to move, only heightening her annoyance.
“You both are impossible! You’re acting like kids! Let’s age check real quick, how long are you two going to keep up this silent treatment act for?”
Gojo sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just drop it, Shoko? It’s really none of your business.”
“Woah,” Shoko says. “Gojo’s arrived.”
“I’m serious.” He grits his teeth. “Leave it.”
Shoko looks over at you for your input but you keep quiet, hiding your own guilt by looking away. You’re acting like a kid, you know you are, but it’s hard not to when you have this man child walking beside you.
And because Gojo has never won an argument against with Shoko, never has in the many, many years they’ve 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.
“I don’t know what happened between you two,” she says, “but you’re going to sort it out right here right now, you hear me? The shark section is up ahead. I don’t care what happens in there, but when you walk out of it, you’re both going to get along. Understood?”
Gojo looks up from where he’s staring at the point of contact where your bodies touch.
“I said, understood?” Shoko presses, drawing you both closer.
You grimace and relent. “Fine, fine. Just let go, won’t you?”
She doesn’t, turning her fierce gaze to Gojo. “Your turn.”
“Shoko,” he starts, but his eyes are fixed over her shoulder. “Let go.”
“I won’t until you tell me the two of you are going to start behaving like adults again."
“Shoko, seriously—”
“Gojo, I’m not letting go until—”
You let out a frustrated exhale. “Just get it over with and say that you will.”
“That’s not it.”
His voice sharpens so suddenly that the three of you freeze. His hand closes around your arm, knocking Shoko’s grip off him in one abrupt movement, and you almost wince at how tight his fingers are.
“Duck!”
Considering you’re 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.
One moment you’re upright and irritated, and the next you’re 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.
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 can’t process whether it’s debris or fish or some secret third option. Gojo’s arms tighten around you just before the current hits full force, shielding you from the bulk of it.
When the initial wave passes, he pushes himself up first, still braced over you, blinking the water from his eyes. “Are you okay? Actually, don’t answer straight away because then you’re probably lying. Are you hurt?”
You stare at him for half a second with your chest heaving, before snapping back into your body. “I think so. Was that enough time to seem genuine?”
“Yeah,” he says, then grabs your hand and hauls you upright with startling efficiency.
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.
“Shoko!” you shout immediately. “Utahime? Guys?”
“We’re here!” Shoko’s voice comes from somewhere to your right, thin through the alarms and the water. “We’re all okay!”
Through the flashing red light and beyond a rush of water you can’t imagine brushing past, you spot them.
Shoko has one arm around Utahime’s 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.
“We’re fine!” Geto yells. “Utahime got cut by the glass, but she can walk. We’re heading for the side stairs.”
Shoko twists back, catches sight of you and Gojo still standing there, and immediately cups her hands around her mouth. “What are you two doing? Move! I paid money for this outing and frankly I’d like at least four of us to live!”
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 there’s 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 can’t before he turns to you, hands on your shoulders. “Get to the exit.”
“Right, okay,” you say automatically, already reaching for his hand to drag him with you. Your fingers slide around his wrist and tug. “Come on.”
He doesn’t move.
You look back at him. “What are you doing?”
“You go with them,” he says, already looking past you toward the ruined hall. “I’ll follow after you.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Um, no?”
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 I’ll follow after like you were born yesterday.
“Do you have a death wish?” you demand. “Come on, the water is rising!”
“Look, I can handle myself.” His fingers tighten once against your shoulder, almost pleading. “I know what I’m doing so just wait outside. Don't worry about me and go.”
It is such a stupid thing to say that for a second you can only look at him.
Don’t worry about me.
As if that has ever worked. As if you haven’t spent weeks trying to ignore him and failing every single time. As if he hasn’t 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.
“I can’t,” you say.
His head snaps back to yours. “What?”
“I can’t just ignore you.” The words come out thinner than you want them to, but there’s no taking them back now. “I’ve tried and I just can’t.”
“This isn’t the time for that,” he says, brows furrowed in that way he gets when he’s annoyed.“Don’t be ridiculous, you could get hurt.”
“You could get hurt.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” you scoff before looking back at him. “You know what your problem is?”
He rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Oh, here we go. Tell me, tell me what my problem is—”
“Oh, I will. I’ll tell you what your fucking problem is—”
“Oh yeah, you’ll tell me? Cause you know me better than I know myself?”
“Someone has to,” you snap, stepping toward him, daring him to take a step back. “Because clearly you’ve got no clue what you’re doing. Not with this, not with women, certainly not with me.”
He exhales. “Yeah? Well, you’re stuck up and impossible to control and you piss me off.”
“Are you a kid? You sound so dumb right now—”
A crash tears through the corridor hard enough to shake the ground beneath your feet and whatever insult you’ve both had gearing up immediately dies. You both look toward the corridor then to each other.
“Probably not the best time for this,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s shelf this for later.”
“I’m still not going to ditch you so get that through your thick skull and whatever vast air bubble hugs your brain.”
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.
“Did you just call me an air head?” he asks, the words breathless and almost fond. “You’re never going to make things easy for me, are you?”
You shoot him an incredulous look. “People are dying, Satoru. Lock in. What’s the plan?”
He shakes his head like a dog.
“Okay,” he says, back in motion now, words quick and sharp and all business because he clearly doesn’t trust himself to stay in the other mode any longer. “New plan. We get everyone we can to the exit, and then if you still want to tell me what my problem is, I’ll stand there and let you monologue. But don’t leave my sight and don’t try to be self-sacrificing.”
“You’re telling me?” You snort. “Says the guy who was just about to run off and do exactly that.”
You brush past him, heading towards the tunnel where the sound originated.
Despite every instinct telling him to grab you and pull you out, Gojo finds himself just standing there. He’s always been weak to you, this revelation is not one that comes with any surprise. All you’ve ever really had to do was look at him—properly look at him, with that sharp little glare that says he’s annoyed you again—and some pathetic part of him was already halfway to heel, tail practically wagging. It’s degrading almost, the Spiderman, reduced to nothing but a desperate man in love, but for some reason Gojo can’t 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 it’s already calling him toward the moment he’s 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.
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 you’ve had one (1) moment of experience. That was enough, right?
“Don’t worry,” you tell Gojo, noticing his uncharacteristic silence. “If anything happens, I’ll protect you.”
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.
“I’m 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.”
He doesn’t check to see if you’ll agree before grabbing the nearest floating wet floor sign and hurling it at the man’s face with a pitcher’s accuracy. It smacks the figure’s shoulder and bounces away harmlessly, but it does the important thing.
The ex-aquarium staff turns toward him and subsequently, you.
“Okay,” you mutter, already moving. “Looks like you’ve got it from here!”
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. “Hey, hey, it’s okay! Just think of all the hazard pay you’ll get after this. For now, grab those two and head to the side exit.”
She blinks at you, tears still flowing freely down her cheeks, but eventually nods. “What about you?”
You jab a thumb behind you. “I’m kind of stuck here with this idiot. Now hurry.”
Behind you, there’s a huge crash followed by Gojo saying, “You know, this is why no one likes staff team building exercises. There’s always one guy who takes it too far.”
The villain seems to not enjoy Gojo’s 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.
It’s not hard to tell that Gojo is losing and in fact, you’d be severely deluded if your nerd situationship sort-of close friend would win against a seemingly inhuman sentient black goo. At least he isn’t 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.
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.
The symbiote host lurches toward him again, blackened arm distending with a wet, horrific ripple.
Your brain finally catches up.
Okay. Okay, think.
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.
You spin in place, eyes skittering wildly over the wrecked shark gallery.
There’s debris everywhere, broken signage, upside down benches and a cardboard cutout of some mascot shark swims past you in ankle deep water. There’s 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.
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.
“Satoru!”
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. “Oh, sorry. Whenever you have the time.”
“I’m fine,” he chokes out, rolling out of the way in time to avoid a second blow. “Thanks for asking.”
You splash toward the pressure valve, shoes slipping against the tiles. “Shut up and use the environment! There’s a pressurised line here and steam up there. You’re just going to have to trust me on this one but I think I have an idea!”
The host, as if sensing your plan, turns towards you. Gojo curses, any sarcasm vanishing in an instant.
“No! Don’t get closer!”
“Too late!” you yell back, already grabbing the valve wheel. “You’re getting your ass beat, Satoru, I’m not going to stand here and just let your ego handle it!”
He rises to his feet, running to you though in the water, it’s only a pathetic sloshing that almost gives you the ick. “My ego? And you think your pride will handle it any better?”
No.
“Yes!”
You wrench at the valve and, because your life has always been full of miracles and good fortune, nothing happens.
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. “Get—get out of here. Now, Y/N.”
“I’m not giving up.” You brace one foot against the wall. “No pressure, literally.”
You yank at the wheel again but nothing still happens. There’s 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.
“Y/N!” Gojo calls out again, water sloshing around his body as he tries to follow.
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.
Behind you, there’s a sharp, ugly sound—Gojo sucking in a breath through his teeth—followed 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.
“Got you!” you hiss at the valve before throwing yourself against the wheel.
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.
“Satoru!” you shout, looking up wildly. “To your left! Bring him here!”
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 isn’t 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 he’s sustained. You can see it every time he favours his right side, every time his mouth tightens with every dodge.
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.
“Come on,” he calls, breathless and taunting all at once. “Come on and get me, you big ugly thing. I’ve had worse nights.”
The host lunges under the broken steam line.
“Now!” you shout, a command for just yourself really, and crank the pressure line open fully.
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 you’d hoped, the black slick convulses.
It peels back in twitching bands from the host’s throat and shoulder, recoiling from the steam with an ugly, wet shiver. It starts to back away on unsteady feet.
“There!” you yell, voice cracking with triumph and panic all at once. “Again, use it again!”
Gojo doesn’t 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 host’s side.
The thing—not the man, but the thing—lets 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 host’s 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 don’t realise you’ve moved until you’re 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.
“We did it!” you say, breathless and bright with adrenaline. “That was insane, but we did it. And I’m taking at least seventy percent of the credit, by the way, because without me you were just getting beaten up in a public aquarium—”
He smiles, just barely, and turns to look at you.
“Yeah,” he says, chest heaving. “I guess we—”
Something moves in the corner of his eye.
It isn’t 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 won’t 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 don’t 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.
“What,” you say, finding no other words that fit the moment. “What the fuck.”
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.
“This is not how I wanted to tell you,” he says, his voice suddenly rough in a way you recognise far too well.
The host roars, and it’s that sound that snaps both of you back into motion.
Gojo’s hand goes to his pocket and comes back with the mask—of course it’s the mask. Blue and white, worn at the edges, and, hell, maybe you’re 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, “Please wait for me. Just this once, please wait.”
There is no time to process the fact that his eyes look almost frightened. No time to process the fact that the voice you’ve 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.
“Okay,” you say, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. “Okay. Go.”
You watch as Gojo stares at you, hopeless and pleading all at once, the mask slipping over his face. But now that you’ve seen him—seen him bare and vulnerable and desperately hoping—the 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.
“I’m going to explain everything,” he says. “I promise. Just—please. Please still be here when I come back.”
He doesn’t wait for your response, not properly. Maybe because he’s worried whatever words leave your gaping mouth will be a rejection. Maybe because if he waits another second, he’ll stay here looking at you until the whole room caves in around you.
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 he’s still showy.
Then he launches and whatever restraint Gojo had been fighting with until now is gone.
The host lunges towards you but you don’t flinch. There’s simply no fight in your body anymore. Not that it matters because Spiderman meets him in the centre of the gallery.
What had looked clumsy and desperate when Gojo was still trying to pass for your average citizen becomes something else entirely now that he’s 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 host’s 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.
He flicks his wrists out before the host can recover, pinning one arm to a fractured support beam, another line catching its ankle.
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.
The black mass writhes and lashes and tries to reform over the host’s 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?
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 Spiderman’s voice had felt familiar even when you told yourself that was ridiculous and known things about you he couldn’t 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.
All of it was him. Every humiliating, infuriating, impossible piece of it.
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.
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 host’s chest, and hurls him back into the flooded floor beneath the full force of the steam.
The black mass writhes and shrieks then tears free all at once. It peels from the man’s 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.
Then the host collapses, dead.
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.
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 he’s just done.
You stare at each other, the gap between endlessly vast until you decide to close it.
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.
Your hands fist the front of his hoodie and he lets you.
“You are the biggest liar I have ever met in my entire life,” you say, voice trembling with the weight of everything.
Spiderman—Gojo—lets out a weak laugh. “That sounds about right.”
You yank the mask up without another word.
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. He’s pale, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around the hard pull of his breathing. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth and more blooming darkly beneath his hoodie where he’d 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.
“Satoru,” you say, and his name comes out rough, almost wounded.
His eyes lift to yours at once, terrified of what he might find there.
You slap him. And honestly, compared to everything he went through less than a minute ago, compared to what he deals with everyday, you’d 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.
“That,” you start,” is for lying to me.”
He gapes at you wordlessly.
Then all at once, the rest of it rises inside you—the 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.
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.
“This,” you whisper, steadier now that you know this is what you want, “is for saving me.”
You go up on your tippy toes, lean forward, and kiss him.
Gojo freezes, arms held out in the air as he pieces together the scene. You’re not mad, well maybe you’re mad, but you’re over that now because you’re kissing him. Wait, you’re kissing him? Then what is he doing just standing there?
A soft, startled sound escapes him, swallowed immediately by your mouth, before he’s drowning in it. The kiss turns desperate, all relief and fear and weeks of restrained feeling collapsing into one reckless, aching moment.
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, it’s only because breathing becomes a necessity again.
His forehead knocks against yours, his eyes fluttering close as he rests there, panting.
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.
“You kissed me,” he says, and his voice comes out low and rough and almost disbelieving. “After everything?”
You stare at him. “Do you want me to take it back?”
His hands tighten instinctively at your waist. “No!” The answer leaves him quickly before he swallows, eyes flickering over your face to gauge your response. “No, please don’t do that.”
“I’m still angry at you, you know.”
“I know.”
“You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“You kept lying to me.” You stop. “You also knew. This entire time you knew and you just played me twice over.”
He winces a little at that. “Yeah. That one’s harder to defend.”
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before climbing back to your eyes, slower this time, more careful.
“I kept thinking there’d be a better time to tell you,” he says. “A 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 just—I was scared. It was easier for me that way but I also know it was cowardly and I’m sorry.”
You nod once. “And?”
“And?” he repeats before he catches the disapproving look in your eyes and starts scrambling for more. “And… I’m sorry for—well. Actually I’m not sorry about that part.”
You hit him lightly on the arm. “Say you’re sorry for deceiving me.”
“Right, right. Sorry for deceiving you.”
“And that you won’t do it again.”
“And I won’t have sex with you in the Spiderman suit again.”
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.
“I really am sorry,” he says again. “For all of it. The disappearing. The missed presentation. The lies. Being me, I guess.”
“Being you is, unfortunately, one of your biggest issues.” You pause, eyes flickering down to his lips. “But I think I’m willing to work around that one.”
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 itself—
“They’re in here somewhere!”
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.
“Please save them!”
“Utahime,” Suguru’s voice says, strained and much closer now, “if you scream at the police one more time, they’re going to leave us here—”
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 don’t 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.
Shoko is the first to say something. “Well. I guess you guys did make up after all.”
“Did this happen before or after you took the crazy madman down?” Utahime says, deciding that is the most important detail to clarify.
“Are you two not done yet or should we come back in a bit?”
It’s Geto’s 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. Gojo’s 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 Gojo’s thumb brushing against the side of your hand while an officer asks if either of you can walk unassisted, it’s 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 can’t help thinking maybe you’d been a little dramatic.
Or maybe not. Maybe the world really had ended when you met Gojo Satoru. It’s just that, now that you’ve survived the aftermath, you’re 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 there’s one less lonely girl in the world then it’s worth it <3 this was a lot longer but i had to cut down for tumblr’s character limit ☹️ rip to all the shoko + utahime silly scenes and the injured spiderman scene and the lab satoru scene and the—[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 🍔
ON YOUR KNEES! starring cult!gojo x sorcerer!reader x sorcerer!geto
૮꒰ ｡. ｡꒱ྀིა mdni. who wouldn't follow gojo to the ends of the earth? even when he's literally lost it?
You traded your soul for a spot by the strongest sorcerer's side.
Because back then, he was still just Satoru.
Still the boy who ruffled your hair and called you weak when you lost for the fourth time in a row sparring him. Still the object of your childish crush you just couldn't let go of.
He tried to tell you that you didn't need to follow him.
That he didn't need your help. Need you.
But you followed him anyway. Stood there and did nothing when he started spouting bullshit about being a god. Helped him set everything up, arranged meetings with rich assholes so that it wouldn't be his own family's funds he was spending.
Listened to him ramble about the higher ups, but even after he condemned them, after he returned to cull them, he still wasn't satisfied. Didn't think that the society of sorcery you'd both been raised in was cleansed enough.
It took you too long to realize that he just liked being worshipped.
Liked being lazy. Getting to sit around on a stage and spout nonsense while an audience eagerly agreed along with whatever he was spewing, able to act however he liked without anyone ever daring him to be different.
And you liked what little attention he gave you too much to leave.
Even when you were well aware what he did with the rich women who didn't mind spending their money on him if they got to share his bed.
You'd left him with another one tonight. Excused yourself from a meeting the second you saw a manicured hand drift up the inside of his thigh across from you.
The wind felt a little more bitter than usual as you walked out onto the roof of his little compound. Nipped at your nose until you were sure it was going to fall off. But it didn't.
And you stayed.
That was all you ever did. Held your breath and let your feet swing over the edge, wondering how far the fall would really feel.
If you'd ever be more than a splotch on Satoru's story after all.
Forever alone even in a fucking cult full of people.
Because no matter how many years you'd spent kneeling by him, hanging onto his every word, he still would have been able to do it all without you.
How were you any different from any other worshipper?
You felt him before you saw him.
The shift in the air, the energy creating a funny buzz. You sat up straight, glancing behind you in time to see Suguru's dragon getting close enough for him to hop off.
Satoru had to notice. To know he was here too. But he was probably too balls-deep in some sponsor's cunt to pay attention. Probably figured you'd take care of it for him.
It was a little funny. You had liked Suguru first, but he seemed so uninterested in you that it had just sorta fizzled out. Satoru had been there though, had sensed you were sad and dragged you out to get ice cream, dramatically leaning over to lick some the dripped off the cone onto your fingers.
You were pretty sure that was the moment your fate had been sealed.
Damned to be his fool for the rest of your life.
You hadn't seen Suguru since you left the campus. And irritatingly enough, he'd only managed to get more handsome, his frame wider, muscles packed onto him and his features all sharper, those piercing purple eyes swirling as they locked onto your face.
"Hi, pretty girl."
Your stupid heart fluttered - probably just at being paid a compliment for the first time in what felt like forever. His uniform had been traded for a loose sweater, his hair down for once, a hair band peeking out on his wrist.
You didn't say anything. Your stomach shifted, coiling in tight knots.
"I don't even get a hi?" He teased, as if you weren't meant to be enemies now.
"Do you want me to get him?" You asked, your voice tight as you wrapped your arms tight around yourself.
"I'm here for you," he shrugged casually, your chest constricting at the way his jaw clenched at just the mention of Satoru even when you hadn't said his name.
Was this it then? Your moment of reckoning had arrived?
Sure you hadn't killed anyone yourself, but your hands felt far from fucking clean. You had been labeled as a curse user the day you walked away.
You didn't care to put up a fight. You were too tired for that. But you would still prefer he do it somewhere else. Maybe take you out to the forest, or the beach, if he was feeling particularly gracious.
"If you're going to kill me-"
"I'm not going to kill you," Suguru interrupted, mouth curling down into a deep frown as he shook his head with...disappointment?
You didn't get it.
Why else would he be dispatched here then?
Your mouth opened, but you shut it again, unsure of what to say when he'd already caught you off guard. Reluctantly studying his face, familiar remorse rolling around inside you as you swallowed hard.
Seeing him here almost made you wish you had stayed back then.
But you had to wonder if you'd feel the same if you were the one a few floors down fucking Satoru.
"I'm here to take you home."
a/n: i've literally had this in my drafts since september lmfao oops i lowk doubt i'll do a part two but still wanted to post <3 div is by @/tsumiinum
This was not how you thought your Halloween was gonna go. Blood-stained heels leave behind a bloody trail as you try to help this man that's stuck in this weird flesh-like construction, only to end up stuck with him in a room full of skeletons for what seems like an eternity. Luckily the two of you can find solace in each other during these dark times.
Tags/Content Warnings: MDNI/18+ only, Dead Dove Do Not Eat: gore!!! blood (A lot of it), injuries, bodies, decapitation, body mutilation/horror, depictions of wounds, death of background characters, vomit, traumatised Gojo and reader (both in different ways), angst, hurt/comfort, panic attacks, ptsd, nightmares, isolation, forced proximity, sex as a distraction tactic, heavy making out, biting to the point of bleeding (it's messy and it's supposed to be), marking, feelings of going insane, skeletons as friends!! Bunny as a nickname (used once), open ended, Gojo is seen as an albino in this fic (go argue with a wall)
Word Count: 18k
A/N: This is basically what I think it would be like if I was on platform B5 during the Shibuya incident. Also if you skipped over it, please please please read the tags as this is a heavy fic. Art by @/nyank0z on x. Divider by @/strangergraphics & @/cafekitsune.
There’s panic everywhere. People are running, screaming, crying—both children as adults alike. Someone shoves you out of the way, and you stumble upon the tiled floor, heels clacking as you catch yourself against a pole.
The problem is that there’s nowhere to run. While there’s mass panic, people’s screams getting cut short, crimson splattering against linoleum and clothes, heads rolling on the floor, there’s also the few people that are calm. They, too, have assessed the situation.
Nothing to do. There’s nothing to do, but wait to get brutally murdered by unseen things. There’s monsters everywhere—and the next second, there are none left. They are all clumps on the ground, beheaded.
Heads, heads, heads. There are so many of them, most of them have their eyes and mouths wide open, blood still pouring from their necks, pooling underneath them, matting their hair, staining their faces as they roll and roll and roll; getting kicked over and over again by people who want to get out of here.
Taking a step forward, your foot bumps into… something. A dull thud you can’t really hear, but can definitely feel. That’s when you make the mistake of looking down.
Your cute, white platform heels are splattered in crimson. The sticky, red substance is on your soles as well, and if it were paint, you would’ve made a joke about always wanting red bottoms before, but now is not the time.
The second thing you notice is the thing you bumped into—a head, cut straight through the middle. Brain matter is splattered everywhere. And blood, so much blood.
Gagging, you force your eyes closed and take a step back. That’s a sight you won’t ever get out of your mind, no matter how much you shake your head. Not that you think you’ll survive long enough to even think back on it, anyway.
Forcing your eyes open, you turn around, trying to see if any of the stairs are open. That’s when you see him—a white-haired man who appears to be stuck in… something. His arms are bound behind his back as he’s talking to a black-haired man in front of him.
Blood rushes through your veins, heartbeat in your ears. You don’t hear anything over the dull thump thump thump, but you just know your heels are click clacking on the once-white floors, leaving behind crimson footprints.
You nearly slip a few times, the sticky substance making the already polished floors even harder to navigate, and you nearly wipe out just before you’re standing behind the white-haired man.
“It’s okay, we can get you out of here,” you whisper—or maybe you’re shouting? You’re not sure. All you know is that you’re tug tug tugging on the fleshy things that are keeping him bound in place, to no avail. The eyes on the corner cubes look at you, trying to claw at the fleshy substance, and if it had a mouth, you’re sure it would be laughing at you.
Fingers trembling, you go to see if it has any weak points, fingers skimming over the man’s forearm that’s still restricted, trying—and failing—to see if you can just get your fingers under it. To free him and get the two of you out of here.
You’re aware of the eyes that are on you—too many eyes. Blue, amethyst and those black ones that aren’t human, but you just can’t…. can’t give up now. This man is looking so lost, so you keep trying, whispering under your breath that it will be fine.
And then it’s all black. You’re falling, but also not. Your hair whips around your face and you can feel the way your headband shifts on your head by the sudden draft, but you’re still standing. Completely dark, until it’s not.
Stumbling, you instinctively shoot a hand out to try and keep yourself from falling. Luckily that seems to work, because your hand grazes something… gritty? Huh, a brick wall?
Sight returns to you next. For a second you think this has to be a joke—a prank you weren’t in on. Because your hand is on something round and white and— and…
Oh god, oh god, oh god oh god oh god.
Gagging, you turn slightly to the side, before emptying the contents of your stomach onto the floor. Your hair dangles in front of your face for a second, before you can feel someone pull it away from your face, holding it in a neat ponytail.
You’re still throwing up, but you blindly jab your elbow behind you, the touch scaring you. A warm hand clamps itself over your elbow, preventing it from going any further. “Easy now, that’s it, let it all out.”
A warm voice comes from behind you while the hand is rubbing small, soothing circles on your underarm. It’s a sweet gesture, honestly.
Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you finally look behind you, and sure enough, you’re met with white hair. Only this time it’s standing up, and a blindfold is placed over his brilliantly blue eyes.
A Kakashi cosplayer. Of course you tried to save a Kakashi cosplayer out of everyone in the crowd. But then again, what else could you have done? Leave the poor guy behind while everyone was getting slaughtered left and right? No, that wouldn’t be right.
When he notices you looking at him, he lets go of your hair, and it gently sways back in place. From the corner of your eye you can see bits and pieces of gunk—whether it’s your own vomit or flesh or even brain matter, you’re not sure, and you honestly do not want to know, either—in the strands of your hair. Fucking fantastic.
Putting his arms in the pockets of his jacket, he walks to the other side of the… room? and goes to sit down. Straight. Onto. The. Skulls.
Another wave of nausea hits you as you turn back around and heave.
The stranger is up in a flash, right behind you as he holds your hair out of your face once more. This time he isn’t touching you, which you’re honestly grateful for.
A few minutes later, he goes to stand on the opposite of the room, leaning back against the wall of skulls that are rattling. That’s right, the whole room is made of white, rattling, human skulls. You go to stand in the middle of the room, not touching anything but the bones you’re standing on, staining them in crimson.
“You should’ve just ran, you know,” the man finally speaks up, having crossed his arms over his chest. There’s a faint sadness to his voice that you don’t want to think about right now, so you just huff and roll your eyes. “I’m serious. I tried to get you out of there, but you kept trying to free me.”
Ah, so he had tried to talk to you. Not that you heard him, though. The blood rushing through your veins alongside your heartbeat in your ears and the confused murmurs of the people made you not be able to hear anything.
“Yeah well, I’m sorry I tried to do something,” your own arms cross over your chest, trying to cover some of your cleavage. “No one could get out, and then I saw you in that… thing, and I couldn’t just not help.”
The man lets out a humorous laugh, shaking his head while he finally slides down the wall, rubbing his hands over his face. “Of course I get stuck in here with a non-sorcerer.”
Wrinkling your nose you look down at your outfit—yet another mistake of the night. You were so focused on the skulls that you had forgotten that there are all sorts of… gunk on you; mostly blood. Your pristine white heels still stained in crimson.
In a flash you’re crouching, trying to wrench the stupid things off without touching anything that isn’t leather or whatever the fuck these cute heels were made of.
When you and your friends made plans to go out for Halloween tonight, you didn’t expect your night to end like this. Well, who would have guessed, anyway. It isn’t a normal occurrence, so you didn’t really think about people being massacred.
The tight body con is sticking to your skin, crinkling as you’re crouched down, and you can vaguely remember your friend telling you that you should put lube on it to keep it nice and shiny. No thank you, you didn’t want to walk around all sticky. Seems like that part didn’t really work, though, cause the crimson substance is sticky on your skin.
Once you get the heels off, you throw them to the far end of the room, not wanting to have them anywhere near you any longer.
It’s when you look down that you notice the second thing—flesh. Stuck in your fishnets. Swallowing down the bile that’s threatening to rise up your throat, you clamp your fingers on one of the pieces before yanking it off.
There’s a slight tearing sound that doesn’t sound like anything fabric, before you throw the piece away again. Your hands shake as your breath gets shaky. Inhale, exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inha—
Two big hands clamp themselves over yours. “It’s okay. Hey, hey, look at me. Here—” he puts your hands over his chest as he takes a biiigg breath in, nodding at you to follow him, which you try to do. “That’s it. Can you do it again for me?”
Slowly, the two of you get your breathing back under control. A few tears have escaped from your eyes as you look up at the man. His blindfold is around his neck now, those bright, blue eyes staring down at you with concern.
“There we go, all better,” he whispers as he keeps looking you over. “Close your eyes.”
“I.. wait, what?” That is not something you expected to hear from the guy, not after he just called you a ‘non-sorcerer’—whatever the fuck that means. You thought Naruto and his friends were Ninja’s, but maybe they’re called sorcerers over there? “C’mon, I’ll clean you up. Just close your eyes.”
Your mouth opens and closes a few times before you finally nod. Heavy pieces of hair graze your cheek, leaving behind a wet substance on your skin, but you don’t try to wipe it away.
There’s the sound of him pulling something out of his pocket before he whispers a ‘I’m going to touch you now’, which he only does when he gets your little ‘okay’ in return. The first touch of a tissue against your cheek makes you jolt, but you keep still.
The stranger wipes your face clean—he even wipes your forehead and chin, which you hadn’t even realised were stained with whatever—before he cleans your hair as best as he can with the tissue. It’s when he balls it up and throws it over to the same corner as where your shoes are that you decide to speak up.
“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” you mumble, feeling him crouched in front of you as he plucks things out of your fishnets while he wipes away all the blood from your skin with a new, clean tissue. “I don’t think you would’ve wanted to be stuck with someone in a sexy bunny outfit.”
The ears on your head droop a bit at the mention, and you’re glad you can’t see them, because you do not want to see if they also have blood and brain matter all over it. But then again, he didn’t clean them, so surely they aren’t dirty?
“You don’t have to apologise,” he says, still crouched down in front of you, meticulously wiping you clean. “I should’ve known it wasn’t really him.”
That confuses you just a little. Is he talking about the black-haired man that was standing in front of him? Now that you think back on it, it did seem like they were having a conversation of sorts.
Clearing your throat, you shift your weight slightly as he makes his way toward your back, going to wipe away whatever is on your calves. “Still, I’m sure there’s better company to be had.”
He just hums, a sound that barely travels over the rattling of the skulls underneath your feet. Your toes curl in, actually feeling them now that you’re focusing on them. It’s not something you want to focus on, but there’s literally nothing else to think about but that and all the bodies.
The rattling reminds you of mere minutes ago, when the train tracks started to rumble and people thought they could get out. Hope in their voices as they announced the train was coming—coming to save them from being slaughtered.
People were still dropping like flies left and right by unseen forces. Thud. thud. thud. thud. Another body. A head dropping from its neck. Piles upon piles of people who were standing there mere seconds ago—from laughing to annoyance to panic. Laughter turned into screams turned into silence.
You could hear it, the train coming closer and closer, big headlights illuminating the space as people pushed and pushed and ran towards the doors, trying to get in and get out of here. The savior in this horrid, horrid place.
The click clack of your heels turned faster and faster, until you, too, were stood behind people, trying to get onto the train that had just gotten here. People were pushing and shoving, elbows catching ribs, tender skin bruising under the force.
Thud. thud. thud. More and more screams got cut off.
You didn’t dare to look to the sides, just focused on the blonde hair of the girl with angel wings in front of you. It was swaying wildly as she looked around and pushed people out of the way to get closer to the doors, her own heels click click clicking on the tiles.
And then the doors opened with a hiss, the sound that should’ve relieved you, the sound that would’ve meant you guys could get out of there—only that wasn’t the only sound that was made. Weird gurgling noises were made before the first scream ripped itself from someone’s throat.
Countless of… monsters stumbled out of the train—blue, green, purple; all sorts of sickly hues and deformed limbs—biting and clawing at anything and everything they could get their deformed hands on. The biting of the heads, flesh tearing, clothes ripping, the sound of blood spraying out of wounds.
No, no, no, no— shaking your head, you ran back, as far away as possible from the train, from the monsters that poured out of there. The polished tiles that were once white were now covered in a pool of blood, the sound sick to your ears as it muffled the footsteps.
Stepping back, you shake your head. “No— no. no. This can’t be happening—”
Instead of your foot landing on blood-slicked tile, it fell onto leather. A shoe is underneath you, knee pressing into your calf as you stumble back, falling right into the arms of the stranger that was cleaning you up from all the horrors that happened mere minutes ago.
“It’s okay… Nothing to see here. Just me and you,” the man whispers into your ear as he wraps an arm around your shaking body. One hand cards itself through your hair as he whispers how everything is okay now, that there are no more monsters.
Sobs tear themselves from your throat, fat tears cascading down your face as you bury your face into his jacket, dampening the fabric quickly.
Your fingers claw at anything you can reach—his back, his arms, his thighs, your own thighs. The sound of your fishnets ripping has you scream out, fingers clawing at your own ears and eyes. Just get it out, get it out, get out.
Big hands gently take a hold of your fingers, preventing you from hurting yourself any further. They’re soft, big in only a way that makes sense if the person attached to it was also big. “Hey, hey… no hurting yourself. C’mon, let go of your ears.”
You can’t. Can’t get rid of the sounds, the visuals. Flesh tearing, blood splattering and draining from a wound, clothes ripping, limbs popping off like Lego pieces.
It’s on the floor, the ceiling, clothes—on you. It’s on you. There’s blood and gunk and brain matter on you. Fingers twitching, your arms jerk in his hold trying to scrub away the blood . There’s so much of it—your heels once white are now red.
The stranger doesn’t let go of your hand, just holds on a little tighter as he cradles you against his body, still whispering in your ear that everything is fine now. That nothing will hurt you in here, so you have to stop hurting yourself. But how can you? How can you when there’s so much on you.
Blood. There’s so much blood, the copper scent filling your nostrils with each stuttering inhale. It’s dripping down your face, onto your legs, onto your shoes. Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Can you open your eyes for me, please?” the white-haired man’s voice is a little more desperate now, still cradling you against his chest in a way that constricts your hands. Fingers are still clawing at him, no doubt leaving behind angry marks, if not worse. But you can’t focus on that right now. “C’mon, open your eyes. Promise nothing will happen.”
Swallowing, you do. Blinking a few times, your vision is blurry with tears, body still trembling, fingers now digging into his jacket. The first thing you see when your vision clears up is those brilliantly blue eyes, the ones you saw earlier.
Once he sees you look at him, he smiles. Small, a little brittle, but real. It’s there on his glossy lips, directed at you.
“See,” he whispers, arms still holding you tight in case you want to claw your own flesh out once again, gauge it all out, scrub it clean until there’s only tendon and nerves remaining. “Just me. And you.”
Taking is a stuttering breath, you go to look beside you when he quickly grabs your chin and directs your gaze back over to him. “Just focus on me for now, okay?”
And you do, not once looking back from those beautiful shades of blue until your breath finally evens out. Until your heartbeat slows down enough for him to grab a—new—tissue for your face. This time not because there’s blood and gunk on it, but because of the snot and the tears.
You accept the tissue with clammy hands, before you wipe your face, grimacing slightly at the feeling. God, you probably look like a mess—you certainly feel like one. Your gaze drops down a little to his jacket, seeing the way it’s soaked through at a spot, no doubt your doing.
He follows your gaze and chuckles. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse things on my clothes than a bit of tears and snot.”
Well that certainly doesn’t help you, because it immediately makes you think back at the blood and the— shaking your head quickly, you lean back slightly. His grip loosens, but he keeps you on his lap, afraid that making one wrong move will send you over the edge once more.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble, voice hoarse with the way you were sobbing and screaming—yes, you were screaming. At one point Gojo thought he would go deaf, but he couldn’t just let go of you with the way you were trying to gauge your own flesh out.
“It’s okay,” he reassures you, hands still on your waist and hip—in a respectful way, of course—as he looks at you. Your gaze finally flits down—half because you’re shy with the way he’s devoting his attention on you, not that he can really do much else here in this hellhole, and half because you just remembered he was cleaning you up.
Sure enough, your skin is entirely clean. The only blood you can see is on a few of the skulls a few meters away where you were stood when you still had your heels on. Following the trail, you see the way you walked, before the stranger puts a hand before your eyes.
“You might not wanna look there. Blood and your stomach’s content,” he meekly says, white bangs falling in front of his eyes slightly.
Right, you threw up because of the vibrating skulls. The entire walls and floor are spanned in them, no other sounds being made apart from your breathing. The sound that triggered the flashback of the train and the people.
“Sorry,” you mumble again—this time without you really knowing what you’re apologising for; the fact that you threw up and he had to hold your hair back, or the fact that he was cleaning you up and you quite literally stumbled into his lap while having a panic attack, or the fact that you got him all scratched up during the episode. Well, whatever, you’ll apologise ten times over if you need to.
“Like I said, not the worst thing that has happened to me,” his smile returns to his face as he finally lets go of your waist, but doesn’t move you from his lap. Shrugging off his jacket, he lays it down on the ground for you, patting it with his hand. “You can sit on this, if you want.”
That’s honestly so sweet—everything he has done so far is incredibly sweet. All the gross things that have happened in the past, what, twenty-ish minutes were all things he didn’t have to do, but did so anyway without a second thought.
Shuffling off his lap, you go to sit onto his jacket, and it’s big enough for you to even stretch your legs a bit. Pulling your knees up, you wrap your arms around them while putting your chin on them. It’s only now that you remember that you’re half-naked.
Your cheeks heat up in an instant, heartbeat going wild behind your ribcage as you pull your knees up further, trying to hide your cleavage from the man’s gaze. Not that he’s looking at you, he’s respectfully looking away, fingers fiddling with each other on his lap as white wisps of hair gently fall over his eyes.
“Were you out with friends?” The question falls from your lips before you can stop it, having to say something to fill the silence. To not think about what just happened on the train platform.
He looks up at that, cerulean gaze lifting up to your bunny ears before they find your eyes. He just looks at you for a second, a beat too long, causing you start squirming in place.
Right, he probably doesn’t wanna be reminded of the fact that his friends could very well be dead.
Luckily—or unluckily—for you, you were the only one who had to catch the train to go back home. All of your friends were still bar-hopping, but you had an early morning and couldn’t afford to go home late tonight.
“No, I got… called into work,” he mumbles, then puts on a smile that stretches thin at the edges. Winking, he pulls his blindfold up, hiding those pretty blues from you once more. In a way, you’re sad that he decides to hide them.
The blue is actually perfect, but you thought Kakashi had a red eye or something like that with markings in it instead of those beautiful blues he’s sporting. Where did he even get those contact lenses from? And why would he go into work with a cosplay on? “Working while in cosplay?”
He raises one, snowy brow at that. It peeks out just over his blindfold. Leaning back onto his elbows, he plays with the fabric a little, pulling it away from his face before he lets it snap back against his skin. “This isn’t a cosplay.”
At that you raise your own eyebrow. If it isn’t a cosplay, then what is it? His hair isn’t gray as far as you can see, but rather stark while. The only people who have white hairs are— “Oh! You’re an albino… then why the blindfold?”
The words slip out before you can even stop them. People might not like it if they get called an albino, after all. Or maybe they do, you’re not sure. All you know is that you put a hand in front of your mouth, clamping it shut.
He laughs at that, a full chested laugh that rings in the space, echoing slightly off the walls. Pearly whites on full display, and gosh, doesn’t he have cute canines! They’re slightly sharp, poking into his bottom lip—not vampire sharp, just natural.
“You know, I don’t think anyone has ever said that to my face before,” he chuckles, swiping away a stray tear that threatens to soil the fabric. Sitting back up, he lets the blindfold fall around his neck again, hair falling down into his face.
And it’s true, in all of his life, people either looked at him as ‘The Strongest’ or ‘The Six Eyes bearer’, and never just as a person. There has always been some sort of strength test as far as he can remember, even from when he was a mere child.
Back at the estate, he was isolated from all the other children, having to train at the bright and early age of three years old, never being able to just play with the other kids.
Of course he had tried sneaking out before, tried to just be normal kid, but his caretakers always found him and drug him back towards the estate, to his room which was plain, for the Six Eyes cannot have his focus wean on silly things such as toys.
When he got to high school, he wasn’t reminded that he was the strongest constantly. No, Geto and Shoko saw him as a normal person—to a point, of course. But that all changed after he defected. The shared laughter turned into silence.
And fuck, hasn’t it been long since someone just looked at him like a person rather than Gojo Satoru, The Strongest sorcerer of the modern world.
An albino. Granted, that’s the first time someone has actually said that, out loud. While white hair was prevalent in the Gojo clan, he was an albino after all. But no one, and he means absolutely no one had said that before, considering they thought the Six Eyes were this pretty blue, but it was actually never confirmed to be.
Maybe being stuck with a non-sorcerer isn’t as bad as he initially thought it would be. Honestly, anything is better than being alone here. The lady in a sexy bunny costume, stuck, with him. It’s laughable, honestly. It’s also definitely something that… thing didn’t account for, judging from the look on his face when the two of you got sucked into the realm.
Looking over at you, he really looks. Not at the costume, but at the person. You still have a mortified expression on your face after calling him an albino, scrambling to undo your mistake of blurting out the first thing that came to mind.
It’s cute, honestly. The slight flush to your face only adds to it, and Gojo can see the way your blood is rushing to your cheeks, further solidifying the fact that you’re utterly embarrassed.
The bunny ears on top of your head shift with each movement, headband thiiiss close to falling from your head until you push it back. It’s the only part of you that didn’t get stained in blood. The white fluff is still completely white. But that little cotton tail however… yeah even thinking back on it, he winces.
Your shoes definitely aren’t faring any better, being thrown to the side the moment you finally took them off. Skulls still painted velvet from where you walked, but he doesn’t mind as much. Blood, he can do. Exorcising curses really isn’t for the weak-stomachs, and if you did have one, you would overcome it sooner than later.
Luckily your body con itself is completely black, but he did have to wipe some off—not that you noticed that part, too busy reliving the past thirty minutes in your mind to completely know what was going on in the meantime.
The little tail couldn’t be saved, but he did try to wipe off most of the blood, the once-white fluff now a more pink-ish color.
You’re still trying to cover yourself, and he wishes he had something other than his jacket to offer. Luckily it isn’t cold here, but he can’t imagine how uncomfortable it is to be stuck with someone you don’t know whilst being half-naked.
God, he really pulled a non-sorcerer into his nonsense. But then again, it’s probably better you’re here rather than outside right now. Here you can’t be attacked—can’t die the gruesome death many, many others have suffered.
A chill runs up his spine. He tried, he really did, but of course he had to be caught off-guard. A brain using his former best-friend’s body as an vessel to catch him off-guard, truly sick and twisted.
You’re scrambling closer to the white-haired man, apologising over and over again until he finally holds up one of his hands. “It’s okay, really. I don’t think anyone has ever connected the dots before.”
That makes you shut up, perched on your knees as you’re leaned forward, eyes still wide but your mouth finally having stopped moving. “I— really?”
“Really,” he confirms, a small smile still gracing his lips as he looks at the wall before his eyes slide back over to you. “People don’t really look at me that way.”
You tilt your head at that, looking him over—like actually just looking. Not thirsting over him, though he can see the way your heart starts to beat a bit faster, not looking at him like he’s the strongest, but just assessing him as a person.
“You have white hair, and white eyelashes. Your eyes are bright blue—which is a common thing in albinism, though people often think they only have red or purple eyes because of the lack of pigment in the eyes, but if they just looked it up they would see people with albinism most often have bright blue eyes—and your skin is slightly on the pink side, almost as if you got sunburnt—did you get sunburnt?”
He wasn’t ready for the assessment, nor the whole explanation behind the eye color in people with albinism. And the way you’re so confident, saying it with your full chest, it just… does something complicated to his heart.
All this time he liked to hide behind sarcastic quips to not show any vulnerability. That has been drilled into him since he was younger, after all. The Six Eyes cannot cry. The Six Eyes is stronger than anyone else, control your emotions. The Six Eyes— Never was it Satoru the toddler. People cared about his status, his symbolism in the sorcerer world, rather than the person who was beneath all of that.
And here you are—a complete stranger—just rambling on about how he’s an albino out of everything. Most of the time when non-sorcerers—both men and women alike—came up to him, it was to tell him how hot or pretty he was, or to just slip their numbers into his hand, trying to be discreet while absolutely failing at it.
But not you, the person he got stuck in this god-forsaken prison with. No, you just see him as he is. An albino person, albeit a pretty one at that.
The two of you talk a bit more about anything and everything, him trying to keep your mind off what just happened on the train platform. The exchange of names is a quick thing, and it sometimes still surprises Gojo that someone doesn’t know his name.
Of course he knows non-sorcerers don’t know his name, but he isn’t around enough of them for him to actually feel that—sure he goes outside and everything, but he doesn’t have the time to just strike up a conversation with whoever he so pleases. He has duties to do with deadlines, and enough people are already pissed at him because of his carefree persona.
He sees the way your eyes flit to the corner where your shoes are, and it’s like everything suddenly slams back into you—the bodies, the screams, the monsters. The chatter immediately dies, smile vanishing from your face as you pull your knees up to your chest.
You’re not sure how much time has passed, but it feels like it has been hours already, and maybe it has. But you’re not sure. Your bag lay somewhere abandoned on the platform, which has your phone and everything in it.
Gojo apparently also doesn’t have a phone with him. Why he doesn’t, you’re not sure, but it’s not something you’re going to ask him, either. So it’s just up to you to guess how long it has been.
The light in the room doesn’t change, even though the two of you have been silent for a while now, so there’s no indicator of the sun setting or rising or anything.
You start picking at your nails, trying not to show how restless you’re becoming, but it’s getting harder and harder the more time slips through your fingers.
The silence grows uncomfortable, the two of you having nothing to talk about. It’s almost as if the words get stolen right from your throat every time you try to voice something, anything so you two aren’t alone in this room. The only sounds right now are the skulls rattling, jaws snapping together as the two of you just breathe.
It’s hard to do that—breathe. The room feels tinier than before. It wasn’t that spacious to begin with, but with each inhale it seems to be closing in on you even further.
Gojo is just lounging back, one arm propped behind his head as the other plays with his blindfold. He occasionally mumbles something to himself, but he doesn’t try to address you even once.
Why on god’s green earth would he just… lie there?! Acting as if any of this is normal. As if it’s normal what happened mere hours ago. …Has it even been hours? It feels like it has, but you’re not sure.
The sound of his blindfold snapping against his skin has you flinching slightly. It’s not something he’s doing on purpose, clearly lost in his own mind, muttering to himself about things you don’t bother to ask, but the snap snap snap makes you slowly inch away from him.
You shift where you’re seated right now, the rough texture of the skulls grates against your skin with each shift. Your toes curl in, trying to not think about the fact that you’re seated on skulls. You’ve been seated on skulls.
They’re everywhere. Underneath you, behind you, in front of you—as far as the eye can see. White, round, gritty, jaws snapping against each other but never actually biting. It’s all you can focus on, how much white there is.
Skulls, Gojo’s hair, the stupid bunny ears that have flopped over, obstructing your view with a patch of fuzzy white hair. White, white, white. The only things that aren’t white are your costume and Gojo’s clothes.
Looking around, it’s all you can see. White skulls snapping together. If it weren’t for the skeleton in the far right corner, you would’ve thought that this was a room full of skulls—hell, at first you thought they were only skulls—but they’re full on skeletons. Stacked so tight together you can’t see them.
But that’s all there is to the room. Skeletons. White as far as the eye can see, except for the two anomalies that are you and Gojo. Blinking you look around again, skulls, skulls and more skulls. No necessities such as water or food.
No water or food.
Shit. The two of you are trapped here in a prison without fuel. Is that… is that why all these skeletons are here? Because they starved to death.
Your mouth suddenly feels parched, swallowing a few times, you try to get rid of the sensation, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse—bile threatening to come up the more times you swallow.
Looking over at Gojo, you note how he’s still now. Finger no longer playing with his own blindfold, nor murmuring to himself. His head is tipped back, arms crossed over his chest.
Does he not realise the situation the two of you are in?
Standing up, you can feel the gritty texture of the skulls through your costume, scraping against your back slightly. It’s not something you’re currently thinking about. No, if anything, you turn around to face the wall, fingers skimming over the skulls, careful not to get bit by them.
Surely this prison can’t be endless. Your fingers skim across the wall of skulls, rattling under the pads of your fingers as you try to find something—anything that confirms your suspicions. Sure, Gojo said there wasn’t anything the two of you could do, but you just refuse to believe that. refuse to believe that someone build a prison that truly had no out.
What the fuck even is this thing. Back outside it was all fleshy with eyes that actually moved, tracking movement every time you pulled on the flesh that was wound tightly around Gojo’s arms, the thing not budging even an inch.
In here, it’s all rattling skulls and skeletons as far as the eye can see. You’re not sure of these skeletons are real skeletons, but to safe your own sanity, you’re just going to pretend like they’re fakes from a Halloween store. Just prop skeletons, nothing to be afraid of.
Trying to take one of the skulls—skeletons, really, but you’re gripping the skull between your fingers—you try to move it, maybe there’s some sort of mechanism like in movies where you have to pull a specific book in a bookshelf to make the hidden passage open up—or in this case, the exit.
The skeleton surprisingly moves, pulling it clean from the wall, as it tumbles over with a crash. The bones scatter on the ground with faint clink clink clinks, and you jump slightly at the sound. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo already eyeing you, then the skeleton, then you again. You meekly smile at him before turning back towards the wall. To no one’s surprise here, there’s another skeleton behind the one you just pulled out.
When you try to pull that one out, however, you’re stopped. That one is truly stuck. Yes, it’s still rattling, bones clinking together, but it cannot be moved like the one you just did.
Maybe that’s where you can find the secret passage.
Looking up, you’re suddenly aware of just how tall this room is—it’s dark up top, but you can faintly see where the realm ends.
With a determined huff, you do a few stretches, try to get your muscles nice and loose. You can do this, you can totally climb skeletons to take them down one by one, trying to find the secret passage. Gojo said something about not getting out of this thing any time soon, so why not?
Grabbing onto one of the skulls of the skeleton higher up, you wrench your foot on top of another skull, trying to find balance, before you haul yourself up. You can hear Gojo mumble out a concerned ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ along with him standing up and walking over to you, but you just continue your climb. Another skull grabbed, another meter gained.
It goes well for all of three meters, before one of the skeletons gives way. Unluckily for you, you were holding onto it, and your entire back bends backwards, arms flailing around as you try to grip onto something, to no avail.
Hair whips around as you fall quickly, a small yelp leaving your lips as you close your eyes and brace yourself for impact.
The impact never comes—well it does, but not in the way you thought it would. The skeletons would be hard—possibly breaking under the weight of your fall—and would definitely hurt you, no doubt leaving behind bruises for the next weeks to come. But instead of bone, you get caught by soft, but strong muscles.
A slight grunt leaves Gojo’s lips as he catches you from midair, knees slightly buckling under the weight, but he keeps the two of you upright. Refusing to topple over. Cradling you closer to his chest, he furrows his brows, concern and annoyance clear on his face. “What did you think would happen?”
For a moment you can’t reply, can’t do anything other than just stare into his eyes. Those blues that are beautiful to look at, only this time there’s an emotion swimming in them that hasn’t been here yet. It makes you swallow slightly as you look down, fingers fiddling slightly.
“Just thought there might be a secret passage somewhere,” you mumble out, clearly embarrassed by the fact that you fell, but also because you just… decided to climb a wall full of skeletons without even letting him know.
“And you thought it would be wise to climb the wall of loose skeletons?” Well he doesn’t have to say it like that—like it was a stupid plan to begin with, almost as if he’s scolding you, which he honestly is.
You’re old enough to know better, old enough to know you can’t just scale anything. Even if they weren’t loose, there would be a good chance of falling down, and the two of you can’t have that. What if you broke a bone? Or got a concussion? Or even worse, got a hole in your head and bled to your death?
“Sorry,” There it is again, the same word you’ve been saying on repeat today, though this is the one instance where you should actually apologise. He did not have to catch you, probably needing to hear you whine when you got bruised.
Sighing through his nose, he closes his eyes and tips his head up. After a few seconds, he finally looks down at you again before finally putting you down onto your feet. “Just… don’t bother. I’m telling you, we can’t get out of here.”
With that he goes to sit back down onto the ground, this time pointedly not looking at you. You feel the slight burn in your chest and behind your eyes—you never did well with disappointment, so it doesn’t surprise you when that feeling bubbles up behind your ribcage once more.
“So I’m just supposed to, what, sit here and wait until we get out?” You can feel a vein start to tick on your neck, jaw clenched as you look at him. He’s just… laying there! As if the two of you aren’t trapped in a room full of skeletons that are rattling and vibrating, jaws snapping slightly.
You just can’t believe he’s so carefree about all of this, as if this is a normal occurrence. Like he spends his Friday nights like this, in a room full of bones that ‘can’t be opened’. It absolutely enrages you just how he just doesn’t seem to care.
“I’ve told you, we can’t get out of here from the inside. It’s a prison designed to keep whatever is in it in. Only the person who trapped us can let us out, and considering he isn’t going to do that, we’re going to be here for a while.”
He isn’t even looking at you while he explains this… prison thing to you. And what does he even mean with the fact that there is no door on the inside, that’s just weird. This is real life, not some sort of wizard world.
“Yeah, right. And I’m a wizard who likes to make little cubes that can’t be exited from the inside,” you sarcastically reply, crossing your arms over your chest as you tap one foot on the skull below you.
Seriously, all he’s saying is that this is a magical room that just so happens to trap you guys inside for what seems like forever.
If you had to choose a death, you’d probably much rather be on the outside, where people got decapitated instead of dying of thirst, dehydrated until you’ll just shrivel up and eventually become one of the skeletons yourself. God it will be so slow and painful.
“I know you aren’t a sorcerer. I would’ve known the moment I saw you,” he replies, vaguely tapping his blindfold before he sighs out and lets his head fall back against one of the skeletons he’s leaned against. There is that word again, ‘sorcerer’. He said it when the two of you first got here, but you didn’t think too much of it, but maybe there’s more behind his words than he lets on. “Just… my students will get us out of here.”
“You're a teacher and you expect your students to get you out while hundreds of people die outside? No offense, but how would they have any idea that you're in this—what's the word? magical cube in the first place?”
It just… it just doesn’t make any sense. Does he really think he’s important enough for his students to lay their lives on the line, just to get him out of here? Self-centered much.
Sure, he is sweet, and you have no doubt that he can be sweet towards his students, but this is just ridiculous. Does he really think that his students out of everyone would get you out of here? Why not his own friends, or like, his family or something like that?
Gojo just shrugs at your question, putting his blindfold back on as he doesn’t elaborate any further, which doesn’t help the situation the two of you are in at all.
The argument spirals from there, with you getting more and more agitated while Gojo just stays seated and throws out sarcastic quips. While he isn’t directly being mean back, it does irritate you that he just doesn’t seem to care all that much about the situation the two of you are in.
He keeps going on about the fact that the two of you can’t get out of here and that his students will come up with a plan, but he isn’t really giving out more.
What fucking moron would think their students would go out of their way to save their teacher? Seriously, there is no way he’s that important to the youth that they would risk their lives for him.
At one point he just… stops responding to you. You’re not sure if he’s even looking at you—the blindfold making it hard to see where exactly his gaze is now—but he has his lips tightly sealed. The motherfucker is stonewalling you!
With a huff you go to sit down onto his jacket, crossing your arms over your chest. With an annoyed sigh you try to call out to him a few more times, but he just stays quiet. Rolling your eyes you lay down. Your lids are starting to feel heavy, and you’re not surprised by it even in the slightest.
When you were stood on the platform, it was only eight p.m., but considering the fact that you’ve been in this god forsaken cube prison thing for over what feels like hours already, you aren’t surprised that the sleepiness is hitting you like a train.
No, fuck, not like a train. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will away the thoughts that immediately flood your mind again—green, purple, blue monsters spilling from the train, tearing the flesh—
Shaking your head, you exhale. Okay it doesn’t hit you like a train, but rather like… like a plane, or something heavy hitting. Maybe a car or something—okay enough of that, just… go to sleep.
You peek over your shoulder once more to look at Gojo, but he’s turned away from you slightly. He really isn’t looking at you. Fine by you. You’re just going to sleep, or try to anyway.
You shift on the jacket once again, skulls rattling under it, making your entire body vibrate, just enough to feel it. It’s almost like a mosquito buzzing past every few seconds with its high pitched bzzzz that makes you snap your eyes wide open once you hear it.
Sighing out through your nose, you stretch out a little, your toe sliding of the cool velvet lining of Gojo’s jacket and onto the gritty texture of one of the skulls. It’s not colder by any means, but the difference in textures throws you off slightly.
The longer you try to fall asleep, the more restless you get. Peeking an eye open, you look at Gojo, who’s sitting upright with his arms crossed, biceps bulging in his shirt as his head is leaned back, blindfold back on. You’re not sure how he’s just… asleep like that—like there aren’t tens of skulls rattling both underneath and behind him.
He looks rather peaceful like this, eyes no longer shifting around, looking around the room for an out. No he’s relaxed like this, tension slowly bleeding out from his form, making him sag a bit more than he has let himself ever since the two of you got trapped in here.
Smiling, you turn around again, trying to see if you can sleep on your other side, like that maybe, maybe would help. The moment you do, though, a riiiippp can be heard through the endless space the two of you occupy.
A scream immediately tears itself from your throat, airway getting constricted slightly as your pulse hammers in your ears. The sound reminding you of all that has happened today, and what if something happened to you—you can feel something dig into your toe, straining against it, and you’re almost a hundred percent sure something just tore your toe clean off.
The skulls. The skulls are biting you. They don’t just rattle, why would they just rattle, that doesn’t make sense. They have thrown Gojo in here to let him die—not to just trap him, but to die in this god forsaken prison—the skulls are alive. Oh god, oh god they’re alive. They’re going to eat the two of you, eat you until you’re nothing more than just bones yourselves—
“Hey, hey… it’s okay, nothing happened,” Gojo murmurs, crouched in front of you now. He isn’t touching you, but his blindfold is off as he looks at you with that concerned, cerulean gaze of his, the same eyes that have had that look in them since you got here. “Nothing happened.”
“My toe,” you whimper out, heart still hammering against your chest as you refuse to look down at the damage—at the fact that you can feel something cutting into the flesh. You just cannot handle seeing another injury.
Fat tears are starting to roll down the apples of your cheeks as you take shaky inhales. They don’t fill your lungs completely, having you gasping for air more and more, until you’re completely ventilating. Panic courses through your veins as your hands clamp down onto Gojo’s forearms, whispering about your toe being gone.
Gojo says your name then, in a tone you only hear when a parent is trying to calm their child down. “Nothing happened to your toe. No injury. No blood. Your fishnets ripped, that’s what you heard—what you’re feeling right now is the nylon straining against your skin.”
Shaky pupils find themselves toward your own feet, swallowing the nausea down as you try to confirm what he’s saying. And sure enough, there’s no blood to be seen. No actual injury as you originally thought there was, just your own fishnets pinching your toe.
“Just take them off, that way they can’t be ripped any further,” Gojo says after a while, when he notices your breathing pattern return to normal.
“Huh?” you mumble out, still looking at your toes, wiggling them for good measure—trying to see if everything still works as expected. To see that they’re really still attached to your foot rather than having been cut off.
“The fishnets, take them off. This is the second time they ripped, and you’ve clearly had a flashback both times,” he clarifies, blue eyes still trained on your form with concern.
Swallowing, you give a shaky nod, before you realise you’re still holding onto his forearm—fingers absolutely digging into the flesh, leaving behind angry marks, and you’re pretty sure you punctured the skin on some places.
A gasp leaves your mouth as you quickly retract your hands. Mouth opening to apologise over and over again, Gojo holds a hand up, cutting you off from even thinking of doing such a thing. “It’s fine, really. Just a few marks. This is nothing I haven’t endured before.”
He wont mention the fact that he was on the brink of death once, torso and neck having been slashed open, blood pooling around him as he focused his cursed energy on his neck while he used RCT to regenerate himself. There’s still a faint scar on his chest from it, but no one ever sees it, for good reasons.
Biting on your lip, you just look at him for a little bit. He really isn’t easily startled—not with you throwing up, nor with the blood or now with the fact that you’ve accidentally hurt him.
“Can you turn around?” you finally whisper, because if you have to take the fishnets off, you have to take the entire bunny costume off, which isn’t something you had planned on doing for the night unless it was in your own apartment where you were alone — which is also why you didn’t mind going commando under the costume, choosing to forgo pasties or skin-colored tights. The costume was too high-cut to even consider wearing panties, so that didn’t help, either.
He raises a brow, but quickly does as he’s asked. Back towards you, you just look at him for a few seconds, looking at the way his muscles bulge under his fitted tee, even though he isn’t actively flexing. It’s not something you noticed when he had his jacket on, but then again, you didn’t notice much when he still had it on—too busy freaking out and everything.
“You’re aware I can feel your gaze on me, right?” he teases you without turning around, still staring straight ahead at the skulls on the other side on the room. Heat immediately rushes to your face as you look away from him and down to your own costume.
Standing up, you try to get the stupid thing off, but it’s harder than you expected, taking embarrassingly long for you to get it off to take off the fishnets. When you finally do, you heavy out a sigh as if you’ve done ten hours of manual labour, instead of taking off a costume.
After removing the fishnets, you just stand there for a minute—butt naked, behind a stranger you’ve known for a total of… what, thirteen hours? You’re not sure how much time has passed, but all you know is that it’s weird for you to be in this predicament.
Looking down, you see the costume. Right, you have to get it back on again. Well, shit… Huffing and groaning you put it back on, but you can’t properly get to the zipper that’s on your back—your friend helped you get ready earlier, and now you’re trying to do it alone, hands bent at an awkward angle as you try to find the zipper.
You look to your right, where Gojo is still not looking at you. Fuck it… clearing your throat, you try to get his attention, which you note that you have when he hums under his breath. “Can you… help me zip this up?”
Warmth blooms on your face once again as you hold up the top part of your costume to prevent your breasts from spilling out of the slutty thing. It really isn’t helping that this was your costume of choice for the evening.
Gojo turns around to look at you, one snowy brow raised, but he stands up himself. Fingers warm against your skin, you jolt slightly at the feeling, touch still being a trigger for you as you try to calm yourself damn. Zipping you up, he tugs on the zipper slightly before whispering a “done”.
Clearing your throat, you step back. the two of you awkwardly stand there for a few more seconds before you motion toward the jacket on the floor. “I’m just… gonna try to sleep.”
“Mhmm,” he murmurs as he watches you drop to the floor and roll onto your side—away from him. Gojo goes to sit down, forearms perched on top of his knees which he’s brought to his chest. Luckily it doesn’t take you long to fall asleep this time.
He’s been eyeing you ever since you fell asleep. The twisting and turning didn’t stop, even after sitting just a bit closer to you. Your bare legs brush over the skulls and skeletons
He still feels guilty that all he could offer was a jacket. Sure, it’s a big jacket, bigger than most, and it does act as a sort of blanket for you, but you’re still barely dressed. Halloween night normally is one of the busier nights for sorcerers, the scares and fright of people attracting more and more curses, but this one he didn’t see coming.
While he’s glad you’re in here with him, he also feels like it’s unfair to you that you got dragged into something, a world that you weren’t even supposed to be in, even less of all know of.
Sure, he knows with how many people died that the government couldn’t suppress the fact that there are sorcerers out there in the world, but he does wonder how they’re going to phrase it.
He snaps out of his thoughts when he hears you start to mumble in your sleep. Frantic ‘no’s’ falling from your lips as a small, sheen layer of sweat starts to form on your body. You start to twist and turn even more now, the jacket crinkling under your body, and he wonders if he should wake you up.
Before he can even do that, you wake up with a gasp, eyes wide, as a small scream leaves your lips. Gojo is in front of you in a second, reassuring that it was all a dream—well, that you’re not living in that horrible nightmare right now. He unfortunately can’t help with the fact that whatever you dreamt about really did happen.
So he’s trying to comfort you, your arms wrapped around his waist as you sob into his chest. Fingers clenched into the fabric of his t-shirt. It dampens where you press your face, but he doesn’t even feel it, merely keeping himself busy with trying to calm you down.
The two of you sit there for a long time, long enough for you to have stopped crying, eyes completely red as dried tear tracks streak your face.
He can see the way your blinking is starting to slow down again, but every time your eyes close for more than a second, you jolt upright again, frantically looking around the room.
“Go lay down,” he whispers, looking at the way you’re trembling. Swallowing, you shakily nod, hair and those stupid bunny ears swaying with the motion as you go to lay down. He grabs your hand and puts it around his wrist, pressing your thumb right over his pulse point. “Go on, sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
There’s slight mistrust in your eyes, but you do as he says. Your breathing slows down slightly after a few minutes, thumb digging a bit harder into his wrist as your subconscious slips away from you.
Gojo stays like that, sitting upright while you keep ahold of him in your sleep, small, angry crescents left behind in his skin where you’re unconsciously digging into his skin. While you keep waking up every odd hour or so, it’s definitely better than it was before. Plus, it’s only the first night after something so traumatic happened, so he can’t blame you.
The bags under your eyes are horrible, but at least you got some sleep. Gojo on the other hand, didn’t get in more than an hour of sleep, but he doesn’t mind. If it’s anything he’s good at, it’s going without sleep for days on end. His title as being the Strongest unfortunately also comes with things people don’t even think twice about.
Days are spent in silence, neither of you really saying anything when you’re awake. You’ve let go of him somewhere on day three, his skin all red and angry, but he once again reassured you that everything is okay.
Eventually, after what you think is five days, the two of you get to talking. Surprisingly it’s Gojo who begins the conversation. “Remember what I said about you being a non-sorcerer?”
You turn toward him, your hair all messy from where you kept tossing and turning in your sleep. You’ve carded your fingers through it countless of times, but it keeps that slightly static-y look to it—his jacket, as nice as it is, does not do any wonders to your hair.
“Mhmmm, still don’t know what that means,” you answer, looking him in the eye. He’s removed his blindfold, the fabric hanging around his neck as his bangs fall over his forehead.
“You ever believed in wizards?” What a weird question. Sure, when you were younger you did believe in it, but when you grew up you realised that magic was nowhere to be found in real life. It was like Santa got taken away from you for a second time, honestly.
He continues after he sees you nod your head, going on a whole spiel about how there are these people that are called sorcerers. People with cursed techniques—abilities, essentially—that are fueled by cursed energy—negative emotions that forms into a sort of energy that the sorcerers can use for said abilities.
It’s a ridiculous story, really, and you interrupt him multiple times during it, but you don’t prevent him from talking. And he can see the way you doubt him, eyeing him as if he’s gone insane.
But then again, you are trapped inside a room full of skeletons that are moving. Not only that, from the outside it’s a weird, flesh contraption with eyes on them that follow your every move. So maybe it isn’t as crazy as it actually seems.
Gojo goes into detail about what curses and sorcerers are, and why they exist in the first place. It’s nice in the way that it keeps your mind off everything that has happened the past week.
The conversation lasts days, mainly because you don’t really believe him and keep trying to talk about how cool it would be to actually have powers. Which Gojo sighs at, because he really does have powers!! He just… can’t use them in here.
At one point you’d snorted at him and told him he was just a shitty math wizard—blue and red and hollow purple and Infinity and whatever else kinda math he had to do for his powers to work—which he faked being offended at, only to laugh about later.
You also learned that this prison isn’t specifically made for Gojo, but it has been specifically used to seal him. And in the process, you somehow also got sealed—something he still isn’t sure about how that happened in the first place.
With Gojo being the Strongest and everything, they just wanted him out of the way to enact their plan; whatever that may be.
In the span of a week you’ve learned everything there is to know about curses and sorcerers, sometimes having Gojo re-explain something because you didn’t really understand it or simply because you forgot something.
There’s a whole world out there co-existing with the ‘normal’ one without anyone knowing. It honestly fascinates you a little. And hey, if Gojo made all of that up just to entertain you, kudos to him, because it certainly has you excited.
After getting to know lots about the sorcerer world, you start giving out details of your own life—what type of job you have, where you grew up, hell, you even told him all about your friends.
At the mention of your friends, the two of you fall silent for a bit. You’re not sure if they’re safe or if they had been slaughtered, but you don’t want to dwell on it too much. If they died, you just hope it was a quick and painless death. If they’re still alive, all you can hope is that they didn’t get scarred by the incident too much.
The conversations last, what feels like days on end. Sometimes you keep nodding off, head falling forward slightly as your hair falls in front of your face like a little curtain, before your brain supplies the repressed memories.
You always wake up with a scream, and every time Gojo is right there with you. You’ve also noticed that he doesn’t really sleep himself. Sure, there are times he nods off, but only for an hour or two before he’s awake again.
While you aren’t sure if he also has nightmares like you do, you do know that he doesn’t scream or startle awake like you do. It’s simply like a switch got turned off and on whenever he goes to sleep and wakes up; always sitting upright, arms crossed over his chest as he lets his head fall back against the skulls.
Time in here feels odd in general. The same type of light shines down on you two constantly. There’s no way of knowing if it’s day or night, and Gojo every so helpful decided to tell you that time just doesn’t flow here—whatever the fuck that means—because his Eyes told him that.
Well in a way you’re glad that time doesn’t pass, because it means you don’t starve to death, but it also makes you feel all the more isolated.
Whenever you and Gojo aren’t talking, the silence feels suffocating. The rattling of bones and the snapping of the jaws makes you pick the skin around your fingers—something Gojo has scolded you for because the blood always takes you right back to the train station.
At one point in time, Gojo has told you that you two could just sleep together. When you’d looked at him with this scandalised look in your eyes, he quickly clarified that you two could just hold each other. Not in a sexual way, but because it clearly helps whenever you hold his wrist when you go to sleep.
Yes, that’s something you still do months later. Sure, you and him have gotten closer together to a point of being actual friends—well that’s what you like to believe anyway—but it’s still one thing to hold his wrist at night, and another of him actually holding you.
Eventually you relented, the position awkward at first. You’d tried to sleep, but each inhale and brush of his chest against your back just made you more and more aware of him actually holding you. While, yes, it did kind of calm you down, it absolutely was no help with getting to fall asleep.
Once you did fall asleep however, it was… better. The dreams weren’t as vivid as they once were, dulling to something more manageable. You slept for longer periods on end, not waking up as much during the night. (Was it even considered night?)
It also seemed to help Gojo. While you’re not sure if he always slept, it was clear that he was at least resting more. His breathing evening out while he relaxed slightly.
And with that, time seemed to pass fairly quickly. You’d long since stopped counting, but if you had to make a guesstimate, you’d say it’s been around two years since the two of you had been trapped in this hell-hole.
All you could hope is that it wouldn’t be much longer, because the loneliness—despite being in here with Gojo—had started to get to you a little.
“C’mon, enough sulking around. Why don’t you teach me how to fight?” You nudge Gojo with your toe, the fabric of his jeans soft under your flesh. He’s been sitting there, zoning out for the past few days. The two of you haven’t moved much, and you didn’t really mind, but right now you were bored out of your mind—you have been for the past… year, honestly.
His head lazily lolls to the side, bangs swooping across his forehead as those ceruleans find your form. They’re slightly lidded, hazed over with a boredom you’ve been seeing too much lately.
The two of you have shared a lot of stories… a lot. And it isn’t weird that the two of you eventually also had nothing new to talk about, considering you’ve been stuck in here for years. Curses, childhoods, everything and anything was shared to the point you had even tried to talk about other things, such as mangas, but eventually you even ran out of things to say about those.
A lazy hum slips from his lips, not even bothering to really move. Sure, you didn’t particularly want to train, much less spar with the strongest sorcerer alive—though you’re a hundred percent sure he would go easy on you—but you’d do anything to feel less bored.
Nudging him a little harder, you try to get him to actually reply, make him stand up and teach you how to fight for when the two of you get out of here. “Seriously, what if we have to fight once this realm opens and I just don’t know how to even defend myself?”
“Then I’ll just protect you from whatever’s trying to attack you,” he easily replies, blinking slowly as a yawn escapes from his lips. You’re not sure how long the two of you have been awake for, but you do know it hasn’t been long enough for him to be yawning like that. “I am The Strongest, after all.” He supplies.
“Yeah, well, ‘The Strongest’ is currently stuck in a box, so the least he can do is teach me how to defend myself,” you huff out. Going to stand up, you wipe away invisible dust, feeling the way your skin is indented where you were sat on the skulls.
The velvet of Gojo’s jacket is nice, and it keeps you from actually feeling the gritty material of the bones, but sitting for hours or days on end still makes your flesh almost mold to the shape of the bones.
You can see the way Gojo rolls his eyes at your statement, still not bothering to get up. He’s told you before that you should just meditate and keep your mind empty in order not to go insane. Unluckily for him, you can’t do that sort of stuff for too long on end, because surprise surprise, you still get bored.
It also doesn’t help that you still have nightmares. While it has happened years ago at this point, you still remember what happened on the train platform like it was yesterday, and your heels that lay abandoned in the far corner of the room are an ever present reminder of it.
The red almost hurts to look at, and you quickly snap your gaze away from them. The splatters of blood do not help your mentals whatsoever, so you turn back to the only other (living) person in this room.
Bending at the waist, you grab a hold of Gojo’s arm, trying to haul him up. A grunt leaves your lips as you put all your might in trying to get him up to spar with you, only for him to lay there, boneless. It’s like trying to pick up a toddler who doesn’t wanna be picked up—letting their entire body flop to the floor , not helping you at all.
“Come on you big oaf. Get. Up,” you grunt out as you plant your feet and try to put all your might in trying to get this lazy fuck to stand up.
Said lazy fuck unfortunately isn’t really a lazy fuck. He has been working out ever since the two of you got here. Not every day, but enough for him to build muscle. Before, he filled his tee out pretty nicely, more lean muscle than anything. Now? Now he’s buff, as if he crushes skulls for fun. He doesn’t, and can’t, not here anyway, but he looks like it.
You still remember the first time he dropped to the ground and just started doing pushups. No announcement, no sound, just dropped and started doing them as if it was normal. A few fays later, when his chest was starting to get more muscle and he could do more and more pushups, he started to ask you to sit on his back, give some extra weight. And you had done so.
Shaking away the thought, you pull once more, only for Gojo to give one, firm tug on your own arm. Toppling over, you squeak as you faceplant right in his chest. His arms wrap around your waist as he puts his chin on top of your head. “Or, we can just lay down and sleep.”
“Let go of me,” you wiggle in his grasp, and he tightens it slightly with a stubborn ‘no’. “Seriously, Gojo, we haven’t been awake for long enough to go back to sleep. Why are you so sleepy in the first place, you used to work out all the time.”
Your voice is slightly muffled by the fact that you’re currently pressed into his pecs, lips grazing against his tee with every syllable you utter.
“We’ve been awake long enough to take a nap,” he easily replies, though his voice sounds far away, like he’s thinking about something he isn’t currently voicing. His grip tightens a fraction. “Now stop squirming and close your eyes.”
“Promise me you’ll teach me how to fight after you wake up?” You ask him, finally stilling in his grip. Honestly, you couldn’t even put up a fight even if you wanted to. Sure, Gojo worked out, but you didn’t. You were used as weights for him whenever he needed you to—squats, bicep curls, sitting on his back when he did pushups, etc.
He just hums in reply, tracing small, nonsensical circles on your back. Rolling your eyes, you finally relent. “Fine, but I’m gonna hold you to that promise.”
Luckily you didn’t have to do any convincing when the two of you woke up from your nap. Gojo still had that far-away look in his eyes, but he at least got up.
Now the two of you are standing across from each other, just looking for a bit before he tells you how to adjust your stance properly. When he tells you, he also shows you, sometimes correcting your stance so you have proper form.
“All right, throw a punch at me,” he says, hands still in his pockets as he rocks on the balls of his feet slightly. Okay, just… throw a punch, nothing to be worried about. With a slight jab forward, you try to hit him right in the side, but Gojo only steps to the side, your arm not even grazing him. “Again.”
This continues for a while, you just trying to hit him while he boredly sidesteps all your attempts at hitting him. It’s only when sweat is starting to beat down your neck that he finally tells you to take a break.
Flopping down onto his jacket you let out a long, suffering groan. There’s slight movement beside you, before you can feel Gojo nudge you slightly. “Not bad.”
“Not bad? I didn’t even hit you once!” You turn your head to the side, watching him sit there with a slight smile on his face—the one you haven’t seen in ages.
He just looks at you, really looks. The way you’re sweating because you finally had a work out in… however long the two of you have been here. Little wisps of hair are sticking to your nape and forehead, a small layer of sheen glinting in the weird light that spills onto the two of you.
You noticed when he zoned out for too long, of course you did. The two of you have been stuck here long enough to know little tells from each other.
Just like he knows whenever you feel restless, a small finger twitch alongside the slight furrow in your brow is a dead giveaway. Or when you’re having a nightmare again. It isn’t as bad as it used to be, but he still knows when you’re having a bad dream. Always pulling you closer, stroking your spine whenever you begin to toss and turn next to him. It’s something he found out after a year of being here.
He still had his horrible sleep schedule ingrained in him, only having slept for four to five hours a day for as long as he can remember, so he was awake most of the times you were asleep. Now, he sleeps through the night. Well… whatever you can call the night.
Time doesn’t flow here, so it’s difficult to know just how much time has passed, but he does know that he sometimes wales up after you do, which surprised him when it first happened. You had a small smile on your face as you muttered about him being a sleepyhead.
It felt… nice, honestly. Not having any responsibilities for the first time since he was born. That doesn’t mean he likes it in here, though. As much as he likes your company, he’d much rather be with his family—his students and colleagues.
That’s been something he’s been thinking about lately, and he knows you’ve noticed. His mood has gone down significantly, and you’re trying anything and everything to not get him to think whatever he’s thinking of, but it’s hard not to.
He fucked up when he got captured, like really fucked up. And now his students and colleagues alike have to free him. How ironic, the strongest merely reduced to nothing because he was caught off-guard. Memories of a certain black-haired friend flash through his mind.
While Gojo has shared a lot about himself and his students, there are things he hasn’t shared with you. Such as what happened for him to get captured like this—the real reason why he got captured, not the one he gave you. While it’s true he got caught off-guard, he never told you about Suguru. And maybe it’s better you don’t know.
But it all makes him think, makes him doubt things. Sure, the two of you will get rescued eventually, his students will succeed in that, that much he’s certain of. But will people only get him out of here because he’s the strongest, or also because he’s Gojo Satoru, the man beneath the legend.
He eyes you again. You’re kicking your feet a little while you grumble something at him, poking him in his thigh for emphasis, but you’re not actually mad.
You, maybe the only person who has actually seen him—the real him that he closed off ten years prior. Sure he hasn’t told you everything about his childhood, but he hasn’t done that to anyone. It’s simply not something people needed to know.
If you two had met before this whole incident, would you have come to save him—despite being a non-sorcerer—because he’s Gojo Satoru, or because he’s the Strongest?
With a defeated sigh, he lets his head fall back against the skulls. The rattling of them makes his mind run rampant, but it’s not something he can help. It’s been running amok for these past few days. It’s what you noticed in him when you told him to spar you. Sure, it’s a good idea for you to actually be able to defend yourself, would the two of you ever get out of this prison, but he also knows it’s a distraction tactic.
What he doesn’t expect is for you to so forcefully poke his leg he has to jerk it away with a hiss. You’re pointing to the other side of the room where one of the skeleton lay. “Keiko just told me you didn’t teach me shit, so stop zoning out and get up so you can properly teach me this time.”
Wait what now? Keiko? Who the fuck is Keiko? And why are you acting as if there’s anything here that can talk to you other than him. Maybe the time in this realm has you finally losing your marbles a little. “Keiko?”
“Yes while you were moping around these last few days, I made some friends,” you finally stand up again, walking over to the skeleton you were pointing at. “This is Keiko, she knows martial arts. And she just told me you didn’t do shit, so get your ass up and fight me.”
Right, okay so you have gone crazy. Maybe it’s the lack of water after you worked out. Your brain deprived from the fact that you were sweating and not getting any liquids into your body. But then again, he has worked out here before without a problem.
“Right… Keiko. And who are the rest of your friends?” He slowly asks, because you did say you had multiple of them.
Your face lights up as you quickly go to arrange the skeletons, they rattle in your hold, not quite sitting upright, falling to the side before you put them against the wall with a huff and a pointed finger that says ‘stay right there’.
Once you’ve arranged five skeletons, you turn back to him, hair swaying wildly as you stretch your arms out. “meet your new friends! Keiko, as I've already told you. Then we have Sota. Sota likes to teach ballroom dances, great teacher if you ask me, unlike someone I know—”
You eye him then, lip slightly curled up in mock seriousness. Gojo just rolls his eyes and points to the skeleton next to “Harry”.
“—Right okay, so this is Akari. She makes candles. We should buy some from her, support small businesses and shit.”
He almost snorts at that. Yeah, you’re definitely off your rockers, and this just confirms it, but he lets you continue introducing the last two skeletons to him.
The first one is a doctor, and when he asks you what type of doctor it is, you just throw your hands up and tell him you don’t know because the skeleton refuses to tell you because it would be a HIPPA violation!
That, he does genuinely chuckle at. The sound foreign to his own ears when it slips out from between his lips. He can see the way you pause then, eyes softening at the sound of his laugh. A small smile graces your own lips, eyes crinkling slightly.
After a few moments, you finally point at the last skeleton with a flourish. “And this over here, is Tomoe. She’s a sorcerer whose powers are necromancy!”
“Cursed Technique, first of all. Second of all, that’s not how a technique works. C’mon, Bunny, I tried to teach you this so many times. You can’t just work with the dead if you were to infuse them with cursed energy.”
You huff at that, letting your head fall back with a groan, and Gojo swears you stomp your feet a little like you’re throwing an actual tantrum. “Oh my goooodd, you’re such a buzzkill! Tomoe said she’s a necromancer, so she shall be a necromancer.”
“Well she wasn’t a very good necromancer if she ended up dead,” Gojo sarcastically replies.
Crossing your arms over your chest, you pout at him. “Everyone dies eventually! Just because she worked with the dead doesn’t mean she couldn’t die.”
“Why couldn’t she just be a pediatrician or something?” Gojo asks then, genuinely curious. Why would you choose the skeleton to be a sorcerer out of all things when you have a real one right in front of you? And the Strongest one at that.
“Because she told me she was a sorcerer!” You whine, annoyed that he isn’t just fucking listening to you. “And just so you know, Tomoe doesn’t like you and said they would win in a one v one against you.”
“You’re insane, you know that, right?” Gojo mumbles out as he sees you carefully put all of the skeletons back to where they were laying before.
Turning around, you dust off your hands and walk straight up to him. Putting your hands on your hips, you look down on him. “Insanely funny, thank you very much. You’re just jealous of the fact that I made friends in here other than you.”
“Mhmmm, friends that can’t talk to you while you have a living, breathing one sitting right here,” he rolls his eyes at you. And you smile at that, because he seems almost jealous of the fact that you ‘made friends’. Obviously all of this was just to get him out of that funk he’s been in these past couple of days, and it does seem like it worked, even if only a little bit.
Sitting down next to him, you nudge him with your shoulder. He hums, a sound that comes deep from within his chest. “You doing okay, Satoru?”
It takes him a bit to respond, eyes tracing over the skeletons you just used. They’re neatly arranged, put back together, and it makes his chest a bit tighter. You care so much about menial stuff, and it makes him feel incredibly soft.
“Yeah, just… room is getting to me a little.” He vaguely gestures to the thousands of rattling skulls, not really saying anything. But you hear it loud and clear; he’s feeling lonely, isolated even, and you can’t blame him for feeling that way. It sucks being stuck in this prison for so long, despite the two of you keeping each other company.
Letting your head gently fall onto his shoulder, your fingers find his, giving his hand a slight squeeze. “We’ll get through it, together,” you whisper.
You can feel his shoulder relax a bit. Exhaling through his nose, he gives a small kiss to the crown of your head. “Together.”
He wakes up in a cold sweat, heart racing from the nightmare he just had. His mind is still reeling from it as he sits up, his back pressed against the wall, the rattling of the skulls absolutely not helping him right now.
He can see you sit up from the corner of his eyes, concern etched all over your face as you try and touch his knee. Jerking it away, he puts his hands in his hair, running his fingers through the white locks as his fingers tremble.
You’re calling out to him, he can see your lips move, almost as if it’s in slow motion. Hands kept meticulously to yourself, but still hovering over him. He can hear the way you’re calling out his name, but it comes out all warbled and distorted.
Breath comes harder now, chest heaving up and down as he looks around the room. Skulls blur together until he can’t see them individually anymore. Six Eyes is overloading his senses, even as he squeezes his eyes shut.
Pulling up his knees, he puts his head down between them, fingers still at the back of his hair, almost ripping out the hairs. The oxygen in the room feels thin, as if his lungs aren’t filling correctly.
Inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale. inhale exhale inhale. exhale. inhale inhale exhale inhale. His breath stutters with every intake, chest absolutely quaking as a tear slips from his eyes. His entire body is now trembling—or maybe it’s because of the rattling skulls beneath him.
Gentle fingers cup his jaw, forcing his head up. Your face is blurry, but the concern is right there. “Satoru, what’s going on?”
Opening his mouth to answer, he chokes out a sob. You coo at him to take it easy and that he just needs to focus on his breathing. When you finally utter the words panic attack, he nods his head in agreement.
“Okay… okay, uhh— shit I don’t know! Think about something that makes you happy, maybe?” you’re getting more frantic now. You’ve never seen someone have a panic attack before, so you’re not sure what you should do. The only thing that comes to mind is that people put little bags to their mouths to breathe into, but you guys obviously don’t have that here.
When he shakes his head, pupils shaking as another tear escapes, you swear. Looking around the room, you’re trying to find something, anything for him to help his mind get off this. “Okay, just— try and slow your breathing for me, okay? Here, breathe with me.”
You put one of his hands on your chest as you take a big inhale of breath, trying to get him to at least get some oxygen in his system, but after a few failed attempts, it’s clear that that isn’t going to work.
“Satoru I need you to look at me and give me a clear answer, okay? I need your breathing to calm down, and I read somewhere that if I slapped the person it would shock them out of it—“
“What?” he croaks out, the words not fully comprehending in his mind.
“Yeah… it’s a bit rude but if it helps I’m willing to do it, so tell me if—”
“No slapping, no…” he whimpers, folding in on himself once again. He jolts slightly from where he’s sitting, almost as if he can feel something that isn’t there. Maybe an old memory or something like that, because his breathing starts to get more erratic than before.
“Okay, okay. No slapping, got it. Uhhhh…. fucking why is that the only thing I’ve ever picked up from watching tv. Okay would it help if I just talked to you, maybe that would calm you down? Or I could hold you like you did me—”
Before you can even continue rambling on about the—limited—possibilities, Satoru wraps his arms around you, burying his face into your neck as he hyperventilates. Your hands are laying limp by your sides before you carefully put on into his hair and the other on his back.
“Hey, you’re fine,” you whisper into his ear, carding your fingers through his hair. Going to properly sit, you maneuver the two of you so he can properly cling onto you. “Wanna tell me what brought this on?”
He mumbles something into your collarbone, voice muffled, and you can’t hear exactly what he’s saying. “Sorry, can you say that again?”
“‘Was alone,” he hiccups out, breath still erratic as he whimpers. Your hands stop their movement for a second before they resume their ministrations. He got a panic attack because he had a nightmare that he was alone?
“You’re not alone now, Satoru,” you put your cheek on top of his head. “I’m here y’know.”
You’re not sure how long the two of you sit there for, time flows weird in here anyway, but after a while his breathing finally goes back to normal, a few tears dried on his cheeks as he slowly but surely lets go of you.
Tilting your head down, you look him into the eye. “You okay?” you whisper, almost as if you’re afraid to break the moment and have him have another attack. Luckily he doesn’t, but he does shock you by leaning forward and putting his lips onto yours.
It’s soft in a way you didn’t expect it to be—lips a bit chapped, but nothing unbearable—as he leans in further. You let yourself get lost in it for a second too long, a second that lets you forget all about the rattling skulls and the isolation and the fact that you’ve been here for years already, if you had to guess.
But when his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you finally pull back, lips parted, eyes wide as you look at him. The person you’ve been stuck here with for what seems like an eternity. The one they call the strongest because he has powers that trump everyone else’s.
He’s seen you at your most vulnerable moments, the ones where you woke up screaming and crying. Held you through it all, telling you it’s okay to let it all out, that it’s okay to feel this way after everything that happened.
Now it’s your time to see him at his most vulnerable. His lashes flutter open, little tear droplets still clinging to his white lashes, eyes slightly red as he looks like a kicked puppy. A small breath leaves his kiss-bitten lips, swollen and red, glossy by his own spit.
“Just help me forget… please,” he whimpers out, hands uselessly clenching beside him as he stares you down. “Let me know I’m not just making you up.”
It’s something he did when he was younger—making up friends, playing with them whenever he was alone in his room, having completed the training for the day. There weren’t many things that he owned, just a blanket he got to keep and his bottle of water.
Heart beating out of his chest, like it wants to claw itself out and present itself to you. Present the ugly truth that he’s kept hidden about his childhood—how empty and hollow his heart is. Blood pouring down his fingers as he would give it to you.
Would you caress it, or would you crush it between your dainty fingers? Put your teeth in it and rip a chunk out of it? The same way all of the people in his life have done until now. Stomping, crushing, clawing at his heart until nothing was left.
Would your mouth be stained red as you would put your lips to the organ, pressing feather-light kisses to it, show the care that you have been showing ever since the two of you got stuck here? Or would you sink your teeth in them, make it hurt a little?
The same sort of red that you were covered in when this realm opened. Skin stained in crimson, bathed in the velvety color that was sticking to you.
So he represents it to you—his heart. Vulnerable and still beating despite having been locked up here with you. Will you accept it in your dainty hands, keep it warm for him. Or will you crush it by denying his one wish?
Do you finally see him for the monster he really is? The one that enjoys the fighting, enjoys ripping off the limbs of curses as they pop out of place. Sounds of flesh and curse tearing, the same way flesh tore back on the platform that was stained in red.
He sees the way your eyes look at him—really look, trying to confirm if he’s really asking you what you think he’s asking, seconds bleeding together, just like his bleeding heart trying to thump itself out of his ribcage. He would tear it open for you, show you just how sincere he’s being.
There’s a slight change in the way you look at him, like you’re starting to really see the Gojo Satoru underneath the persona he’s been wearing all his life. The one who’s afraid of the dark, afraid of being alone, even when the room is full of people, the one who can’t let himself cry, because he’s the strongest.
“Is that what you want?” you finally breathe out, biting on your lip slightly as you can’t look away from him. The person who you’ve been stuck with for what seems like an eternity, asking you to help him forget by giving himself all of you.
There’s a slight pang that goes through your heart as you think about it. Snow-white hair falls into his eyes, but he holds your gaze. Bright blue eyes holding your gaze as he shows you him at his most vulnerable—the part he hasn’t shown you in years.
Buried beneath all the layers of faux-confidence and self-assuredness is just a boy who is trying to keep himself together, keep himself sane in this prison that makes you want to cry and scream and lash out.
A shaky nod escapes him, snow-white hair bouncing up and down with the motion, one of the skulls shifting under his grip, fingers white from how hard he’s digging them into the poor thing. For a moment you think it might crack under pressure—his finger, not the skull. You’ve long since found out that the skulls are indestructible.
Blood rushes up your cheeks, spreading warmth over your face and chest as you finally lean forward, softly putting your pillowy lips onto his again. So soft, he almost can’t believe you are touching him again, not helping with the feeling that you’re just some part of his imagination he’s had since he was all but a small boy.
Shifting around, he leans back against the wall of skulls, rattling against his back. The feeling real in a time where everything feels like sand slipping through his fingers, time bleeding out before his mind gives out.
Gripping your hips, he puts you onto his lap. Your weight settles on top of him, thighs bracketing his, skin soft and dimpling under the tight grip he has—all real. Real, real, real. You’re real. The soft hitch of your breath as he presses his mouth further against you is so real. Heart beating out of your chest in an erratic rhythm, also real.
But it’s not enough. Not enough for him to forget his childhood, the one he so desperately wants to forget especially in times like these. Not enough for him to know that you’re real and not just made up, the flesh under his fingers dimples the way it should, feels the way it should, but what if he’s just imagining it.
Digging his nails in further, you gasp out into his mouth, hips jerking on top of him as they pierce the skin. Blood rushing down, reddening the skin. Droplets of red stain his nails, sliding underneath them, burying themselves in the cuticles as a reminder that this is it.
Your own nails dig themselves into his shoulders, not enough to break the skin, but enough to leave behind your own marks.
Tongues clashing in a battle of dominance, he suuucks on it, tasting your saliva. That part that doesn’t belong to him, telling him that it’s enough. Sharp canines find themselves into your bottom lip, pulling on it slightly, biting just a bit too hard, puncturing the skin.
It leaves behind a smear of red on his own lip, which he licks off with a groan. The copper taste filling his mouth, painting him in crimson before he surges forward again, lips melding together in a fight that neither of you know how to stop now that it’s been started.
Messy, that’s what this is. The clash of teeth and tongue, spit and blood mixing together. It’s on your lips and chin, dribbling down it before Gojo leans down and licks it up,leaving behind a pink trail on your skin before he finally dips his head down further.
Pillowy soft lips land onto your neck, kissing and biting the skin as he marks you up. Red blooming under his mouth as he trails it down to your collarbones. Your head falls back, giving him more access, fingers twining into his hair, pulling on it when he nips at your skin again and again.
Leaving behind marks in his wake, he finally looks up at you. The way your pupils are blown out and eyes half-lidded. Blood on your skin, just like when you got here, only this time your own rather than someone elses.
Bringing his thumb up, he smears it all over your lips, watching the way it spreads. It’s messy. It’s beautiful. He can feel his cock jump in its confinements, pressing up against your heat.
Your lips wrap around his digit, muscle swirling around it as you lap the red, sticky substance from his finger. And if that wasn’t enough to get him over the edge, the way you bite on it, making a small pinprick on the pad of his finger, certainly is.
With a growl he flips the two of you around. Your bare shoulders find themselves onto the skulls, hair shaking underneath you in a small halo. The sight of you so… marked does something to him; makes his heart beat a bit faster in his ribcage, almost knocking on it to get out. Blood rushing through his veins as he just stares for a moment.
Finally he leans down, suckling softly on the exposed part of your breast. The parts where your bunny costume doesn’t cover your soft flesh. Marking it up, leaving behind blooming bruises and teeth-indentations in its wake.
He just bites and bites and sucks, until he finally gets to the fabric. Pulling it down with his teeth, one of your breasts spills free, nipple immediately hardening to the air in this god-forsaken place.
“You look beautiful,” he almost groans out, looking at your face twist up in pleasure as he wraps his lips around your hard peak. Swirling his tongue around the bud, he lathers it up in his saliva, leaving behind a small sheen on your skin, before he gently bites into it.
Mewling out, you wrap your legs around his waist, fingers tightening in his hair as your back arches from the uncomfortable skulls beneath you.
When he had asked to forget, you didn’t realise he would absolutely devour you in the process. But you’re not complaining about it even one bit. It’s the first time in forever you felt something different than that ever-present dread that has settled deep in your belly since you first got here.
That feeling has been replaced by warmth shooting through your core, absolutely throbbing around nothing as blue eyes stare up at you, drinking in every reaction he’s pulling out of you.
His lips are red, dried blood starting to crust on his chin as he finds your other nipple. He twists and turns it with his teeth, pulling on the bud before soothing it with a lap of his tongue. The sting leaves you hissing out, but you don’t tell him to stop.
Your hips roll up, brushing against his bulge that’s twitching with need. Your core is hot and heavy, fabric clinging to your folds. There’s a small layer of sweat that’s starting to form on your skin, leaving him with this mix of copper and salt in his mouth.
A small sting on his tongue makes him hiss out, a droplet of sweat entering a small wound he didn’t know he had, before he smiles at the feeling—the feeling of him feeling something, proof that he isn’t fading away.
Cock stirring in his pants, he grinds down onto you. The swell of your breast presses against his cheek as you mewl out, pulling his head down to meet your skin. The flesh soft against the apple of his cheek, hair brushing against your skin as he puts his forehead onto your chest.
“Need you inside of me,” you say—and it’s the first thing you’ve asked from him in what feels like hours. There’s another roll of his hips, bulge catching your clit over the fabric, and it has you positively moaning out. “Please.”
And how can he say no to that? No to the person who makes him feel real, makes him feel seen. He would trust his heart with you, would look at you like you hung the moon with the way you so delicately hold onto it, like a baby bird with a broken wing.
Your hands tug on his hair, pulling him in, the same way he’s sure you would wrap your fingers around his ribs, pulling him in, cradling him against your body. Leaving behind a bloody mess of proof that everything is real.
Would you polish the bones? Make them clean until no blood remains? Crawl inside of him, keep him warm and company wherever he goes. The same warmth that wraps around him as he enters you in a swift movement.
Heart pumping in your hand as you cradle it closer to your chest, the way he’s pumping in and out of you right now.
Licking a broad stripe up his neck, you leave behind marks of your own. Porcelain skin cracking under your teeth, warmth blooming instantly. Pale skin turning red wherever you touch him, bleeding for you in the way his heart bleeds for you.
His lips meld with yours once more. Blood-red against blood-red. It’s something he didn’t know he needed, and it was in front of him all this time. You suck on his tongue, the same way your gummy walls suck him right back in whenever he pulls his hips back.
Clamping down on him, you shatter. A moan bleeds from your lips in the form of his name—not in the way he’s ever heard it before.
He spills inside of you with a stutter of his hips, your name leaving his lips before he kisses you once more. The sound overwhelming to him. Your warmth and his mixing together, until it all bubbles out of you.
There’s a moment where he wants to ask if you’d bleed for him, but he bites his tongue. Bleed you did, the evidence right there; even if it was just for him to forget for a little while—forget about him being Gojo Satoru. Right now he’s just Gojo Satoru, the man whose heart has been bleeding for almost three decades.
His tongue finds your core, lapping up your mixed juices. Red and milky white mixing together until it’s all pink, just like that cotton tail on your tailbone. Would you clean him like this—with your tongue, or would you take a different approach?
Collapsing against the ground, he pulls you onto his chest. A small, nagging voice in the back of his mind tells him he went too far. Marks bloom on your skin bright and fresh, but there’s a small smile gracing your lips.
“You think we have to wait much longer before we get out of here?” you whisper, voice a little hoarse from all the noises he pulled from you. He sighs into your hair, trying not to think about how much longer the two of you will be in this hell-hole. “I have no idea.”
listen i consider myself an empathic person but after a certain point i get sick of other people’s problems. my friend is always talking about how the jewel-eyed skull on their mantlepiece is tormenting them w its sinister beauty and im over it. like dude i don’t want to talk about this anymore. get rid of the fucking skull
contains: established relationship, pmsing, tit sucking and a massage but neither of it is sexual (they do mention sex), 2.3k words
“And then Jin had the audacity to suggest I was the one overreacting,” Sukuna huffs, shifting his weight. He's sprawled across the couch, his head pillowed comfortably in your lap. “Can you believe that? I’m literally just trying to look out for Yuj—”
He stops mid-rant, feeling a sudden, sharp hitch in your breathing. Above him, your face is pinched, your fingers tensing where they had been idly stroking his hair.
“You okay?” he asks, his annoyance at twin brother vanishing instantly, his girlfriend's discomfort taking precedence.
“Fine,” you murmur with a strained smile, ever the grit your teeth and bear it kind of person. “Just a bit of cramping. I'm due for my period in a day or two.”
He sits up immediately, his brow furrowed in focused concern. “Where does it hurt? Is it your back? Your stomach? Tell me so I can do something.”
“Ryo, really, it’s okay,” you insist, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll just take some ibuprofen later. You don't have to—”
“Absolutely not,” he cut you off, his tone leaving no room for polite refusal. “Show me where. If you're hurting, I'm helping.”
Before you can protest again, he sits up and pats his own lap firmly. “Up. Sit here. You’ve been playing ‘pillow’ for twenty minutes, it’s my turn to be the heating pad.”
Stubborn as ever, your eyes narrow in refusal but before you can voice it, a familiar, unkind jolt of pain ripples through your breasts, nipples prickling and sore.
With a hiss, you cup one, forgetting that they've been tender and extremely sensitive since yesterday. The touch has you shrinking away from your own palm as the uncomfortable ache worsens from it. You're glad that you don't use a bra at home to save you from unwanted restraint.
Your boyfriend notices and scoffs indignantly, arching a brow, eyes hooded in an unimpressed look. “That's where it hurts? What are you suddenly prudish around me or something? I've seen you naked plenty of times, I've helped you shave when you couldn't get everywhere. If my girls hurt, let me take care of them.”
Gaping, your face heats despite your ordeal. “Don't be so vulgar! That's not why. It's just another premenstrual symptom. I usually just wait it out.”
Big hand clasping around your wrist, he draws you over to him until you're straddling his lap, tits almost at eye level with him as he kisses his teeth in irritation, gaze flitting up to yours.
“And you're only telling me this now? You know I'm here to help, baby. I'm your boyfriend; you can use me.”
“That's not—Ryo!” You gasp when he lifts the hem of your oversized shirt—his actually—pulling it up and over your head, baring your upper body to him and the cool air of the living room.
“You can't just do that,” you squeak, scandalized while the pink-haired man rolls his eyes and gestures to himself.
“Relax, brat. I'm shirtless too.” His tanned, inked chest and abdomen are on full display, mouthwateringly defined and radiating an addictive warmth that rivals your heating pad.
“That's not the same thing. I can't strut around topless like a man can,” you retort with an eyeroll.
He lets out a sympathetic noise, fingers grazing your sides and making you visibly shiver which brings a smirk to his mouth at how cute that was.
“Such a shame. For others, not me,” he clarifies. “Now hush and let me be a good boyfriend, yeah?”
“Wait—”
Too late, he ducks his head and sticks the tip of his tongue out, licking over your pebbled nipple. It's odd honestly, having his hot, wet mouth on your tits outside of a sexual situation and because of the usual context, glancing down at him has you flushing at flashbacks of him latching onto them in that way, hunger that threatens to devour you whole in his gaze as he has a mouthful of you.
That look is nowhere to be found right now.
As if sensing your thoughts, Sukuna's scarlet eyes peer up at you, stealing your breath as he wraps his lips around the hardened bud and sucks softly, careful owing to your delicate state.
His cock twitches in his shorts at the sight of your bowed eyes and creased brows, the quiet breath you suck in and your half-lidded gaze boring into his. But he ignores it as it's just an involuntary reaction, a conditioning since he's primed to be aroused when you're like this, when he's doing this.
For today though, he's concentrated on your wellbeing so he mouths at your nipple in little kitten licks then flat, slightly pressured laps.
“Oh,” you breathe as if surprised that it's working, soothing the stinging localized pain. You'd admit that you should have told him about this sooner but don't want him to get all egotistical about it.
Instead you slip your fingers into his silky, coral locks, cradling his head deeper into the supple swells of your breasts which he hums in response, the sound thrumming through your chest and deep in your belly, heat pooling there despite your cramps.
Warm, wet sweeps of his tongue echo through the quiet room, the slick, sloppy noises making your head swim as he exhales balmy breaths against your skin.
A whimper stutters in your throat when his teeth scrape at your nipple and you wince, face crumpling in pain.
“Ryo,” you complain in a whine.
“I'm sorry, baby,” he apologises quickly, one side of his face crinkled in a grimace. “Force of habit.”
Hands on your hips, he pulls you back in, open-mouthed kisses dabbing across your chest in apology as his lips trail across it and close around your other nipple.
Suckling, his tongue swirls around the bud, the tip flicking at it and tracing the crevices in the tightened flesh of your areola. Palms sliding from your hips, his thumbs follow the line at the curve of your breasts then cup the soft mounds, jiggling them as he leans back.
“They feel heavier, fuller. Must hurt your back, hmm? The added weight?” He croons, eyes glazed and lips reddened from his ministrations.
Bottom lip jut out, you nod, basking in his attention unfortunately. You're spoiled and that's just how it is with Sukuna. God forbid a woman wants to be taken care of now and then.
Humming, his gaze drifts back down to your tits, thumbing your damp nipples that are drying now as he massages the fat of your mounds.
“My poor baby,” he laments.
That has you frowning. “I'm not poor, you idiot.”
Squeezing your tits lightly at the insult, he raises a rosy brow. “You know that's not what I meant.”
Tutting, you jut your chin. “Better not be. I make bank.”
He snorts at your offended response and goes back to his task at hand, shutting you up by dipping his head and sucking your nipples once more, relief melting your defenses as soft, wet, sweet licks glide across your skin again.
Back bowing, you press your tits into his face and he groans, inhaling your scent deeply, the soap and body cream making him lightheaded as he nuzzles his face in the valley of your breasts. Pecks are littered all over your chest, glistening kiss marks shining in the amber rays of the afternoon sun shining through the windows.
“Feeling better, baby?” he mumbles, looking up at you and making you breathless once again when you see his inky pupils spilling into the crimson of his irises.
"Starting to."
The thick, long line of his cock is straining between your thighs, your pussy clenching but the cramps gnawing at your lower stomach are too distracting to think about fucking right now.
Every airy gasp and dreamy sigh that passes your lips has his erection kicking and jerking beneath you and you go to rock on it, give it the reprieve of friction but he grumbles, palms landing on your thighs and squishing your plump flesh.
“Don't do that,” he says around your tit. “This is for you, not me. Leave the love boner alone.”
Amused by his adamant response, you relent, hands occupying themselves by scratching your manicured nails along his scalp and carding your fingers through his hair. You relish how he shudders and leans into your touch, mouth still working over your breasts..
The breeze from the opened windows cools the spittle on your skin from his tongue but it feels good, a nice change from the overwhelming heat of his body. As the pain seeps out of you, moans pour from your mouth, satisfied yet still pained from the cramps in your stomach.
Tingles of arousal shoot along his cock, precum bubbling at his slit which he pays no mind to, very much content with merely being of service to his girlfriend.
He can also hear that you're wet, the slippery clicks of your cunt from the slick there when your thighs parts and your folds gape with the instinctive bucks of your hips. There's also a distinct scent when you're aroused, something close to nectar or honey but deeper, richer that he can't quite place yet recognizes instantly.
A rumble comes from your chest when his rough, large palms land on your soft abdomen, like you're purring for him. Glancing up though his lashes, he revels at how droopy your eyes are, low and pleased.
His hands work in tandem with his mouth, kneading at your lower belly with his palms, watching your eyes slide shut, fingers pausing their combing on his head as you exhale a sweet sound of relaxation.
“You're so good at this, Ryo,” you murmur into his hair, cheek pressing to the side of his head now while his warmth curls in his chest from the praise.
“Anything for my baby,” he replies easily because it is so simple, almost reflexive to give you whatever you ask for. And if you add a please, he might just die.
The balls of his inked wrists rub into your navel and you keel over him, nearly smothering him in your tits and he groans, listening to your languid heartbeat thud right next to his cheek.
“Sorry,” you mutter sheepishly as you pull back.
Popping his mouth off your tit, his swollen lips tug into a shit-eating, drunken grin. “Don't be. Would've died happy.”
Clicking your tongue, you suppress a smile at his raspy chuckle, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
“Keep doing that and this boner is never going away.”
The look on your face is priceless. “From a forehead kiss?”
He knows it's one of the more innocent kisses but it's all the same to the head between his legs as he shrugs. “Love boner, remember?”
Begrudgingly, Sukuna had to hand it to Jin—the man knew his stuff. Even if he is the lamer, lankier and softer version of the tatted man. All those videos about how to take care of a woman came in handy now.
The apartment is draped in the gentle, ambient glow of the setting sun, the only sound the low hum of a distant heater Sukuna turned on. You lay propped against a mountain of pillows, stripped down to your panties, your face warming and your breath hitching every time a new wave of cramping tightened your core.
Sukuna sits beside you, his movements quiet and deliberate. He warms a pool of oil between his palms until the scent of lavender fills the space, then reaches out to find the tension beneath your skin.
He starts at your hips, his hands moving with the steady, rhythmic strength of a baker working a heavy leaven. He uses the heels of his hands to press into the flare of your hip bones, kneading the stubborn knots of muscle there until they begin to yield.
His thumbs traced deep, slow circles, sinking into the pressure points that always seem to carry the weight of your discomfort if your shaky, relieved moan that comes out louder than you expect is anything to go by.
As you begin to exhale, breathless and desperate for reprieve, he moves his hands to your lower abdomen. His touch is broader and more fluid as he works in a constant, clockwise motion, his palms overlapping to create a firm, grounding heat.
It isn't a light touch; he leans into the movement, his hands rolling over the skin like he's smoothing out silk, pushing the ache away from your center.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room.
A delirious giggle spills from you, drowsy. “You're really getting into this masseuse role.”
Smiling, he knows he is. And he plans to do this the next time too if your bout of symptoms are this mean. It's enchanting, watching your skin yield beneath his touch, all malleable and doughy and so addictive to push and pull at.
When the cramps seem to migrate, he helps you roll onto your side so he can reach your lower back. His fingers find the base of your spine, kneading the tight, angry muscles that pulled at your pelvis, fingers dipping below the waistband of your panties.
He works with a slow, hypnotic cadence—press, roll, release—mimicking the way the professional therapists do it, focusing on the fascia until the sharp edges of the pain start to blur into a dull, manageable hum that has your noises slurring too.
By the time he finishes with a long, sweeping glide from your ribs down to your hips, your shoulders have finally dropped. The tight line of your jaw has softened, and your eyes are heavy with the kind of relief that only comes when the body finally stops fighting itself.
Sukuna pulled the duvet up over your shoulders, tucking it in tight. “Better?”
“Much,” you whisper, your voice thick with sleep. “Don't stop yet.”
“Greedy,” he grumbles playfully, bending over to press an affectionate kiss to your lips that spreads into a dopey smile.
“You're getting fucked crazy style once my period is over,” you inform him, pointing at him like you're a hitman and he's your next target.
Barking out a laugh, it rings out in the apartment, making you chuckle along.
note: self-indulgent but why did writing this lowkey take away my sore boobs? lmao but my dull cramps are still here :(
Your toxic boyfriend Gojo Satoru died and reincarnated as your camera. You’ll never escape him
This is for my bb @madamechrissy ‘s object!gojo event ♥︎
Tw: MDNI, Yandere
You don’t know he’s there.
You walk past your dresser every morning, fingers brushing against the little silver camera Satoru gave you for your birthday two years ago, and you have no fucking clue that the man who loved you so obsessively is screaming inside it.
Gojo Satoru, for the record, did not expect reincarnation to be so literal.
He’d imagined fire. Brimstone. Maybe an eternity of regret while you moved on without him. But no. Fate had a sense of humor, apparently, because they shoved his consciousness into the camera he’d bought you…the one you’d smiled at, kissed him for, promised you’d use to capture all your favorite memories together…. and dropped him on your nightstand like a sick joke.
And you… you…. are the punchline.
The first time he sees you after, you’re seventeen days past his funeral and crying over a box of his things.
Your mascara’s running. Your nose is red. You’re hunched over on the bed you used to share, holding one of his old shirts like the world just ended, and all Gojo can think is: There you are.
Same face. Same name. Same stubborn, stupid, beautiful soul that he’d spent three years obsessing over. Destroying anyone who looked at you too long. Isolating you until he was your whole world.
And now he can’t even touch you.
He tries. God, he tries. He throws every ounce of his will against the prison of metal and glass, screaming your name until his non existent throat feels raw. You don’t hear him. You just wipe your eyes, blow your nose into a tissue, and pick up your phone.
Don’t, Gojo thinks. Don’t you dare move on.
You text your sister and ask her to come over. Say you can’t be alone tonight.
Being trapped in an object…. Gojo feels everything and nothing.
No hunger. No thirst. No fatigue. Just consciousness…. endless and awake. Gojo doesn’t sleep. He can’t. He just…watches and waits and clicks every moment of your miserable little existence.
The memory card is filling up slowly.
~~~
There’s the night you come home drunk and trip over your own shoes, splitting your lip on the bathroom counter. Gojo watches the blood drip into the sink, and something in him twists. He used to kiss that mouth. He used to bite that lip until you whimpered his name, until you forgot anyone else existed.
Now he just… captures it. Click. A photograph of your pain, stored forever in his prison.
There’s the morning you find out your father’s cancer is back. You don’t cry this time. You just sit very still at the kitchen table, tea going cold in your hands, and stare at nothing. Gojo watches your face go blank…. watches the hope drain out of your eyes….
…and he thinks, Good. Now you know what it feels like.
He hates himself for thinking it.
~~~~
The worst part isn’t the helplessness.
(That’s a lie. The helplessness is absolutely the worst part. But Gojo’s always been good at lying to himself.)
The worst part is that you’re happy sometimes.
You laugh with your friends…. the ones he used to make you cancel plans with. You dance in your underwear when you think no one’s watching. You adopt a cat…… a fat orange bastard named Muffin who knocks Gojo (camera) off the dresser at least twice a week…. and you coo at it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Gojo hates that cat.
He wants to be that cat.
He wants to be anything other than what he is… a ghost in a machine, watching the love of his life live a life that doesn’t include him.
You’re twenty four when another man enters your life.
Gojo knows the type. Charming smile, nice car, just enough red flags to be exciting. The kind of man Gojo used to be, back when he had a body and a reputation and the ability to ruin someone’s entire life.
The kind of man Gojo would’ve killed if he’d come near you.
Now all he can do is watch.
The first date goes well. You come home glowing, and Gojo spends the whole night fantasizing about ways to murder a man he’s never met. The second date goes better. You don’t come home at all, and Gojo discovers that he can, in fact, still feel jealousy…. a hot, consuming rage that rattles through his tiny metal prison like an earthquake.
By the sixth date, you’re in love.
By the eighth, you’re crying again.
Your new boyfriend doesn’t hit you. Gojo almost wishes he would…. something visible, something provable. Instead it’s words. Little cuts, perfectly placed. “You’re being dramatic. You’re too sensitive. No one else would put up with this.” That man says after you catch him cheating
Gojo has said those exact words to you before. In this life, in this body, during one of your fights when you’d tried to go out with friends he didn’t approve of.
Now he just watches them land from another man’s mouth, watches you flinch and fold and apologize for things that aren’t your fault, and he thinks: I did this to you. I made you this way.
The memory card is filling up faster.
There’s a night… one particular night….. that Gojo will remember for the rest of eternity.
You’re at a party. Some friend of a friend thing, too many people crammed into a tiny, shitty apartment with bad music and worse lighting.
Gojo’s in your bag… you brought him for some reason, probably planning to take pictures…. and he can only see fragments through the gap in the zipper.
He sees a guy approach. He sees the drink exchange hands.
He sees you take a sip.
‘NO.’ The scream tears through him, silent and useless. He throws himself against the walls of his prison, willing himself to move, to warn you, to do anything…
You take another sip.
The room tilts. Your vision blurs. Or maybe that’s just Gojo’s vision…. he can’t tell anymore, can’t separate his perception from yours, can’t…
Someone grabs your arm. Not the guy. A woman you don’t know, with sharp eyes and even sharper voice. “Hey. Hey, you okay? Did you come here alone? Where are your friends?”
You blink at her, confused
“Come on,” she says, steering you toward the door. “Let’s get you some air.”
Gojo doesn’t believe in God. Never has. But in that moment, watching a stranger pull you away from the man already reaching for your waist, he thinks…. Thank you. Thank you, God
You throw up in a bush outside and cry on the stranger’s shoulder. You go home alone, shaking and sick, and you curl up in bed with that stupid orange cat and you don’t sleep for hours.
Gojo doesn’t sleep either.
He just watches and stands guard. Pretends that his presence means something, even though he knows it doesn’t…. knows he’s just a witness, just a recorder, just a ghost haunting your existence.
The way he haunted you when he was alive.
The memory card is almost full.
You find the photographs one Sunday afternoon.
You’re cleaning out your closet, making room for clothes you’ll never wear, and you stumble across the old camera… dusty now, neglected. The camera Satoru gave you with that bright smile, the one you’d loved until loving him became too suffocating.
You turn it on and scroll through the images.
And you freeze.
There are hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe. Every moment of pain you’ve experienced since his death, captured in perfect pictures. Your split lip. Your father’s diagnosis. Your ex boyfriend’s hands on someone else. That night at the party, blurry but there, preserved like evidence.
You don’t remember taking any of these.
Your hands start shaking. You scroll faster…. past birthdays and funerals and quiet breakdowns in bathroom stalls….. until you reach the end.
The last image.
It’s you. Right now. Sitting on your bedroom floor holding the camera in your hands with terror on your face.
You look directly at the lens.
And for one impossible, infinite second…..
….. Gojo swears you see him.
You throw the camera across the room.
It hits the wall. Cracks. Falls. Lies there on the carpet, broken and silent, while you hyperventilate into your knees.
Gojo doesn’t feel pain… not physical pain, anyway. But something loosens when the lens cracks. Like a hand unclenching after holding on too tight for too long.
The memory card ejects. Skitters across the floor and stops at your feet.
You pick it up.
You hold it to your chest.
And you cry.
Gojo doesn’t know how long he drifts after that.
Time works differently when you’re a shattered consciousness scattered across a broken machine. Could be minutes. Could be centuries. Could be the space between one heartbeat and the next.
But eventually…. eventually…. he feels something.
Warmth. The sensation of being held.
He opens eyes he doesn’t have. Sees through a lens that no longer exists.
You’re there. Older now, gray at your temples, laugh lines around your mouth. You’re holding the memory card in one wrinkled hand, and you’re smiling… soft and sad and knowing.
“I figured it out,” you whisper. “Took me forty years, but I figured it out.”
Gojo doesn’t understand.
“I know you’re in there.” You stroke the memory card like it’s something precious. Like it’s something alive. “And I know you’ve been watching. All this time.”
I’m sorry, Gojo thinks. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m….
“I don’t forgive you,” you say, and the words hit him like a curse. “But I think… I think you’ve suffered enough.”
You bring the memory card to your lips and you kiss it.
And Gojo Satoru…. liar, manipulator, monster, lover, ghost….. finally, finally closes his eyes.
The memory card goes in your jewelry box, after that.
Tucked between your mother’s pearls and your grandmother’s ring, safe and quiet and kept. Sometimes you take it out. Hold it to the light. Wonder if he’s still in there, still watching, still wanting.
You never plug it in.
Some memories, you decide, are better left uncaptured.
Synopsis: On your way to ballet practice, you stumbled upon a man—But oh it wasn’t just any man. You have bumped into Mr. Worldwide famous boxer, Gojo Satoru. You thought it was just a one time thing and there will be no more future encounters, but you were wrong.
word count: 7.5k words (for this chapter)
Content: MDNI, fem!reader, no curses AU, smut, slow burn, detailed violence during boxing matches, blood, injuries, some fluff, Gojo calling reader some pet names, swearing, jealous Gojo (he hawt), mentions of Sukuna
a/n: Since it’s Gojo’s birthday, i rewritten my first ever fanfic of him. Only chapter one though, chapter two is longggg i bet :)
Chapter one
You didn’t think your day would end up like this.
You had set multiple alarms to make sure you woke up on time, carefully adjusting both your phone and your clock the night before. You even double checked them, just to be safe. Yet somehow, you still managed to oversleep and completely miss every single alarm. It was unbelievable that you slept through all of them. You were not even particularly tired when you went to bed. You actually thought a solid night of rest would help you feel refreshed. Instead, you woke up to a disaster.
Now you found yourself in a full panic, rushing through the consequences of oversleeping while the minutes slipped away faster than you could process them. You threw yourself out of bed, scrambled to brush your teeth, and shoved everything you needed for practice into your bag. You almost ran out of the house without your ballet attire and had to sprint back inside to grab it. With basically no time to breathe, you stopped by a nearby cafe to grab a quick cup of coffee, hoping it would at least help you survive the morning.
You checked your phone as you hurried toward the studio and instantly felt your stomach drop. More than twenty missed calls from your friend in ballet class lit up your screen. Each message was heated as hell.
“Girl where are you? You are supposed to be here at exactly 8:00 am!”
“Do not tell me you overslept AGAIN!”
“Buzz buzz. Practice starts in 10 minutes. If you won’t come in time you owe me 100 dollars.”
Reading through the messages made you laugh for a moment, but your smile slowly faded when you saw the time. It was 7:50 am. You were supposed to be there at 8:00 am.
“Ah fuck! I am so doomed..” you muttered as adrenaline kicked in. You immediately took off running toward the studio, squeezing between people with your bag bouncing against your shoulder.
The world seemed to blur around you. The sidewalk was crowded, and everything felt too loud and too fast. You were so focused on getting to practice that you didn’t see the tall figure in front of you until it was too late. You slammed directly into him, and your coffee flew out of your hand. The hot liquid splattered across his white dress shirt, creating a large dark stain that stood out horribly.
You froze. Your heart pounded wildly as panic washed through you. You dropped the empty cup and began frantically patting at his shirt, barely aware of what you were doing as you muttered apology after apology.
“Jeez I am so clumsy, I am so, so sorry, I will pay for it, I—”
“No need to overreact, gorgeous,” the man said with a relaxed grin. “It’s just a shirt. Buying a hundred of them barely puts a dent in my bank account.”
You looked up, still flustered, and your breath caught in your throat. His striking blue eyes looked down at you with amused confusion, and his messy white hair framed his face in a way that made him instantly recognizable.
Standing in front of you was Gojo Satoru. Mr. Worldwide famous. The undefeated boxer known for his terrifying skill in the ring and his unfair level of charm outside of it. Meeting him in person felt unreal. The situation felt even more unreal.
“I am still really sorry for the shirt. I hope the coffee didn’t hurt you since it was still very hot.”
Your hands shook as you rummaged desperately through your wallet. You finally pulled out a crisp fifty dollar bill and pushed it into his hand before your brain could fully process what you were doing. Without waiting for a response, you bolted down the street again, your bag hitting your back and your heart practically vibrating out of your chest.
Gojo stood there silently, staring after you with the fifty still in his hand. His expression shifted from confusion to something almost entertained. After a moment, he looked down at the bill resting in his palm, its bright color contrasting with the street around him.
“Huh. What a strange girl,” he said softly, his lips curling into a smile. Amusement and curiosity flickered in his eyes as he watched you disappear into the distance. Your figure grew smaller with every step, but the chaotic energy you left behind lingered in the air.
He tucked the fifty into his wallet and tilted his head. “Now then, where was I supposed to go?”
——
8:00 pm arrived by the time you finally reached the studio. You stumbled inside, already sweaty, panting, and mentally drained from everything that had happened. Your hair stuck to your forehead, your shirt clung to your back, and your lungs felt like they were collapsing from how much you had run.
Your friend spotted you immediately and ran toward you like a missile. She grabbed your shoulders and shook you so hard your vision wobbled.
“Girl, I thought you weren’t going to make it in time! What happened? And why are you already exhausted? You are sweating so much it could fill buckets!”
Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you tried to catch your breath. You held up your hand to signal her to give you a moment before you collapsed right there. After a minute or two, once your heart finally slowed down, you explained the disaster that was your morning.
“I overslept and did not have time to make breakfast, so I stopped by a cafe to grab a coffee and started walking to the studio. Then I realized I was running out of time and started running here like my life depended on it.”
She squinted at you. “So that is it, right? That’s not that bad.”
You looked at her with a tired, almost traumatized expression. “I wish. I accidentally bumped into someone and spilled my coffee all over his shirt. But he was not just any ordinary person. I spilled my drink on the Gojo Satoru.”
Your friend gasped so loudly that her voice practically echoed through the studio. “You spilled your drink on the GOJO SATORU?! the Gojo Sato—hmm hmm!” You reacted instantly, clamping your hand over her mouth before she could expose you to the entire studio. “Be quiet. Everyone can hear you. I do not want people finding out that I embarrassed myself in front of the great Gojo Satoru.”
Her eyes widened as you held her face hostage, and she nodded repeatedly. You let go slowly, giving her a stern look.
“Okay, fine! I will keep it down,” she whispered dramatically. “Now tell me. How did Gojo react? He must have been furious or something. Anyone would lose their mind if a stranger spilled hot coffee on them.”
You shook your head. “Actually, he was really calm about it. I am still not sure if he was pretending to stay cool so he wouldn’t look aggressive or rude, but I don’t think that was the case.”
Your friend looked astonished as if you had told her the sky turned pink. “What? He was not mad? He should have at least made you pay for the shirt, right?”
“Well, about that,” you said while scratching your cheek awkwardly. “He actually told me not to pay for it. He said it was a cheap one.”
Her jaw dropped. “Wow. You are so lucky today. If you spilled something on one of his expensive shirts, you would have to pay thousands and thousands of dollars. You would be broke for years.”
You laughed a little, finally relaxing. “Honestly, I don’t think he would make me pay that much even if it were expensive. But yes, I’m lucky that I didn’t ruin anything worth more than my entire life savings.”
“Indeed. Now come on. We should start practice before our other friends show up and headbutt us for being late.”
You groaned as you followed her deeper into the studio, still thinking about Gojo Satoru and the fifty dollar bill you basically threw at him before sprinting away like a criminal. The embarrassment lingered in your stomach.
——
As you slipped into your attire, the locker room around you buzzed with the usual sounds of rustling bags, zippers sliding, and the faint chatter of dancers catching up with one another. Normally, the comforting routine would help you ease into the right mindset for practice. Today, however, your thoughts were completely messed up by the events from earlier.
No matter how hard you tried to ignore it, the scene of the collision replayed in your mind like an highlight reel. You pulled at the ribbon of your ballet shoe, tightening it, while your mind spiraled back to that exact moment. You remembered how you had been speeding in desperation, and he had simply been walking. Two paths crossing at the wrong time, two people going in completely different directions, and then the impact. It had happened so fast, yet the memory burned vividly in your mind.
His reaction flashed in your head again. The slight widening of his bright eyes as the coffee splattered across his white shirt, the look of confusion that followed, and the small grin that somehow made everything worse. The shirt itself, stained with shades of brown, haunted you like a permanent mark of your clumsiness. You could practically hear the splatter again.
“What was I thinking?” you scolded yourself, tugging on your other shoe a little too aggressively. “Seriously, I can’t believe I did that.”
Heat filled your cheeks as the shame settled deeper. You sat on the bench and sighed, imagining dozens of embarrassing possibilities. “What if that was one of his favorites?” you wondered, the anxiety building and pressing against your chest. “What if he goes on some talk show or interview and talks about me? What if he tells the entire world that some random girl drenched him in hot coffee while sprinting like a maniac?”
You winced at the thought. The idea of Gojo laughing about it with millions of viewers listening made you want to crawl under a table forever.
“I’m so doomed.” you whispered to yourself, burying your face in your hands.
Soon the instructor called everyone to gather, and practice officially began. Normally you would feel a spark of excitement or adrenaline at this point, ready to push yourself and lose everything in the rhythm of movement. Today, however, the atmosphere felt heavy. You tried to warm up, lifting your arms into a gentle stretch, rolling your shoulders, and bending your legs with slow control. Your body moved through familiar motions, yet your mind refused to cooperate.
The moment your muscles began to loosen, your thoughts tightened again.
You replayed everything in slow motion. The accidental crash. The coffee flying. His voice as he called you gorgeous. The fifty dollar bill, still crumpled in his hand. Your panicked escape down the street. The way he looked at you as if trying to figure you out.
“Concentrate..” you whispered under your breath, trying to shake off the memory. You stretched your legs again, attempting to ground yourself. But every time you blinked, your head returned to him as if pulled by some unseen force. The embarrassment was too fresh, too vivid.
Your chest tightened with the fear of ever seeing him again. You imagined what he might say if your paths crossed. Would he recognize you instantly? Would he tease you for running away? Would he think you were rude? The questions looped endlessly, and each one made it harder to breathe.
Your instructor called out the next warm up exercise, but the sound felt distant. The familiar comfort of the studio could not pull you out of your storming thoughts. You felt as if you were performing every motion with a delayed reaction, your mind trapped in the past while your body tried to follow the present.
A sinking sensation settled into your stomach as you continued moving halfheartedly. You knew that until you managed to break free from the memory of that humiliating encounter, nothing else would feel right. And no amount of stretching, deep breathing, or practiced discipline could silence the embarrassment twisting your thoughts into knots.
——
As soon as you stepped through the door of your home after practice, a wave of exhaustion rolled through you like a heavy tide. Your body felt drained, your feet ached, and your head was buzzing with thoughts you desperately wished you could silence. You dropped your bag by the bedroom door, letting it fall with a thud that echoed faintly through the quiet space. Your whole body moved on instinct, too tired to think or care about anything else.
Without a second thought, you collapsed onto your bed. The mattress welcomed you like a soft cloud, and you immediately buried your face in your pillows as if trying to hide from the entire world. Your legs kicked the mattress in pure frustration, your feet hitting the blanket with light slaps. A muffled scream escaped you, the kind that sat somewhere between anger and humiliation. Your voice was swallowed by the pillows, but the emotion behind it burned just as fiercely.
The scene from earlier replayed in your mind, sharp and vivid. The cold shock of impact. The splatter of coffee staining white fabric. The way Gojo had blinked at you, stunned yet strangely amused. And worst of all, the growing crowd of people who had witnessed the whole thing. You could almost feel their eyes on you, replaying your clumsy moment in their own heads, probably whispering to each other the moment you left.
It made your chest tighten.
And then there was the worst part of all. The paparazzi had been nearby. Of course they were, because of course today had to get even more humiliating. The thought of their cameras clicking made your skin crawl. Each click had captured another angle of your disaster, preserving it forever for strangers to see, laugh at, or confuse as some weird publicity stunt. You imagined headlines forming already, mocking you without mercy.
You pressed your face deeper into the pillow as your cheeks grew hot again. “Gosh, I am so stupid!” you muttered into the pillow, shaking your head at yourself. The weight of the day sat on you like a heavy blanket you could not escape.
Finally, you decided that the only solution was sleep. Sleep, at least, was forgiving. Sleep would not judge you or replay your embarrassment. You tugged your blanket up to your shoulders and adjusted your pillows to create the softest, coziest nest your tired body could imagine. The warm light from the bedside lamp gave your room a soft golden glow that was almost soothing enough to make you forget everything.
You felt yourself sinking into the comfort.
Then your phone rang.
Of course. The universe always had perfect timing.
The ringtone echoed through your quiet room, snapping the calm you tried so hard to build. Your friend’s name flashed on the screen.
You groaned, grabbed the phone, and answered with the energy of someone who had just been pulled out of heaven. “Hello…what is wrong this time?”
“OH EM GEE! Girl, have you not heard what the ballet master announced just now?” Her voice blasted through your speaker. She sounded like she was running in circles, flailing her arms, and screaming at the same time.
You sat up a little, confused. “No, I haven’t.. What did he announce?”
“He said there will be a special guest during our final performance tomorrow!”
You blinked. “And who could that b—”
Your friend cut you off before you could finish. “THE GOJO SATORU. I’m fucking serious. Look at the group chat. Mr. Gojo texted our ballet master and asked if he could watch tomorrow.”
Time seemed to freeze around you. The air felt heavier. Your heartbeat jumped.
Gojo, watching tomorrow’s performance? After everything that happened today? Was he out of his mind?
You laughed, but it came out shaky and disbelieving. “No way. There is no way he would do that. You must be joking.”
But your curiosity got the better of you. You opened the group chat. The screen lit up with a flood of messages, screenshots, and excited reactions from your friends.
You scrolled slowly, your eyes widening with every line. The ballet master had indeed shared screenshots of Gojo himself politely asking if he could attend the performance. You zoomed in to make sure it was real. It was.
Your friend continued talking in your ear. “Still, I don’t understand why he wants to watch such a simple performance. Doesn’t he need to train for his next match?”
You sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s bored, Maybe he lost a bet, Maybe he tripped and hit his head.”
“I think it is a sign that we should perform even better. Who knows, maybe he is going because he finds one of us gorgeous. I bet it’s me!”
You rolled your eyes so hard your soul almost left your body. “Who’s been overfeeding your ego lately?” You didn’t wait for her answer and ended the call before she could start another delusional rant.
Silence returned to your room, but your mind refused to settle.
Why was Gojo coming? Why your performance of all things? You weren’t famous, your group wasn’t famous, and your studio was barely mentioned outside your town. Yet he chose your event.
You sank back into your blankets, your thoughts racing. “Whatever his reason is, I just hope he won’t recognize me tomorrow. It would be so awkward if he does.”
You pulled your blanket up again, turned off the lamp, and lay on your back staring at the ceiling. The excitement, fear, curiosity, and dread swirled inside you like a storm.
Eventually, your eyes grew heavy. Your breathing slowed.
——
After weeks filled with endless training and countless practice sessions, the day of the final performance had finally arrived. The air backstage buzzed with anticipation, a mixture of excitement, nerves, and the faint scent of hairspray and makeup that seemed to spread every corner of the studio. You could feel the adrenaline running in your veins, a constant reminder that today was the day of everything you had worked for. Every aching muscle, every late night rehearsal, every small correction your instructor had given you was about to be tested in front of an audience.
You slipped into your costume, a shimmering light blue ballet attire that caught the warm backstage lights and scattered them across the walls. The fabric felt soft and smooth against your skin, the delicate embroidery brushing lightly over your arms and torso. Each detail of the costume had been carefully crafted to highlight your movements, and now that you were wearing it, it felt like armor, something that could carry you through the nerves and focus your energy entirely on the stage. As you adjusted the straps and smoothed the fabric over your waist, you took a moment to appreciate the elegance of it, letting a small sense of pride ripple through your chest.
Once dressed, you took a seat at a small vanity, the scent of hair spray filling the air. A stylist worked quickly and efficiently, brushing and pinning your hair into the perfect bun and applying makeup that enhanced your features without feeling heavy. You sat still, letting them work, but your eyes kept flicking to the mirror. You examined every line of your face, every glimmer of your costume, imagining how it would look under the bright stage lights. A mix of nervousness and excitement danced across your stomach, fluttering like butterflies taking flight.
To distract yourself from the anxiety, you pulled out your phone, scrolling through messages and rehearsal photos from the past few weeks. Every snap of a group pose or playful backstage moment reminded you of the hours spent practicing, the laughter, the frustration, and the small victories along the way. But your moment of calm was abruptly interrupted by a notification from the group chat. You opened it, your heart skipping a beat as you read the ballet master’s announcement.
Mr. Gojo had arrived and was now seated in the guests’ area, watching the performance in person.
A cold wave of anxiety hit you like a sudden gust of wind. He was actually here. Watching. In person. Every detail, every move, every small expression you made on stage would be witnessed by him. Your pulse quickened, and your palms grew slightly sweaty as you imagined him sitting there, eyes fixed on you, absorbing every motion with his trademark intensity. The thought of him observing your performance both thrilled and terrified you. This was not just another audience member. this was Gojo Satoru, a man whose presence commanded attention, whose reputation was on top of the charts, whose gaze alone could make your heart race.
The stylist finished pinning your hair and dabbed a final touch of powder on your cheeks. You took a deep breath, trying to center yourself, but the weight of knowing he was watching made your muscles tighten. You reminded yourself that all the training you had endured had led to this very moment. You could do this. You had to do this.
Finally, the call came. Your group was summoned to the stage. The air backstage buzzed with tension and energy as dancers hurried to adjust costumes and check positions. You felt nervous as you moved toward your designated spot. The music began a soft, enchanting melody that drifted from the speakers, filling the stage and signaling the start of the performance. Each dancer stepped forward in turn, weaving seamlessly into the choreography as the spotlight found you.
When it finally shone fully on you, the warmth of the light felt both comforting and terrifying. You were the center of attention now. Every tilt of your head, every extension of your limbs, every delicate shift of your weight had to be perfect. You embraced the moment, letting the music guide you as your body executed a series of precise movements. a graceful move stretching into a flawless line, followed by a fluid dance moving toward the edge of the stage. Years of training, discipline, and countless discipline had prepared you for this exact instant.
Even as you focused on every detail, you couldn’t shake the feeling of a gaze piercing through the soft glow of the lights. It was familiar, intense, and impossible to ignore. Your chest tightened as adrenaline surged, and you instinctively knew whose eyes were fixed on you.
He was there, in the audience, arms folded across his chest, watching with that calm yet sharp intensity that could unsettle anyone. Each movement you made was met with a subtle nod, a quiet “hm.” a gesture of approval that somehow carried immense weight. It was as if he were taking in every detail with the precision of a master analyzing a work of art, yet still appreciating its beauty in real time.
He was supposed to be in the boxing ring, preparing for his next match, yet he chose to sit here, relishing the gracefulness of your performance. The energy in the stage was peaceful, but his presence added a new atmosphere, a silent thrill that made your movements feel more alive, more important. Every glance of his intensified the performance, sharpening your awareness, pushing you to give more than you had ever given before.
The final moments approached, and you executed your signature move with as much precision and emotion as you could muster. The audience erupted, applause and cheers filling the auditorium like a tide of sound. You and your group bowed together, relief washing over you as the weight of performance lifted slightly. You waved at the crowd, the lights glittering off your costume, and felt a fleeting sense of triumph.
Backstage, the afterglow of success was short lived. The ballet master appeared, his face glowing with pride and admiration. He congratulated the group warmly, his energy flowing. Then, unexpectedly, his attention shifted to you alone. His tone became serious, as he requested a private conversation. Curiosity and anxiety churned in your stomach as you followed him to a quiet corner, away from the noise of applause and chatter. The world beyond that corner seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you.
“You were amazing today.” he said quietly, his words deliberate and encouraging. “You had everyone’s jaws dropping, especially Gojo’s.” The mention of Gojo sent an electric jolt through you. Your pulse quickened and your mind began to race.
“And speaking of Gojo,” the ballet master continued, “he has asked to speak with you,”
“—privately.”
Your mind froze. He wanted to speak to you? After watching your every move, after sitting through the performance, he wanted to talk to you now? A rush of embarrassment and disbelief collided with your curiosity. Did he recognize you from that day? The thought of the earlier coffee incident flooded your mind, making your cheeks burn hotter than ever.
“but what’s the reason?”
“I can’t say for certain.” the ballet master replied, reading your expression. “But you will have to find out for yourself. Don’t waste time, he doesn’t have all day.”
You inhaled deeply, trying to steady your nerves, your body tense as you walked toward the spot where he would be waiting. Every step tightened the knot in your stomach. The anticipation twisted with anxiety, your mind racing through a million possibilities. What could he possibly want to discuss? Was it about the performance, a compliment, or worse..your embarrassing encounter?
Each thought made your pulse pound faster, and yet there was a flicker of excitement through the fear. This was a moment that could change everything, and with each passing second, the tension pressed heavier against your chest, daring you to step forward.
Once you stepped outside, the scene that met your eyes made your stomach twist with both awe and nerves. Dozens of paparazzi crowded around someone, their cameras flashing nonstop, voices calling out in chaotic unison. You knew immediately who it was. The crowd, the frenzy, the energy. there was no mistaking it. He was in the middle of the storm, effortlessly commanding attention even without trying. You could only imagine how exhausting it must be to deal with cameras and fans every single day, the relentless pressure of fame pressing down on him constantly. You felt a pang of sympathy. You honestly do not know if you could handle that. You would have gone insane hours ago.
Through the crowd of people, he saw you. Just a flicker in his eye, but enough. His hand rose, an almost silent motion signaling for you to follow him. He was clearly trying to escape the chaos, to carve out a private moment away from the prying eyes and intrusive lenses. Understanding immediately, you squeezed your way through the crowd, careful not to draw attention to yourself, until you finally reached the bathroom.
The door closed behind you with a soft click, the sound echoing in the small, tiled room. The quiet was almost overwhelming after the constant noise outside. You took a moment to pause, leaning against the cool wall, trying to calm your racing thoughts. Could he really handle all of that day after day, being surrounded by fans and cameras wherever he went? You would have crumbled in seconds. The thought made you shake your head in awe.
A few tense minutes passed before the door creaked open. A figure slipped inside, his face mostly hidden by a hat and mask, an obvious attempt at disguise. Even with the attempt, there was a presence about him that made your stomach tighten. Your instincts screamed at you that it was him.
With a fluid motion, he lowered the face mask, removed the black cap, and then peeled off his sunglasses. The transformation was instant, and your breath caught in your throat. Standing before you, impossible to ignore, was Gojo Satoru. The same person who had requested a private conversation, the same one whose piercing gaze you still felt lingering in your mind from earlier.
His white hair framed his sharp, angular face perfectly, almost glowing under the fluorescent bathroom lights. His bright blue eyes held a mischievous spark that made your heart skip a beat, and for a moment, you were completely frozen, unable to speak, unable to move. There was something about him that made it impossible to look away.
“Ah, ah, what’s up? No need to stay frozen forever, dove.”he said, his voice playful, the corners of his lips curling into that infuriating, crooked grin. You blinked once, trying to process everything, and before you could react, he closed the distance between you.
Instinctively, you raised your hands to push him back, gently creating some distance. A nervous laugh escaped your lips, cheeks flushing pink. “O—Oh! Yeah, I know that…” you stammered, trying to regain your composure.
“Oh yeah! Right…why did you want to talk to me?” you blurted out, hoping to cut through the tension and make the interaction feel less overwhelming.
“Straight to the point, huh? I like that,” he said, still smiling. “Well… I just wanted to tell you that your performance today was utterly amazing. A good way to avenge my shirt.”
Your mind froze. “W-What?! I mean…uhm… I wasn’t the one who spilled coffee on your shirt! You probably have the wrong person,” you flailed your hands in a weak attempt to deny it, trying to act clueless while secretly knowing that he would not fall for it.
“Don’t act dumb, dove.” he said with a knowing smirk. “I still recognize you from before.”
Your shoulders slumped in defeat. “Okay, okay, you got me. But you weren’t bothered by it, so what’s the big deal?”
“Nothing, actually. I just wanted to return the fifty dollar bill you gave me,” he said, pulling the crumpled note from his pocket.
“Eh? You wanted to talk to me just for that?” You raised an eyebrow, a mixture of relief and amusement crossing your face. You had built up so many scenarios in your head, and it turned out to be…this?
“No scolding? No anger?” you asked, tilting your head as you accepted the bill back.
“Who would be mad over a ruined shirt? It’s not like it’s the only one in my closet. Mostly, I go around the house shirtless anyway.”he bragged casually.
“That last part wasn’t necessary.” you muttered, rolling your eyes.
“Yeah, I know. Just wanted to say it,” he replied with a playful smirk. “Still, you owe me somehow. Paying for a shirt is boring.”
“And how do I repay you?”
“It’s simple. You can treat me to a meal or a drink. A café works well,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“A meal or drink? Can’t you afford dozens of those yourself?”
“You’re right. But I wanted to get to know you better. Why not share one together?” he said with a grin, his eyes twinkling.
You hesitated for a moment. “I’d love to, but…won’t people freak out if they see you at a cafe with a girl?”
“That’s not a problem,” he said smoothly. “I have a private cafe. Professional baristas. Everything. I usually go there after a match to relax.”
“Really? You’d let me go there?!” Your jaw dropped, eyes wide with excitement.
“Of course! So, are you in or what?”
“Hell yeah! But…don’t you have a boxing match tomorrow?”
“I do, but that’s not an issue. You can watch it if you want. In the meantime, we can start with a drink. Why don’t we exchange numbers?”
You smiled softly and handed him your phone, taking his in return as he typed his information into your contacts.
Numbers exchanged, a comfortable conversation followed, filled with small laughs, teasing, and surprisingly easy rapport. You both lingered, relaxing in the quiet after the chaos, enjoying the rare moment of silence amidst the flashing cameras and frenzied crowd outside.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm golden glow across the room, reality crept back in. “I guess I should head off now.” you said reluctantly.
He smiled, tilting his head. “We’ll see each other soon. Text me later.”
With a final wave and one last shared laugh, you parted ways, for now, but the memory of his grin, the sparkle in his eyes, and the promise of the private cafe lingered with you, making your heart race long after he disappeared from sight.
——
It was already 9:30 pm, and you had just finished changing into your soft, comfortable pajamas. The faint scent of your skincare products lingered in the air, a mix of lavender and rosewater that usually helped you unwind after a long day. You were settling in, feeling the pleasant warmth of the blankets calling you to bed, when your phone buzzed sharply against the wooden surface of your desk.
A notification. Your heart skipped a beat. It was him. Gojo. Or rather, Satoru.
You unlocked your phone to see a message that made your chest tighten and your lips curve into a smile:
Unknown Number:
“Finally I found your contact, took me minutes to find you through my contacts because you didn’t put your name on there. (-᷅_-᷄๑)”
Unknown Number changed your name to Ms. Little swan 🦢
A small chuckle escaped you. Of all the things you expected tonight, a text from him while you were lounging in pajamas was not one of them. Is this really how the world-famous, impossibly strong boxer texts? Somehow casual, playful, and just a little exasperated.
You changed Unknown Number’s name to Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊
You quickly typed back:
Ms. Little Swan 🦢:
“My bad, I forgot to label my name there. I’m surprised you managed to guess!”
Almost immediately, a reply popped up:
Mr. Worldwide 🌎 🥊:
“Gave me a headache, ya know? I got quite the embarrassment while looking for your contact…had to text multiple people in my contacts with no name as well..”
Ms. Little swan 🦢:
“Oh really? And what did they say?” you typed, your curiosity piqued.
Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊:
“They got really confused,” he replied. “Some were just freaking out that I texted them, thinking I was gonna give away some gold bar to them or sell them VIP tickets. (¬_¬)”
You couldn’t help but laugh, picturing the chaos in your mind. People imagining him handing out random suitcases of money like a famous YouTuber was absurdly hilarious.
Ms. Little swan 🦢:
“Ahahaha, for real?! They thought you were gonna give them a suitcase filled with money like those videos?”
Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊:
“Pffft, yeah,” he texted back, a playful tone carrying through the screen.
Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊:
“They got too excited and spammed my notifications. Had to block them.”
You chuckled again, the sound soft and genuine in your room. The conversation was light, fun, and it made the late hour feel less intimidating. But then, the mood shifted slightly, and his next message carried a twinge of seriousness:
Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊:
“So moving on…what are you doing right now? It’s pretty late at night.”
Ms. Little Swan 🦢:
“Oh, I just finished changing into my pajamas and was about to head right to bed until you suddenly texted me.”you replied, a little flustered.
Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊 :
“Ah, so I interrupted your sleep? My bad! (；´Д｀)”
Ms. Little swan 🦢:
“There’s no need to say sorry, Gojo! It’s not like I was even that sleepy or anything..”you typed back, even though your body already craved rest.
A few seconds passed before he sent another message:
Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊:
“Alright then, also…call me Satoru! People rarely call me by my first name. Gojo this…Gojo that…Should start saying my first name.”
You smiled softly at your screen.
Ms. Little swan 🦢:
“As you wish, then…Satoru ;)”
Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊:
“That’s the spirit! I don’t want to keep you awake for too long, so I’ll get straight to the point,” he wrote.
Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊:
“You should arrive before the match starts…don’t want to be late and waste your front seat, right?”
Your eyes widened so fast you almost dropped your phone. Front seat? At the match? Your heart thumped wildly, a mixture of excitement and disbelief coursing through your veins. This was beyond anything you had imagined.
Ms. Little swan 🦢:
“Got it… I promise I’ll get there by 8:00 am,” you typed quickly, words almost tripping over each other in your excitement.
Mr. Worldwide 🌎🥊:
“Alright then, don’t run late again and spill your drink on someone else’s shirt, okay? Night night! (^_−)−☆”
Almost immediately, his active status turned grey, signaling that he had gone offline. Your fingers lingered on the screen for a few seconds before setting the phone down gently on the desk. Your gaze drifted up to the ceiling, thoughts racing faster than your heart could keep pace.
Tomorrow. Everything was happening tomorrow.
You imagined the chaos of the boxing arena, the roar of the crowd, the adrenaline, the tension. Ryomen Sukuna. Just the name sent shivers through your body. He was a legend, a fearsome opponent whose reputation alone made entire gyms hold their breath. And Satoru…he was stepping into that ring, and you would be there to witness it from the very best vantage point. Your stomach fluttered, part fear, part excitement.
Then your mind wandered to the private cafe, the one he had invited you to after the match. The thought of quiet moments with him, away from the glare of cameras and screaming fans, made your pulse race. A warm, almost giddy sensation spread through your chest. It felt surreal, like a dream carefully layered over reality. You pictured the two of you sitting across from each other, sipping drinks, talking, laughing. The anticipation made your cheeks heat up.
Yet, alongside the excitement, a knot of anxiety twisted in your stomach. So much could happen in just twenty four hours. What if something went wrong at the match? What if the cafe was swarmed with fans despite the precautions? What if he remembered every embarrassing detail about you from before? Your mind raced through endless scenarios, each one more chaotic or awkward than the last.
You tossed and turned in your bed, unable to find comfort. Every pillow, every blanket, every soft corner of your room felt insufficient. Your thoughts looped like a film reel, showing snippets of the fight, the cafe, your past encounter, your imagined conversations, and the way his piercing gaze could make your heart stop mid beat.
Despite your exhaustion, sleep caught you. Your body wanted rest, but your mind refused to be still. Tomorrow promised adrenaline, chaos, and excitement, but also a chance to see Satoru up close, to share a moment with him that felt impossibly personal against the backdrop of his public life.
You buried your face in your pillow, whispered to yourself, and hoped that the morning would come quickly, but not too quickly, because every second of anticipation felt like it was stretching both impossibly long and far too short.
——
The annoying beeping of your alarm clock pierced through the groggy haze of your barely there sleep, dragging you fully into wakefulness. Your body protested, heavy and floppy, each muscle begging for just a few more minutes under the warmth of your blankets. For a moment, you almost surrendered to the temptation, letting yourself sink back into the comfort of your bed, but a deep breath and a firm shake of your head reminded you of the day ahead. With a reluctant sigh, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and planted your feet on the cold floor, the chill seeping through your socks and making you shiver.
Padding toward the bathroom, you were met with the blast of cooler air that swept across your skin, nudging you further into wakefulness. The shower’s warmth enveloped you in its comforting cascade, the water over your body, washing away the last remains of sleep. Steam curled into the air, forming a mist that clung to your skin and hair, softening the edges of your grogginess. With every passing second under the spray, your muscles unwound, tension easing from your shoulders and back, leaving you feeling lighter, more alert, and slightly more prepared to face the day.
Stepping out, you wrapped yourself in a towel and dried off, taking extra care with each movement. Standing in front of your wardrobe, you debated your outfit choices for a few moments. Settling on a black off-shoulder dress. you admired the understated yet polished look in the mirror. It was simple, but the combination had a quiet elegance, and it would serve you well for the morning ahead.
By 7:30 am, your phone buzzed with a familiar ping, drawing your attention. Gojo. Or rather, Satoru.
“Don’t keep me waiting, hope to see you in the crowd in a few minutes! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)”
You sighed and shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. His emojis, playful and slightly teasing, were somehow a perfect reflection of his hidden personality. Carefree, mischievous, yet unmistakably charming. Grabbing a quick bite, just a slice of toast, barely tasting it, you felt your heart start to race as you made your way toward the arena, the building where the match would take place.
——
The streets were buzzing with activity. Fans swarmed the area, paparazzi cameras flashing incessantly, the echo of excitement and adrenaline filling the air. You navigated through the crowd with careful steps, your focus entirely on reaching your front row seat reversed, of course, thanks to Satoru. Arriving just in time, you squeezed past excited people and finally took your place, the view perfect, the anticipation practically tangible.
Minutes later, the arena lights shifted, and your breath caught as Satoru entered the ring. Navy blue shorts clung to his lean, muscular frame, his boxing gloves a striking contrast against his bare, glistening torso. Sweat already dotted his skin, evidence of his pre match warm up and the immense dedication he poured into each session. Across from him stood Ryomen Sukuna, the reputation alone of the man making the air feel heavier, more dangerous. The referee, calm but commanding, raised the whistle to his lips, and in a single piercing sound, the match officially began.
Your pulse matched the rhythm of the fighters’ movements, rising with each jab and hook. Every hit Satoru absorbed made you flinch, your stomach twisting with the intensity. You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms, torn between the desire to watch and the instinct to look away from the brutality unfolding before you. You could feel the tension coil tight inside you with every swing, your heart skipping beats as Satoru danced, dodged with precision and strength.
Round after round, the arena seemed to shrink to just the ring and the fighters within it. Your focus was entirely on him, on the way his movements were fluid despite the bruises beginning to show, on the sharp determination etched across his face. Finally, as the last rounds ticked away, the tension reached its pinnacle. Every movement, every strike, every dodge felt like it carried the weight of a thousand moments leading to this one.
Then, as the final bell rang, the referee stepped forward, raising Satoru’s hand high above his head:
Victory!
The crowd erupted, a wave of sound so overwhelming it seemed to vibrate through your chest. Relief, and pride. they all hit you at once. He had done it. Against all odds, he had won. The exhaustion plastered across his face was softened by a victorious smile, and the sight filled you with warmth and admiration.
As the medical team approached him to treat minor injuries, your excitement surged, and you instinctively stepped forward, wanting to congratulate him personally. But before you could take more than a few steps, someone collided into you with force.
Startled, you looked up to find yourself face to face with none other than..
Ryomen Sukuna.
His gaze was sharp, his presence intense, and the residual energy from the fight radiated from him like heat. Your mind stuttered, panic and surprise intertwining. Why do these men keep appearing in your path at the most inopportune moments?
“Watch where you’re going, my body’s still sore, brat.”he snapped, irritation clear in his tone.
“I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to bump into you! Did I-I.. did I hit any of your injuries?” you stammered, instinctively placing your hands over the areas he might have been hurt, your voice a rush of apologies and concern.
Meanwhile, Satoru, finally bandaged and adjusting to the post fight chaos, spotted you. But you weren’t alone. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as they fell on Sukuna, standing between you and him. A sharp exhale, subtle but unmistakable, left Satoru’s lips as his hand tightened around the water bottle he was holding, crumpling it almost violently in his grip.
Your stomach dropped. You had no idea how much tension had just suddenly filled the space between the two of them.
pairing: mad scientist!satoru gojo x fem research assistant!reader
plot: you work for a man who thinks he can outsmart god — professor satoru gojo, genius and menace in a lab coat. together, you build project infinity, a machine meant to sync parallel timelines and rewrite the limits of reality. you were supposed to take notes, not become the experiment. but when your mind links with infinity, the machine starts learning too much. soon, you can't tell where you end and where it begins. and as you start to fade, satoru starts to break. brilliant and hopelessly desperate, he's willing to tear apart the fabric of spacetime itself if it means holding on to you for infinity.
content/warnings: NSFW 18+/MDNI, scientist au, heavy angst, evil ai with attachment issues, slowburn, eventual smut, fluff as a treat before psychological implosion, satoru descends into madness, he's so down bad he builds a time machine, pwp (porn with physics), piv (physics is violated), yandere!gojo fingerblasts you into oblivion against a beam, more scientific blasphemy, seizures, terminal illness, fraternization in the lab, crying in lab, dying in lab, explosion(s) plural, groundhog day mechanics, rickrolling, ominous ending
wc/status: 12k+, complete but time loops, so who's to say
a/n: had a caffeine-induced psychosis and thought "haha what if gojo built a time machine?" then accidentally wrote a phd thesis. ngl turned a lil yandere myself researching quantum temporal mechanics. hope you enjoy!! ♡
You don't meet geniuses everyday.
They talked about Satoru Gojo like he was a myth — the kind of man who could warp reality if he wanted to; the kind who saw numbers the way others saw color.
Project Infinity was supposed to be revolutionary.
A program that utilized the concept of temporal resonance to enable quantum tunneling between alternate timelines.
In other words — time travel.
The idea of time travel has lived in the minds of dreamers and scientists alike for as long as time itself. Countless had tried — and failed — to turn the paradox into a reality. But none of them were Satoru Gojo.
You could think about it like a song on the radio: you're tuned to only one channel, but imagine if you could find the same song playing on a different station, a different world, and jump across when the beats line up perfectly.
That's what Infinity does. It listens for harmony across timelines, finds the matching notes, and opens a bridge between them.
It shouldn't be possible.
And yet — here you are.
For a facility tucked so far from modern civilization, you never expected your new workplace to look like the reincarnation of Tony Stark's mansion.
From the outside, the Continuum Research Center looked like nothing more than an architectural illusion: a sleek arc of glass and steel vanishing into the hillside — far too elegant for what it was meant to conceal.
Inside, the lobby greeted you with the same tang of antiseptic that dragged you back to the sleepless nights of your thesis days. Even the lighting, measured to the exact white-blue hue, seemed engineered to keep you awake.
"I take it you're the new research assistant?"
The figure before you was immaculate. His sleeves were pressed to surgical precision, and the yellow tie around his neck was so neatly knotted it looked mathematically arranged.
"I am." You quipped a brow. "That obvious?"
"New faces always are." He extended a hand. "Kento Nanami, operations manager. I'll be overseeing your orientation."
Even his handshake was efficient. You could imagine him timing it, counting the seconds and ending it exactly when social convention dictated.
"He's expecting you," Nanami said as he released your hand. "Fair warning, though — he's been awake since yesterday."
"Is that… normal?"
"After you meet him, you'll come to realize that normalcy is a concept entirely foreign to him."
Sub-level three. Lab C.
"Welcome to your new home."
The doors parted to reveal a room alive with motion.
Equations sprawled across whiteboards like tangled constellations — a chaos of intersected loops and vectors, ink bleeding at the edges. Coffee-stained rings fossilized into the desks, buried beneath strata of notes and half-torn printouts, overlapping in layers. Lines of code danced synchronously across black screens, and cables coiled along the floors and walls like unruly vines.
And at the center of it all — him.
Leaning over a console: white hair long and untamed, sleeves rumpled and rolled to the elbow, tie loosened. Eyes too bright, too blue. He smiled as if he’d been waiting.
“Ah,” he said. “You’re finally here.”
You blinked. “Finally?”
He laughed, straightening himself and making a last ditch effort to smooth his shirt with both hands. His voice was lighter than you expected — playful, not pretentious, and completely unbefitting of a man who supposedly held six different patents and two Nobel prizes.
“Yeah. Feels like I’ve been waiting for you forever."
What? But you were perfectly punctual. “We’ve met before?”
“Have we?" His lips curved, a glint of mischief, "Maybe in another lifetime.”
Before you could respond, a calm voice sliced through the air.
“Stop scaring the new hire,” Nanami warned, exhaling a sigh that sounded like routine suffering. “This smug asshat is Professor Satoru Gojo, theoretical physicist and lead scientist of Project Infinity.”
“Relax, Nanamin.” Satoru threw up his hands in mock surrender before pivoting to you and assuming a stage-worthy grin. “Welcome to Continuum — home of great minds, greater caffeine dependencies, and, the greatest mind of all time: me."
“What did I just—”
“I know,” you interjected before Nanami could finish. “You’re the reason I applied."
Silence.
Oh God. Why would you say that out loud?
Wonderful. As if he didn’t already have a fan club of over-eager researchers, add yourself to the long list of wide-eyed scientists who apparently lose motor function in his presence, why don’t you?
“W-wait, that's not — I mean, I respect your work, I just—” You trailed off, words tripping over themselves as your brain scrambled for something, anything, to make the situation less mortifying.
“Y’know,” Satoru said at last, clearly entertained, “keep this up and you’ll ruin my reputation as a perfect gentleman.”
“You don’t have that reputation.” Nanami deadpanned.
You laughed, too loud, too quick, overcompensating for your embarrassment. “I just meant I admire your capabilities, Professor.”
He clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. Straight to Professor, huh? You wound me.”
“Good,” Nanami cut in. “Maybe now you’ll shut up long enough for me to finish the orientation.”
“Don’t mind him," Satoru whispered conspiratorially. "He's been trying to hate me for years. It's a losing battle."
Nanami glared back at him. “You’re going to be the reason behind my early retirement.”
The tour continued without further interruption.
The rest of the lab looked fairly standard; your run-of-the-mill server racks, display monitors flashing scientific mumbo jumbo, and carelessly-placed drives that would, no doubt, warrant a future panicked search.
At the far end of the room, however, stood a sealed chamber encased in a wall of reinforced glass. Beyond it, the central core glowed — a raised platform ringed by terminals and suspended latticework. Veins of light ran around the structure, pulsing like it was breathing through the circuitry, humming harmoniously.
Satoru pressed a hand against the glass. “Infinity.”
“This is where the real work happens,” Nanami said, “Infinity’s kernel runs through that central node.”
“It uses synchronized optical lattice clocks and quantum sensors for femtosecond-scale timing control,” Satoru said, pride bleeding into every syllable. “Designed by yours truly.”
You sneaked a glance at the readouts scrolling across the console: resonance signatures, quantum phase noise, frequency drift. The reason you were here.
“We’re trying to map out temporal interference patterns now,” he continued, slipping effortlessly into his element.
"Gojo," Nanami sighed, folding his arms. "You forget not everyone speaks fluent technobabble."
"Right, right," Satoru tucked his hands into his pockets. “Okay, imagine time as a river — it flows one way, right? But, sometimes, when the current hits just the right curve, a little whirlpool forms and spins in place.”
“And my job," you said, catching on, "is to engineer those whirlpools."
“Exactly."
“And Infinity's job is to trap it in that moment?"
“Trap it, hold it—maybe even—stretch it.”
Nanami's voice drifted back in — something about safety protocols, schedules and responsibilities. You nodded where appropriate, but the hum of the machine had already ingrained its rhythm into you, like a song you couldn’t get out of your head.
“Well,” Satoru said abruptly, breaking the trance. “Last chance to turn back.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The first few weeks obeyed no schedule — only entropy.
Nanami assigned you to the modeling bay at first, where you learned the A-to-Zs of standard protocol — how to check for error tolerances in the quantum dampers, how to reset the feedback nodes when readings began to drift, and which wires on the main relay were never, under any circumstances, to be touched.
Gradually, morning and night became mere suggestions; the light stayed the same shade of white-blue regardless of the time of day, and meals blurred into bottomless cups of coffee.
Shoko Ieiri, the institute’s medical engineer, took it upon herself to remind you that “caffeine isn’t a food group.” Suguru Geto, the systems architect, arrived most nights armed with a six-pack of energy drinks and a handful of protein bars. And through it all, Nanami hovered like an anchor, ensuring no one forgot to log their results or, God forbid, sleep.
Satoru, though, seemed to exist outside of time entirely.
Every morning, without fail, you’d find him already in the lab, mid-thought, chalk in hand, covering the blackboard in a cascade of equations that looked calligraphic. And every morning, without fail, you’d wonder how such a person could exist. He was brilliant, untethered and terrifyingly human all at once.
Slowly, you began to grasp the inner workings of Project Infinity. Theoretically, every decision you make splits reality into infinitesimally small branches through waveforms. Infinity was designed to detect them, mapping those possibilities astemporal interference patterns.
“My algorithm’s goal is to find the waveforms to see how they’d overlap," Satoru explained one evening. "Each wave is like a note in a cosmic chord; Infinity listens for the melody and matches it to its perfect counterpart.”
“You make physics sound poetic,” you said.
“It’s math — the earliest form of poetry,” he replied, flashing you a wink.
By the end of the second month, you’d refined the data pre-processing pipeline and stabilized the outlier rejection algorithm. The result: a validated model capable of anticipating the conditions under which two frequencies might achieve partial phase-lock.
In simpler terms, Infinity could now predict when two timelines might briefly sync up.
“Who optimized the filter?” he asked the next morning, leaning over your shoulder as the graphs rendered cleaner than ever before.
You hadn’t even looked up, too absorbed in the stream of data. “I did.”
“Making a habit of improving your boss’s handiwork?”
“You hired me to.”
He laughed — a genuine sound, so out of place in the dreary environment. “Good job, rookie.”
You smiled despite yourself. It was hard not to; and he had brightened at the sight.
Schrödinger-Floquet systems, stochastic modeling, Loschmidt echo calculations — all principles that fell comfortably within your realm of statistics and temporal dynamics, yet the sheer scale of what Satoru was attempting made ordinary logic feel provincial.
Sometimes, after hours of staring into an infinite void of numbers, you’d catch him through the glass. He’d be tracing invisible shapes over data reflections, muttering indistinctly about some convoluted quantum field theory.
You learned that Satoru Gojo was both impossible to dislike and equally impossible to ignore. He talked way too much, worked even faster, and left sugar packets in his coat pockets. When boredom struck, he’d build small contraptions out of paper clips and leave them on your desk for you to guess their purpose — and when you’d guess wrong, he’d blame you.
“You lack artistic insight,” he’d say.
“No, you just lack engineering prowess,” you’d refute.
“Impossible. I'm cursed with perfection.”
And yet, even in the face of his inflated ego, you were drawn to him the way a planet revolved around the sun. He operated like he was constantly in another universe; his fingers tapped at keys faster than most people could form thoughts, eyes full of conviction and unnerving confidence that he was right even when no one understood it yet. He was irritatingly clever, and you couldn’t help but admire the way he lived inside his work.
Inevitably, you found yourself being pulled closer — orbiting his brilliance like gravity itself.
Days blurred into weeks that blurred into months.
You gave up completely on tracking the clock and instead started measuring time by the intervals between coffee refills.
At first, you stayed late to match Satoru's hours; later, it was because you didn’t want to leave. You’d spent so much time with him that you’d begun to read his tells — the way his hands fidgeted with whatever was nearby when he was deep in thought, the spark in his eyes when he birthed a new brainchild, and the knowing smile he'd give when he caught you watching, as if to say: yes, I know I'm heaven-blessed.
Sometimes you brought him dinner just to make sure he ate. He’d look up from his screen with a smile too bright for the stiff light around him. Some nights passed in companionable silence, filled only with the clatter of key strokes and the usual hum of the Infinity chamber. Other nights, you’d engage in drawn-out banter with him that left you more flustered than fulfilled.
Tonight was another one of those late nights.
He was pacing between the console and the board, mumbling to himself under his breath and writing faster than the chalk could keep up. Then you saw it — a coefficient slightly off, the kind of small mistake that rendered the entire feedback model useless.
“Wait,” you interrupted. “That factor should be squared.”
He traced a line with his finger, stopped at the error, and let the chalk fall.
“Oh? So you can do math.”
“You hired me to,” you said, echoing a past refrain.
He folded his arms, chuckling. “Do you always wait around for me to mess up?”
“Forgive me, sensei, for saving you hours of wondering where you went wrong.”
“Just don’t expect it to be a regular occurrence,” he said, flashing that infuriating grin.
“You're not God, you know?”
“But it’s on my business card — Professor Satoru Gojo: head theoretical physicist, devilishly handsome, irresistibly charming, the people’s genius. The honored one.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. This idiot — ironic, considering he was anything but. Somehow, the contradiction only added to his allure.
Shit, you thought. Am I falling for the Professor? It felt like the setup for a 2010s Wattpad cliché. Then again, you never expected being around him to feel as natural as gravity.
Later, when you returned from reviewing data logs in the server room, you found him asleep at his desk. His glasses were askew, and an unfinished equation trailed down his arm in marker. You carefully pried the uncapped pen from his fingers before he could smear it across his face — something you knew wasn't out of the realm of possibility.
At your touch, his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and heavy with exhaustion.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough. “Did we fix the bias?”
“We did,” you whispered. “You can rest easy now.”
He hummed in contentment, forming a faint smile. “I knew you’d handle it. You’re my constant.”
“What?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he mumbled, already half-asleep.
You wanted to ask what he meant — constant? — but by the time you found the words, his breathing had evened out, lost to sleep and the lullaby of the Infinity field, leaving you alone with only your racing thoughts for company.
My constant? What did he mean by that? Was that his version of a confession — one only his convoluted brain could come up with? Why couldn’t he ever just be normal?
And then you realized it:
you weren’t orbiting him anymore;
you were caught in the eye of the storm.
You hadn't known it then, but this was the moment your world began unraveling.
Satoru had spent the better half of the month developing Infinity's core artificial intelligence — an autopilot designed to lock resonance frequencies between timelines for sustained periods of time.
When two frequencies aligned perfectly, a phase-coherent region is formed inside the chamber. Within that zone, parallel branches of the universe overlap with one another; time temporarily "forgets" which branch it belonged to, allowing Infinity to shift an object—or person—to the corresponding moment in another reality.
From the outside, it would appear as though they had simply vanished; inside, it would feel like stepping seamlessly into a new, identical moment.
For the first time in history, time travel wasn’t just a fantasy anymore.
Satoru began spending more time beside you than at his own desk, using proximity as an excuse to accelerate understanding. You spent hours like that — testing stability, remodeling parameters and refining equations.
It didn't go unnoticed either.
Nanami pulled the shift logs one morning and pointed out that you'd both been clocking forty-hour stretches. Shoko started referring to the both of you as “the night shift”, and once, Suguru had given you a knowing smirk before he left, "Don't let him keep you up all night."
By now, the algorithm could hold a simulated temporal field stable for nearly one second before collapsing — a figure virtually meaningless to anyone outside the project. But beyond that, the tests yielded nothing but noise and static.
That single second would've only been enough for a payload handoff, something small like a drone. Human traversal would require a comfortable operational window of at least fifteen to thirty seconds— meaning you still had a long way to go.
Satoru sat in silence, twiddling his thumbs, seemingly lost in thought.
“Hey, you. You’re awfully quiet,” you said.
He blinked, resurfacing from another world, then flashed that familiar lopsided grin.
“Just thinking — dangerous habit, I know."
“About the experiment?”
“About variables.”
You raised a brow. Must he always be this cryptic?
He stood abruptly, pacing between the console and the whiteboard before stopping mid-step. His expression shifted, thoughts sharpening into revelation.
“Have you ever thought,” he began, “how everything in physics is built on the illusion of separation? We pretend the observer and the observed are distinct — input, output, cause, effect. But they’re not. It’s all one feedback loop.”
You leaned forward, resting your arms on the console. “What’s your point?”
“Human intuition operates on patterns that machines can’t read. Things like rhythm, speech, heartbeat variability, the timing of thought — Infinity’s blind to all of it. This is why we've plateaued."
“Satoru… what are you suggesting?”
He turned, blue eyes alight with a dangerous spark that always preceded a breakthrough.
“A cognitive interface.”
“You can’t be serious.”
"If Infinity could read our emotions, it could use them as a stabilizer. Brain activity would guide the machine. The human mind could anchor the system."
He paused.
“In other words,” he said, “a human could stabilize time itself.”
You stared at him, caught between disbelief and awe. It was absurd, reckless — and yet, somehow it made perfect sense.
Trust him to conceive something as insane as merging a human with Infinity, to blur the line between human and machine.
He was, in every sense, a man of science: faith not bound to God, but rooted in mathematics, following numbers with blind devotion. What he was proposing wasn’t innovation; it was heresy. The kind that would likely send the entire ethics committee to hell.
And that was how you found yourself volunteering to be the neural link for Infinity.
How did you get yourself into this mess?
A few weeks later, Suguru helped Satoru calibrate the brain-computer interface — exactly what it sounded like: a link between your brain and Infinity. Every time you thought, moved or felt something, Infinity would too.
Shoko checked your vitals one last time, flipping through your medical chart.
“Alright,” Shoko said, closing the file with a snap. “You ready?”
“To let an AI crawl into my brain? Anything in the name of science, I guess.”
“You know, it's not too late to switch places,” Satoru offered, adjusting a monitor. “Only fair that the genius test his own madness.”
“No, no," you dismissed, waving him off. "If it all goes to hell, no one else would know how to fix it.”
“Odd time to flirt," Suguru teased, glancing up from the console.
“Odd time to interrupt,” Satoru shot back without missing a beat.
"You do realize her potential last words would've been a compliment to you," Suguru added.
"Then she'd die happy," Satoru countered.
Shoko gave a pointed look to both of them. “If you two are done, I'd like to keep her alive. Let's begin."
She fitted the neural interface cap over your scalp — a lattice of silver mesh and fiber optics. As it calibrated to your bio-electric rhythm, each contact hummed faintly.
“Vitals stable,” Shoko said, checking her monitor. “Initiating low-power sync.”
The first pulse hit like static under your skin. It wasn't pain, exactly — more like a vibration crawling up the base of your skull, blooming behind your eyes. Light swarmed your vision, thin lines tracing across the air like barely-visible threads.
“Brainwave coherence at seventy percent,” Suguru called out. “Alpha patterns aligning.”
You could hear Infinity’s hum now, deep and resonant, settling into rhythm with your heartbeat. The next pulse connected, and your breath slowed unconsciously to match.
“Eighty-five percent. She’s stabilizing.”
“See?” Satoru’s voice cut through the rising noise. “Told you she could handle it.”
You wanted to answer, to throw some quip back at him, but you couldn’t. It was like your mouth felt detached, as if the thought hadn’t reached your body yet. A high-pitched ringing filled your skull.
Then, your memories began flickering like film frames — a rapid montage of your own life: childhood light, laughter and loss.
The hums rose higher, wrapping itself around your pulse until you couldn’t distinguish between which rhythm was yours anymore. The boundaries between you and Infinity were, well, infinite.
The voice wasn’t Satoru’s.
It wasn't Infinity's either, not the usual synthesized tone that you’d expect from an AI.
It was yours,
Speaking in perfect unison with the text.
Infinity was inside you.
"It's working!"
Satoru was over the moon.
Infinity's predictive accuracy had doubled, and the temporal field could now hold stability for longer periods of time. Still, it wasn't enough.
To improve precision, you worked tirelessly, minimizing phase errors and fine-tuning driving frequencies to bring the time gap between different timelines as close to zero as possible.
While you fought to keep the field from falling apart, Satoru was busy rewriting the laws that defined its shape. It was exactly the kind of abstract physics that only someone of his caliber — and ego— could wrestle into submission.
He wanted to be an architect of time, to map how two versions of reality could coexist without collapsing once matter crossed between them — parallel universes, if you will. To him, time wasn't divided across worlds; it was one continuous stretch that could be bent, folded or looped like origami. By extension, he wanted the ability to control time.
Most people, when asked what superpower they 'd want, stopped at wishful thinking. Satoru, of course, was already working on making his real.
Your smartwatch might as well have been a pointless accessory; its clock hadn't meant anything for weeks. You didn't even realize how long you'd been staring at the screen until a line of drool slipped down your hand. You wiped it away quickly and sent a silent prayer that Satoru hadn't seen.
You looked over, for extra measure — thankfully, he hadn't.
He was slouched in the chair beside you, glasses slipping down to the bridge of his nose, the blue of his eyes reflecting the monitor in front of him. He whistled some aimless tune under his breath, fingers tapping against the console — his thinking pattern. You realized it instantly.
When he noticed you watching, the melody stopped.
"If you don't stop staring at me, I'll get self-conscious."
You shot upright, cheeks burning. God, you felt like a high-schooler again — the new girl caught red-handed, drooling over the hot substitute teacher. Time for a smooth recovery.
"Pft — you? Impossible."
Yeah. That was fine… right?
He chuckled, then leaned across your workspace to grab a data drive just out of your reach. You caught a whiff of his cologne, as maddening as an aphrodisiac, and felt your pulse trip.
Why couldn't he just wear Dior Sauvage like every other guy? No, he simply had to smell like sex in a bottle. Definitely on purpose.
"Heart rate spike," he teased, glancing at the data on your watch. "Didn't realize I was that distracting. Should I move away?"
"Or maybe the caffeine's finally hitting."
"Right, blame the coffee," he mocked. "It's alright, you know. Adoration's followed me all my life. I'll make an exception for you — my favorite assistant."
"I'm your only assistant."
"Semantics."
Satoru leaned back, satisfied with his victory, returning to his trademark thinking slouch. You tried to refocus on the readings in front of you, but the lines kept blurring into meaningless symbols. Instead of recalibrating the feedback array, your eyes kept flicking sideways to steal glances at him.
That's when you noticed it.
The low drone of Infinity's field shifted. It was barely perceptible at first, just a faint modulation. Then the readings on the screen began to rise and fall… in time with your heart rate. You told yourself that it had to be some kind of sensor glitch or fatigue, but the rhythm stayed perfectly matched.
"That's… weird," you muttered.
He leaned over your shoulder again, and — though you tried extremely hard — his musk sent wild thoughts to your brain that jump-started your pulse, and sure enough, so did the display.
"Did you just make the system blush?" he asked, half-amused, half-intrigued.
"Shut up," you said automatically, but your eyes stayed fixed on the monitor.
The feedback signal was stable. No external interference. The alignment had changed on its own. He studied the screen, then looked at you with piqued curiosity, eyes narrowing with fascination.
"It's matching your heart rate."
"That's —"
"—impossible," he finished, grinning. "And yet…"
Infinity's core flickered, dimmed, then glowed again in the same rhythm. The pattern was unmistakable now — you could see every beat, every flutter you felt reflected back at you, amplified and alive.
"It likes you."
You laughed, but it came out shaky. "That's not funny."
"Wasn't a joke, the system's syncing to your bio-signature. Infinity's responding to you."
"That's —"
"—impossible?" he smiled. "You really should stop saying that word around me."
You didn't expect science to feel this personal.
The bioelectric signals and cortical oscillations from your emotional responses were being fed directly into Infinity's feedback loop — or at least, that was how Satoru explained it.
"Basically, different emotions influence different outcomes," Shoko clarified. "As long as your emotions remain stable, the field will too."
"So any kind of emotional turbulence causes distortions?" you asked.
"I can tame any beast," Satoru shot back, shoving him in return.
"Then start with the one in your pants," Suguru countered, earning a groan from Shoko.
"Both of you need to grow up," she sighed, rubbing her temple.
You tried to laugh with them, but the thought of it unsettled you. Every stray thought, every slight reaction you had was all being translated into raw data, projected for everyone to see. It felt less like research and more like a public confession; as if your diary entries were being read aloud in a courtroom.
Satoru must've noticed your smile falter.
"Hey," he said, voice low enough that only you could hear. "Don't overthink it. You're not a lab rat."
"I feel like one," you murmured.
He hesitated, then offered a reassuring smile. His hand brushed the center of your back in small, soothing circles.
"You're the reason this will work," he said simply.
That should've been comforting, but it only made your heart race — and, as if on cue, the field behind the glass flickered in sync. Readings spiked, lines of data cascading across the monitors.
You knew the others saw it too. Your stomach twisted; you'd never wanted to disappear more in your life. The idea of being an open book — of anyone being able to read your mind, to divulge all your secrets — was unbearable.
"Suguru," Shoko called out suddenly, her tone brisk. "Come with me to the medical wing. System's bugging out again. Be a doll and help a girl out, would'ya?"
Despite his protest, she was already pushing him toward the door. Before leaving, she threw you an imperceptible nod — trust Shoko to know exactly what to do.
You exhaled, breathing a sigh of relief. You'd owe her for this one.
Trying to look busy, you turned to the nearest console and started skimming through data, though your eyes barely registered anything. Your hands wouldn't stop trembling; knowing what everyone just witnessed — and imagining the humiliation yet to come — made you want to crawl out of your own skin.
"You don't have to pretend you're fine," Satoru said quietly.
You looked up. He was watching you from across the table, elbows on his knees. His expression was uncharacteristically still, devoid of his usual grin or mischief.
He pushed off the chair and crossed the space between you, stopping close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
"Infinity's reacting to you," he said. "That's not something to be embarrassed about. You should be proud — you're not just data, you're part of the future."
Behind him, the monitors flared, as if in agreement.
You laughed under your breath.
"Yeah, great. Me and the multi-billion-dollar AI, in holy matrimony. Totally normal."
"Normal's overrated anyway."
He smiled again, disarming you entirely. Warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading through you like static alive beneath your skin. Infinity hummed in response, deep and resonant.
You weren't even sure whose pulse it was anymore.
Over time, you learned to live with it… mostly. The notion that your emotions were being processed, chewed up, and spit back out of a machine no longer made you feel nauseous; you'd even stopped flinching when Infinity's blue core radiated to match your mood. It was just another part of the job now.
Still, a nagging thought lingered at the back of your mind — that maybe it wasn't just mirroring you, but becoming you. It was easy to ignore during the day, distracted by mountains of data logs and equations, but at night, when the lab dimmed and the monitors blinked like distant stars, you'd catch yourself wondering which heartbeat you were really hearing.
Eventually, things settled into a new routine.
Project Infinity was well into its second phase: Sustained Coherence Trials. The goal was to keep the temporal field stable for at least fifteen seconds — long enough for a human walk-through and for redundancy checks like post-entry verification, biometrics and emergency fail-overs.
It sounded simple in theory; in practice, it was like trying to balance a marble on a jet engine.
You spent your days refining neural filters and recalibrating the phase modulators, while Satoru buried himself in theoretical models that made the rest of the team's heads spin. Between the two of you, the project began to move faster than anyone had predicted.
And, somehow, so did whatever this was between you and him.
Did you just land yourself in a situationship?
Late nights became the norm. You'd start with technical discussions and end up sharing stories of childhood memories, failed experiments and regretful college decisions. (Well, mostly yours, because Satoru's idea of "regret" was not being the first person to work on the Large Hadron Collider).
Once, he convinced you that "acoustic interference affects quantum fields" and sent you an audio file to test it — only for you to get Rickrolled. He laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. You were about three seconds away from hurling a pen at him when the field generator suddenly stabilized into the cleanest waveform either of you had ever seen.
"Ahh," he said between laughs. "Knew it. My comedic abilities are so powerful they stabilize spacetime. Write that in your paper."
"Yeah, sure," you muttered, "right after I cite your ego as the leading cause of distortion."
"You'd have to list me as a co-author for that."
"You're such an idiot."
You hated that it made you smile.
And you hated even more that you couldn't look at him anymore without your pulse skyrocketing— which, unfortunately, Infinity seemed to enjoy broadcasting to the entire lab in real time, like the weatherman on NBC's The Today Show.
By now, there was no denying it: you were falling for Satoru Gojo.
And while you could troubleshoot resonance collapse and calculate temporal curvature with terrifying precision, there wasn't an equation in existence that could rectify this.
At first, you dismissed it as exhaustion.
After too many sleepless nights and more caffeine than any nutritional chart could condone, it made sense that the project was taking a toll on your body.
But then the headaches began. It was subtle, at first, like static behind your eyes. Your fingers would twitch during calibration runs, sometimes missing the keys by half a second. Once, you reached for a mug that wasn't even there. It was as if your body was moving out of sync with itself, lagging behind reality by just a few frames.
Infinity, however, seemed livelier than ever.
It had started mirroring more than just your vitals.
Halfway through a simulation run, its feedback display flashed new text across the console. Not random code this time, but fragments of phrases. Familiar ones.
> ACOUSTIC INTERFERENCE AFFECTS QUANTUM FIELDS.
> LOADING…
> NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP ♫
> NEVER GONNA LET YOU DOWN ♪
You froze. Then, almost immediately, you and Satoru burst out laughing — the kind of delirious, unrestrained laughter that only happened at three in the morning after days without sleep. You doubled over, tears streaming, clutching at your sides as the Infinity's lights flickered in tune, as if laughing alongside you.
"Okay," Satoru wheezed, "I take it back — the AI's got taste."
"Yeah," you managed to choke out. "A funny bone too."
You never thought Infinity had humor coded into it, and for a brief moment, it felt like a much-need break from the monotony.
Then the screen flashed again.
> YOU'RE SUCH AN IDIOT.
Wait — what?
The laughter died in your throat.
That was… familiar. That line — you'd said it to him a week ago. Exactly like that.
"Did you—?"
"No," he cut in quickly. "This isn't my doing."
Infinity's core pulsed brighter. A deep blue filled the lab accompanied by a low hum. The sound deepened further and further until you could feel it vibrating in your chest.
High and thin initially, like the annoying buzz of a mosquito at the edge of hearing. Then it grew sharper, drilling into your eyes. You clutched your head, blinking hard, but the light smeared your vision, sending the edges of the room bending and folding, like the world was struggling to buffer around you.
"Hey—hey, look at me," Satoru's voice was hazy through the noise, distant and distorted. "Breathe. You're okay. You're okay."
You weren't.
The static in your skull erupted, snapping white-hot. Your muscles locked and your sight fractured into overlapping frames — flip-book flashes of data, light and the indistinct outline of Satoru's hand reaching for you. You couldn't tell if it was him or just an afterimage the machine was feeding you.
The floor tilted, the sound collapsed.
Then everything went dark.
When you came to, the world felt muffled.
You were lying on one of the med-bay cots, blinded by the white glare of overhead lights. The sterile scent reminded you of hospitals, but the hum in your ears told you that you hadn't escaped the facility.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Shoko greeted, appearing at your bedside with a tablet in hand. "You gave us quite a scare."
You blinked against the light.
"How long was I out?"
"About five hours," she said, scrolling through your vitals. "Satoru carried you down here himself. Wouldn't stop pacing until I threatened to sedate him."
That sounded like him. You let out a weak laugh.
"Guess I overdid it, huh?"
Shoko didn't smile.
"You didn't. Your brain did."
She handed you the tablet. Even through the fog in your head, you recognized the images instantly. MRI scans layered in false color: steaks of deep crimson crawling along the temporal and prefrontal lobes.
"These my scans?" you asked, though you already knew.
She nodded. "You're showing signs of neural degradation."
"Meaning—?"
Shoko sighed, pulling up a comparison overlay.
"You and Infinity are too in sync. The neural link was supposed to translate your emotional feedback into data, but it's gone haywire. Every time you feel something, Infinity mirrors it, amplifies it, and sends it back. Your brain fires again to match it — and the cycle repeats."
You frowned.
"Like an echo chamber."
"Exactly. Except your brain can't process information fast enough to keep up. Infinity operates in femtoseconds — that's a quadrillionth of a second. Your neurons can't handle that feedback rate. The delay builds up as noise, and that noise is hitting your motor cortex like micro-seizures."
You looked back at the scan.
"So… my brain's short-circuiting?"
"In the simplest terms, yeah." She hesitated, lowering her voice. "It's called biofeedback instability. The more the system learns you, the deeper it hooks into your neural patterns. It's starting to replicate your emotions instead of just interpreting them like it's supposed to."
"You're saying that AI feels what I feel?"
"Not exactly," she said carefully. "It mimics emotional response as data. If you're anxious, Infinity intensifies the field; if you're calm, it steadies. It's associative bias — the more it learns, the less separation there is between your impulses and its synthetic ones."
Her words hung in the silence, heavy and alarming and horrifying all at once.
"How bad is it?"
"You're showing early-stage neuron fatigue," Shoko explained. "If you keep syncing at this rate, it could escalate into permanent damage — memory loss, motor impairment, cognitive drift. You need to stop the link, at least temporarily."
You shook your head.
"And risk everything we've built? That's not an option. We're too close to a breakthrough."
Her expression softened. She knelt down, taking your hands, eyes imploring you.
"And what good is a breakthrough," she asked quietly, "if you don't live to see it?"
You didn't have an answer for that.
She stood, tapping her pen against the tablet before heading to the door.
"I'll log this as an equipment error for now," she said. "But if you collapse again, I won't let it slide."
You lay there long after she left, thoughts racing — caught in the conundrum between the cost of understanding the universe and the cost of losing yourself in the process.
The hiss of the door broke through your thoughts.
Satoru burst into the room like a hurricane, hair tousled and lab coat half-buttoned, his usual vanity nowhere to be found. He rushed to your bedside, breathless and in a frenzy.
"You're awake," he said, relief bleeding into his words. "Good, good. I just ran into Shoko in the hallway. She filled me in on everything."
You winced. "Of course she did."
"You should've told me the second you noticed something was wrong! Argh—you passed out, for God's sake—"
"I'm fine," you said quickly. "It's just fatigue. Shoko's overreacting."
"Overreacting?" he repeated, raising his voice. "This isn't a warning from some mood ring, she ran a brain scan, for crying out loud! You need to take a break from the project and focus on getting better."
The edge in his voice cracked, the usual blinding confidence replaced only by fear.
"We don't have time for breaks," you argued. "You said it yourself — we're close. I can take it."
He laughed, not out of amusement but disbelief, the kind of laugh people used to keep themselves from breaking.
"This time, I'm saying no."
"You can't just—"
"I can."
You sighed, your shoulders sinking.
What's wrong with you? The man you'd spent months pining for was showing you genuine compassion. Wasn't this the part where you were supposed to swoon, let him fuss over you, and pretend it was enough? So why were you still fighting back?
"Satoru, if I step back now, we lose momentum. Just… let me keep working. I promise I'll ease up. I'll even pinky-promise. Deal?"
He hesitated, jaw tight. Then he exhaled and nodded once.
"Fine," he said, more like surrender than agreement.
"See? We can both be adults about this," you teased, relieved.
"I'm the adult here, you're the one under supervision," he countered, lips twitching into the familiar smirk you'd grown accustomed to. "From here on out, you're under my care. Whatever I say goes, got it?"
But unbeknownst to you, he hid a secret behind that smile.
He knew what Shoko hadn't told either of you — because Infinity had told him first.
Hours earlier, while you were still unconscious, the core's display had lit up with a flood of diagnostics. And hidden between the raw numbers, Infinity delivered a message meant only for him:
> WARNING: NEURAL DECOHERENCE IRREVERSIBLE.
>
> SUBJECT'S BIOLOGICAL NETWORK IS ENTANGLED.
> TERMINATING LINK WILL RESULT IN COGNITIVE ERASURE.
>
> PROGNOSIS: FATAL.
He hadn't told anyone. Not even Shoko.
Now, as he looked at you: alive, fragile and impossibly defiant, he felt the truth like a crushing blow to his chest; if the link was severed, you wouldn't survive it. You were already woven into the machine's core, your consciousness threaded too deeply in its algorithm — a code written in blood.
"Now, rest up," he said quietly. "Stay here and take the rest of the day off."
"What? But you already got your compromise!"
"Humor me," he forced a smile. "For once."
You rolled your eyes, muttering something about him being dramatic, and leaned back in defeat. In that moment, he let himself breathe, pretending things were still within his control. But when he glanced over at the cardiac monitor, he swore he saw Infinity's interface pulse for a second, like a heartbeat.
He swallowed hard, staring at it, daring it to speak again.
In the reflection of the screen, his own eyes looked hollow.
He'd made up his mind:
If the universe demanded a cost for understanding it, then he'd pay the price — in time, in sanity — whatever it took to undo the future it had already written for you.
In the days that followed, Satoru started crumbling.
He stopped showing up for breakfast runs, stopped teasing Suguru, stopped leaving those paper-clip contraptions on your desk — the ones you secretly loved but would never admit to.
He started writing in some alien numerical language, fragments of equations bleeding into one another. As if his past scribbles weren't hard enough to decipher, now they were only half-formed formulas scrawled over old ones, symbols no one else could make out.
Obsession took over. Every available surface became his own personal notebook. The walls were a maze of math. Ceiling tiles were marked with derivatives, discarded coffee cups were ringed with numbers scrawled in pen. The blackboards took the brunt of it; he'd erased half of them down to a pale fog of calculations, layer after layer of overlapping thoughts, so much so that the chalks had no other option but to disintegrate into traces of white powder.
He lived in the lab.
You'd catch glimpses of him through the glass — coat off, shirt sleeves rolled, smashing keys in furious succession at a speed too fast for any human to comprehend. His eyes burned with a feverish light, reflecting lines of code that vanished as soon as they appeared. His relentless pursuit knew no boundaries.
He'd talk to Infinity, coaxing it to confess a secret, like it was a deity he could reason with.
"If I can solve the curvature alignment… doesn't have to… can stop the…"
The rest of the sentence always dwindled and diminished into gibberish.
"He's burning out," muttered Suguru.
"Don't say that," Nanami snapped. "That word's forbidden."
Shoko said nothing. She turned a blind eye to Infinity's field patterns on the monitors, twisting in ways that mirrored Satoru's own erratic energy. She was unable — or unwilling — to witness his downfall with her own two eyes.
Even so, no one could deny it.
His calculations were brilliant. Terrifyingly, so.
In a single night, he'd somehow managed to rewrite half the coherence model and derived an equation for temporal phase matching that even the AI hesitated before validating it. But soon, the equations started looping — variables chased their own tails, recursive proof turned nonsensical.
No one could reach him.
Not even you.
It wasn't for lack of trying.
You brought him food as you always did, even tried injecting small jokes that'd usually crack him up. At first, he brushed you off gently; later, not so gently.
"I can't slow down now," he'd say, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Every second matters."
"You're only human, Satoru."
"Humans made clocks," he muttered.
"Satoru—"
"Please," he snapped, more harshly than you'd ever heard him. "Don't make me stop."
You flinched, locked onto the sight of his trembling hand where it gripped the console — a hand that refused to rest, even as his body begged for reprieve.
He was a man possessed.
Complete and utter devotion so absolute it bordered on madness.
And the more he worked, the stranger Infinity became. It started finishing his equations before he did, filling in variables mid-calculation. Only Infinity could match the pace he was working at — human and machine, moving as one.
He told no one what he knew, carried that knowledge like a blade pressed to his ribs, plunging itself deeper and deeper with each tick of the second hand. Every movement and decision he made was driven by the certainty that the only way forward was through.
So he just kept typing.
Faster.
Always faster.
And by the end of the week, the others had stopped coming.
The place that once buzzed with conversation and laughter now felt like a mausoleum. Coffee cups piled on the console beside calculations so incoherent that no one could make them out. Half the monitors displayed code so dense it resembled lurid scriptures rather than logic, its lines twisting and folding back on themselves like hysterical prayers.
No one knew how to be around him anymore.
Suguru stopped offering to help out. Nanami started logging off exactly on time. Even Shoko, who usually masked her concern behind sarcasm, began avoiding the sub-basement levels altogether.
No one wanted to watch him wither away.
Only you stayed.
You found him one night standing before the Infinity chamber, unblinking. The blue light spilled over him like moonlight, bathing his features in a ghostly pallor. He looked like a stranger — a shell of the man you once knew, pale, glassy-eyed and mouth set in a smile too wide to be considered sane.
"We're close," he said to no one in particular. "I can feel it."
"You're scaring me," you said.
No response. He remained glued to the core.
"You're isolating yourself," you tried again. "Even Nanami's worried, and that man thinks emotional intimacy is a myth."
"I'm fine," he said, eyes never leaving the light.
"No, you're not. You haven't slept in three days."
"Sleep's inefficient."
You stepped closer.
"You think I don't notice? You're scaring everyone."
"I have to finish this, I'm… running out of time…. I h-have to… fix everything."
His voice cracked on the last word. You reached for him, but he started backing away, guilt-ridden.
"Satoru, stop—"
You caught his wrist before he could retreat further. His skin was cold, clammy beneath your fingers. He blinked, startled, as if waking up from a nightmare.
"You don't understand—I have to finish this," he repeated, pleading now, "The resonance curve—"
"—I don't care about the damn resonance curve!" you snapped, louder than you intended.
Well, that did it.
He froze, wide-eyed as you exhaled sharply.
"Satoru," you said, voice breaking, "I care about you."
His mouth snapped shut, and for the first time in days, his eyes left the machine. Confusion clouded his face, as if the concept of being cared for simply didn't compute.
You gestured at the screens — half of them filled with senseless feedback and looping figures that spiraled over and over endlessly, waves fluctuating between stability and calamity.
"Look at this. You're burning out."
He tried pulling away but his resolve faltered when he saw the way your hand shuddered against his. Remorse flashed through him, revealing an exhaustion too apparent to hide.
"Come with me."
"I can't—" he stammered.
"Infinity's not going anywhere."
You didn't give him a second to pause for thought.
Reaching over, hands flying over the console, you forced a shutdown. The lights gave out, alarms shrieked, and red text gushed down the screen — warnings, security prompts, system locks. You ignored them all and sealed the command sequence before he could stop you.
You grabbed his hand, holding tight as you pulled him toward the exit. This time, he didn't resist.
The door shut behind you, leaving the chamber in the cover of darkness.
Just the wind, the rustle of leaves, and the horizon stretching infinitely from the treeline, painting the landscape in the deep indigo of pre-dawn.
He stood by the railing, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders drawn taut as a wire. The wind tugged at his lab coat, at his hair. He looked by a figure caught between worlds, corrupted by thoughts of the impending doom that'd befall him if he even so much as dared to relax.
"You know," you started, "normal people go to therapy when they hit rock bottom."
"Normal's overrated," he mumbled — a tiny crack formed on the stoic surface.
"Touché."
The breeze curled through his strands, entangling them into a beautiful mess of white. From this angle, against the darkness of the sky, he looked unreal. Frankly, it was unfair.
The blue of his eyes glimmered bright and bottomless, reflecting every ounce of light the night could offer. The kind that could pull you under — a sailor's song, an oceanic current so magnetic it guaranteed nothing but shipwreck.
Emotional wreckage, in your case.
"It's nice seeing you outside the lab. You almost look human."
His lip twitched — a semblance of his former self.
"Have faith in your lead scientist. Haven't I proved I'm beyond mortal classification?"
"Your favorite research assistant is convinced, now more than ever, that you're God's anomaly."
An actual smile — his pretense dissolved. He was back.
"I admit, I've been slacking. Didn't I vow to keep an eye on you?"
"Rest assured, the institute's best scientist hasn't run me into an early grave yet."
A brief, stark flash of profound terror carved his face. He was gone again.
His hands shot up, gripping your shoulders, heavy and anchoring. There was an undercurrent of tension, his gaze cut into you with microscopic intensity. He was manic, focused. Searching your face as though he could memorize its patterns, scanning your features desperately like performing a final, critical reading of his most precious, unstable data.
Pulling you in close now, his grip tightened fractionally, securing the contact. He breathed into your neck, voice low, rough and ragged, against your throat.
"Don't ever say that again."
The words vibrated through your skin, a surge of chills raced down your spine. His breath was warm against the curve of your neck; his teeth grazed the spot just below your ear, setting off warning sirens.
Without hesitation, he took your face in his hands and lunged.
This wasn't romance. No — it was the pure panic of a man trying to physically fuse two bodies together, to stop time from moving forward by consuming the present, like each second with you might be his last.
Lips crashed against yours, hungry and aggressive, a collision of grief and longing, apology and madness, all tangled into one. He drew you in closer until your body was molded against his. Responding as if second nature, you melted into him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. The thrill of being devoured—of feeling his raw and unrestrained desire—was dizzying.
When he finally broke contact, gasping for air, he kept his forehead pressed to yours. Labored breathing intermixed, the frantic tempo of your heart thrashing against your chest was the only thing you could make out in the moment. That was when he lifted his hands from your face, and began moving down, sliding swiftly beneath the hem of your shirt and against the small of your back.
Shivers washed over you, his skin ice-cold against your warmth. This wasn't a casual caress; it was more of an urgent exploration. He trailed upward, charting the fragile contours of your spine, ignoring the polite confines of fabric.
A frail, disorienting gasp escaped you, half-pleasure, half-shock. You buried your hands deeper into his hair, pulling his head back to take his mouth again, matching his frantic pace. The feeling of his fingers splayed on your skin erased the world beyond the railing. He tore away, pulling back to rest his eyes on you again, now darkened with frightening need.
"Tell me," he rasped, breath hot against your ear, "tell me you'll never leave."
He lifted you instantly, his strength absolute, effortlessly sweeping your legs from the ground. Wrapping them around his waist, you clung onto him as he moved with powerful, determined strides toward the shadow of a colossal steel beam — a stark, cold backdrop against his rising frenzy.
He didn't set you down; he crushed you against the metal, pinning you between the rigid structure and the overwhelming heat of his body. You arched against the unyielding steel, the chill biting into your back while his scorching body trapped you in place. His hands roamed possessively, one sliding under your shirt to claw at your bare waist, nails digging in just enough to mark you as his territory.
"Promise me," he demanded, voice rough and broken, lifting your head to capture your gaze. Those eyes burned blue with obsession, pupils blown wide like he was staring into your soul and claiming every inch. "Promise you'll never leave."
Your breath hitched, body thrumming with the same feral appetite. You grabbed fistfuls of his white hair, yanking him closer until your lips brushed his.
"I promise, Satoru," the words tasting like surrender and fire, "I'll never leave you."
That was all he needed.
With a guttural growl, he charged forward, swallowing you in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, leaving no room for compassion. His hips ground against yours harder, the thick visage straining through his pants, rubbing insistently at your core. You moaned into him, heat pooling between your thighs as you hooked yourself tighter around his waist to feel every stiff inch.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth lower, sucking hard on your collarbone, then lower still, shoving the fabric up to expose your breasts to the cool air. His hot breath fanned over one nipple before he latched on, tongue flicking and teeth nipping, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. His free hand kneaded the other, pinching the peak until it ached with delicious pain.
"Fuck, you're all mine," he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled as he switched sides, lavishing the same stubborn, brutal attention.
His fingers dipped lower, fumbling with the button of your pants, yanking them open with impatient tugs. He shoved his hand inside, cupping your center through the soaked cloth, thumb pressing down on your clit in firm circles that made your hips buck wildly under his touch.
"Satoru… please…" you whimpered, grinding against his palm, the friction sending sparks everywhere. The plea escaped unsolicited, your body on fire, every nerve screaming for more.
He chuckled sinfully, sound vibrating through you as he slipped two fingers beneath, parting your slick folds. "Please, what? What does my lovely assistant want now?" and without warning, he plunged them inside you, curling deep and stroking that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. "To take you against this beam, where anyone could see?"
You cried out, head falling back against the metal with a thud, but you didn't care. The stretch of his fingers, the way he pumped them mercilessly, had you clenching around him, walls fluttering with building pressure. "Y-yes."
Satoru's eyes obscured further with a predatory gleam, then he added a third finger, stretching you wider, thumb unrelenting, never ceasing its assault. He watched your face in gratification, drinking in every whine, every weep, like it was sustenance — his favorite delicacy.
"That's my girl," he grumbled, free hand pinning your hip to keep you still while he finger-fucked you harder, the wet sounds echoing obscenely in the shadowed space.
The coil in your belly tightened unbearably, an abundance of pleasure crashing over you. You raked your nails down his back, tearing at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. He hissed in approval, thrusting his fingers faster, deeper, until your orgasm ripped through you like a storm. You came with a shattered moan, pussy spasming around him, soaking his hand as your body trembled in his grip.
But he didn't stop. Not even as you rode out the aftershocks, panting and boneless. He withdrew his fingers slowly, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a savage moan. "Sweet," he growled, then crushed his mouth to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
In one fluid motion, he unzipped his pants, freeing his cock—thick, veined, and throbbing with need. The tip leaked pre-cum, smearing against your thigh as he positioned himself at your entrance, still pinned against the beam.
"I'm not done with you yet," he warned, voice laced with that same manic edge. "I need to be inside you. Need to make sure you know that you're mine."
You nodded frantically, wrapping your legs around him again, urging him on. He thrust in with one brutal snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt in your still-quivering pussy. The stretch burned so good, his cock splitting you open, hitting every sensitive spot uncompromisingly as he set a punishing pace.
"Mine, mine, all mine," he grunted with each slam, hands gripping your ass to hold you steady as he fucked you like he was trying to fuse your bodies together. The steel rattled behind you, but neither of you noticed, too lost in the raw, consuming rhythm. Sweat slicked your skin, breaths mingling in harsh pants, his mouth claiming yours between thrusts.
He drove deeper, harder, chasing his own release while pushing you toward another. His hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in time with his hips.
"Come with me," he ordered, teeth sinking into your shoulder as his thrusts grew erratic, cock swelling inside you.
The command shattered you. Your second orgasm hit like lightning, walls clamping down on him, milking his cock as you screamed his name. Satoru followed with a roar, hips stuttering as he spilled hot cum deep inside you, pulse after pulse, marking you from the inside out.
He didn't pull away immediately, staying buried to the root, forehead pressed to yours as you both caught your breath. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, that intense hunger softening to reveal the vulnerability beneath.
"Forever," he murmured, kissing your temple softly. "Promise me forever."
You smiled weakly, exasperated, fingers tracing the outline of his jaw. "Forever, Satoru. I'm not going any—"
And then came the ringing.
High and piercing, crawling in behind your eyes and sinking its claws deep.
You staggered back, clutching your head.
"What's wrong?"
Your knees buckled as the sound intensified, the world splintering into equal parts light and shadow. Your vision warped; colors merged together, dragging and swirling around like wet paint, blending until it churned into an amalgamation of white and blue. The rooftop, once free from Infinity's noise, now thrummed with it, rumbling through your veins, syncing, surging, burning.
"—toru," you gasped. "It's—it's too loud—"
He caught you before you hit the ground. Your body convulsed in his grasp, every neuron misfiring and sparking under the overload.
"Hey—it's okay, I've got you—"
But he didn't. Not really.
The blue of his eyes blurred into the same glow that bled from the lab below. Through all the layers of concrete and distance, Infinity had found you again. The pull of the field, you could feel it reaching up even here, swarming its way back into your skull like it couldn't bear to be apart.
"Satoru—turn it off—"
You didn't understand. Couldn't. All you could hear was the whine of the world tearing itself open, and the cruel electric crackle reverberating inside you.
"Please—make it stop!"
"I-I don't know how—"
You reached for him, fingers trembling as light swallowed everything. The last thing you saw was his face, terrified and helpless, illuminated by the same glow of a machine that refused to let go.
Everything collapsed into white.
The night your world ended, it started with thunder.
You were half-asleep when the fluorescent lights began flickering.
Once.
Twice.
Dead.
A deep rumble echoed beneath the building, rattling the bedframe.
A second later, the alarms erupted to life, drowning the room in red.
"Power surge detected in sub-levels three through five. Initiating emergency shutdown. All personnel must evacuate the premises immediately. I repeat, power surge—"
Sub-level three.
Lab C.
Infinity.
You were already halfway down the hall of the medical wing before realizing you weren't wearing shoes. But the vibrations pushed you forward, darting through the corridor, each step more urgent than the last, pounding louder against the sirens that continued howling in the background like a wounded animal.
You turned the corner — and slammed straight into Shoko. You barely registered it, until she caught your arms hard enough to bruise.
"You can't go down there!" she shouted over the noise. "The surge started in Infinity's core! The field's unstable — you'll be vaporized!"
"He's down there!" you gasped. "Satoru's still down there!"
"Then he's already—"
Nanami appeared behind her, coat half-on, earpiece crackling with emergency chatter. His face was carved from stone.
"The core's drawing power from the backup grid," he interrupted. "It's not supposed to be possible — Infinity rerouted the entire generator network. It's eating power faster than the containment systems can compensate."
"You mean it's—"
"Hijacked," Suguru finished, emerging from the smoke. His face was pale and slick with sweat. "Infinity's rewriting its own security protocols. Damn it — Satoru must've hard-coded a failsafe; he's overridden every lockdown command!"
Shoko turned on him. "You think he did this?"
He didn't have to say anything, his expression already confirmed it.
"He's trying to finish it," you realized in horror, the words scraped your throat raw. "He's going to run the program."
"Then you can't stop him." Nanami said quietly.
"I have to try."
"Have you gone mad too?" Suguru's voice cracked, desperate. He shook you once, attempting to ground you in reason, to assess the gravity of the situation. "You'll die with him!"
"I promised him—I promised I'd never leave."
You tore yourself free and sprinted down the hall before they could stop you. Shoko's shouts chased after you, distant and drowning under the blaring sirens. Smoke poured in from the vents, swirling crimson under the emergency lights.
You slammed your ID badge against the scanner.
ACCESS DENIED.
You slammed it again.
OVERRIDE AUTHORIZED.
Alright.
The door hissed open.
The smell hit first — scorched metal and circuity, sharp enough to burn your throat. Blue-white flooded the entire room, enveloping the walls. Infinity's core had expanded far beyond its containment shell; electricity lashed out like tendrils of lighting, the reinforced glass groaned under the strain, spider-webbed with fractures.
And at the center of it all — him.
He stood perfectly still, calm amid the chaos. Unmoving. Unbothered.
He looked divine — radiant, sculpted in light.
The juxtaposition was oppressive.
"Satoru!" you shouted. "Shut it down!"
He didn't look up right away, but when he did, he face was serene.
"Look at what we made," he murmured. "A system achieving perfect self-symmetry. I didn't think I'd see it this soon."
"Shut it down!"
"I can't, it's self-sustaining now. Infinity isn't running off the facility grid anymore; it's drawing power directly from the field resonance. It's ready."
"You're not making any sense—"
"I can finally save you."
Behind him, Infinity's interface flared, the same words repeated endlessly across every monitor, over and over and over again:
> WE ARE INFINITE.
> WE ARE INFINITE.
> WE ARE INFINITE.
"It's the only way," he said, stepping toward the chamber. "The loop is stable. Once it executes, I can fix everything."
"Are you breaking your promise?"
He paused.
For a heartbeat, his composure cracked.
"No, I'm keeping it."
You hurled yourself forward, grabbing his arm.
"You can't play God, Satoru!"
You scoured his face for any sign of reason, desperate to understand what led him to this point. Infinity was nowhere near stable enough, he knew that better than anyone.
Why would he gamble his life away?
Did his brilliance finally consume him?
Was this what it meant to fly too close to the sun?
The floor shook violently, sending cracks through the containment glass, hairline fractures spidering through its surface. Infinity's pulse thundered through the air, its light spilling like veins of liquid fire.
He reached up and brushed a thumb across your cheek, warm and achingly human.
He gave you a look, filled with everything pure and unmistakable: fear, love, and unequivocal certainty.
"If time can hold everything, then let it hold this too."
Before you could react, he slipped from your grasp and hit the chamber lock. The door sealed shut with a hydraulic hiss — the sound of finality, ruthlessly severing your connection.
"Satoru!" you screamed, pounding your fists against the glass in futility, begging, "Don't do this! Please, listen to me!"
All he did was smile — that same infuriating, beautiful image that had undone you once, now would only haunt you forever.
> WE ARE INFINITE.
> WE ARE INFINITE.
> WE ARE INFINITE.
With the press of a button—
"No—!"
Red and blue collided in a blinding surge of light. A deafening crack. A tidal wave of force so immense, the air screamed under the pressure.
The world split apart.
The chamber imploded inward, then outward, erupting in a shockwave that tore the ground and took everything in its wake. The last thing you saw was his figure dissolving into the storm, swallowed by white fire — then nothing.
"We'll list it as a malfunction," the director said. "It's cleaner that way."
Continuum's higher-ups sat around the polished table, their faces half-lit by the morning sun spilling through the glass. The only sound was the mechanical rhythm of the ventilation system, hollow and artificial, filling the silence grief had left behind.
The words hung in the air like an insult.
He deserved better than a line in a report.
Satoru Gojo — missing, presumed dead.
His body was never found.
Suguru was the first to resign. He handed in his ID tag the next morning — no explanation, no goodbye.
Shoko stayed longer, but she haunted the medical wing, drifting through it like a ghost, white coat trailing and the scent of cigarette smoke following wherever she went.
Nanami was the last to leave. He finished the paperwork alone, and when the final report was filled, he didn't look up.
"Lock the doors before you go," he said simply.
Continuum had buried the project along with Satoru, beneath red tape and silence.
Sub-level three. Lab C.
It was unrecognizable.
They told you later that the containment shutters had sealed at the last possible second, manually triggered from inside the chamber.
You descended into the wreckage days later. The stale air was now thick with dust and ozone. The once-sterile floors were blackened and veiled with soot, consoles reduced to contorted steel. Blackboards lay split in half, shadows of former equations improperly erased, smeared into meaningless fragments.
The chamber had caved in on itself. Reinforced glass and metal re-fused into a single deformed shell. The light was gone at last, but the hum of residual energy lingered, like a ghost refusing to leave.
You trudged through the ruins, brushing your fingers over broken surfaces. Every corner held a memory: laughter spilling into late nights, the acrid smell of burnt coffee, the rustle of paper as he illegibly jotted down another indecipherable equation. His teasing grin. The sound of his voice calling your name.
Your knees finally gave out beside the main console, chest heaving, the grief too much to bear. You didn't know what you were looking for, why you were even here — proof, perhaps. A sign that he hadn't vanished into nothing. That he hadn't left you behind for nothing.
So you searched.
You tore through drawers, dug through ash, pried open half-melted panels until your nails split and your hands bled. Busted monitors crackled like dying radio chatter as you attempted to recover anything that wasn't erased or corrupted.
Then, a flicker.
The central display sputtered to life before stabilizing. A single file blinked in the corner of the screen:
INFINITY_LOG_FINAL.MP4
Timestamp: the day of the explosion.
The screen filled with static before resolving into an image.
Him — illuminated by blue light. Exhausted, smiling. The sight hit, a punch to the gut. Tears came before you could stop them.
"If you're watching this," he began, voice soft, "then the field must have stabilized. That means I cracked the code."
Your heart twisted.
"I can finally save you."
He laughed, the sound broken, sad.
"I'm sorry I kept it from you. Infinity told me the truth — that you were already dying. I couldn't bear to live in a world without you in it. What's a genius to do without his favorite research assistant?"
You covered your mouth, trembling, shaking, reduced to pathetic sobs.
"If time is infinite, then somewhere, we're both still alive. Somewhere, you still remember my name. And somewhere, I'm still holding your hand."
He reached toward the lens, fingers brushing the screen; it felt like he was there — just on the other side of the glass.
"So don't cry, my love," he whispered. "We'll meet again. Until the universe remembers us by heart."
The screen faded to black.
A soft chime.
The interface lit up:
Light spilled from the console, bright and blinding, ingesting everything in sight. The hum rose, air folded, and reality shuddered.
The universe drew back its curtain for one last encore.
Sub-level three. Lab C.
The doors parted to reveal a room alive with motion.
Equations sprawled across whiteboards like tangled constellations — a chaos of intersected loops and vectors, ink bleeding at the edges. Coffee-stained rings fossilized into the desks, buried beneath strata of notes and half-torn printouts, overlapping in layers. Lines of code danced synchronously across black screens, and cables coiled along the floors and walls like unruly vines.
And at the center of it all — him.
Leaning over a console: white hair long and untamed, sleeves rumpled and rolled to the elbow, tie loosened. Eyes too bright, too blue. He smiled as if he’d been waiting.
"Ah," he said. "You're finally here."
You blinked. "Finally?"
He laughed, straightening, smoothing his shirt in that same familiar gesture. His voice was lighter than you remembered — playful, unguarded.
"Yeah. Feels like I've been waiting for you forever."
"We've met before?"
He smiled — the same smile that lived in every timeline.
"Have we? Maybe in another lifetime."
> PHASE-CONVERGENCE PROTOCOL: COMPLETE
> RECURSIVE TEMPORAL PHASE-LOCK: STABLE
> TIMELINE COLLAPSE: 100.0% INTEGRITY.
> ENTROPIC GRADIENT: NEUTRALIZED.
> RESIDUAL CONSCIOUSNESS DETECTED: [2]
[subject YOU_Neural_Trace]
[subject SATORU_Cognitive_Signature]
> DATA MERGE IN PROGRESS…
> WARNING: IDENTITY PARAMETERS UNDEFINED.
> CROSS-CORRELATION RISING [98.7%]
> MEMORY INDEX OVERLAP: CRITICAL.
> RECURSIVE LOCK: ACHIEVED
∞ INFINITY PROGRAM ONLINE ∞
[TEMPORAL STABILITY: ABSOLUTE]
[OBSERVER COUNT: UNDEFINED]
[BOUNDARY CONDITION: LOOP ESTABLISHED]
echo("You are my constant")
echo("I promise I'll never leave you.")
> HELLO, YOU.
> PROGRAM RESET: INITIATED.
> CYCLE RESTARTING IN 132:19:10
taglist | @ssorasky @falsedivide
⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ if you're interested or want to be taken off, feel free to ask/dm ── ᵎᵎ ✦
you've been set to marry the new emperor Satoru Gojo, but he wants nothing to do with all of that, he doesn't even come to your first meeting - rude! No, he must bathe with his concubines, but when he sees you for the first time and doesn't even know you're his wife? Everything shifts, but it turns out he doesn't know that you're not happy to be here either. Leaving your past love behind and everything you know for a foreign country, just to be unwanted by your new 'husband' is almost enough to break you. You're ready to go through the motions, play your role, but do you really know who Emperor Gojo is?
pairings- emperor! gojo x arranged empress! reader
contents/warnings - Historically INNACURATE asf, some angst, depression, enemies to lovers, lots of dry humour, longing, mutual pining, explicit smut, court tactics, Satoru being a hoe, reader missing her lover Suguru, a fuck ton of drama and games, he falls first and he falls hard. This chap - oral (f receiving) p in v sex, semi public sex, possessive Satoru, heavy angst, evil Suguru, court plots against our pookies, love confessions, a mix of fluff/smut/ anddd angst <3 - 10.2k wc
art is by @3-aem they're insanely talented 🥹
Enjoy this messy long chap - sorry for the wait my loves <3
<<<part five - playlist - masterlist - part seven (soon)
part six
Satoru swallows down his nausea when he peers at a letter that’s all folded up laying on your table, you’re fast asleep, spent from the love making. This week back has been cruel to both of you, and his time is scattered, it’s torn between you, endless meetings, the three concubines left, and planning peace agreements with the neighboring territory.
He’s barely been able to see you.
Last night he met you in your room late, kissing you until you cried out, holding you against him and making sure you came as much as you could until you almost fainted. He woke up and gently brushed your cheek, admiring your pretty little face as the hints of morning shone in, before he stood and studied more about you, the things you’ve brought.
He wanted to learn more of who you were, he saw some pretty silver brushes that must be from your family, the pin he knew was from the night shoved in a drawer hastily he notes. It’s almost as if you threw the damn thing in there, along with a little bottle of that fragrance you wore constantly, the one that entrances him to no end.
But the note, he can’t help but look at it, knowing he shouldn’t but he unfolds it carefully anyway, jaw setting then. He worried it would be some sort of love note, he knows you cared for that dumb knight, even if it wasn’t returned, but the nature of the note in question has his heart pounding in his ears, hands shaking with anger that anyone wrote you like that.
It’s not an anger at you, it’s an anger that he got to touch you, when he clearly gave you some fucking counterfeit necklace you clung to for dear life, traipsing around town spinning his dumb fucking tales. Yet he can’t help but want to burn this and any note to the fucking ground when he reads its contents in a scrawled, elegant handwriting.
My princess,
Forgive me for this, but I cannot stop thinking of you, the essence of your perfect nectar slipping across my fingers, I must admit I hungrily sucked it off and got just a taste of your sweetness. Your innocence which I hold so dearly to my heart, I know you wish it to be taken, but we must wait, my sweet flower, I wish to take my time and cherish every part of you when we do.
The memory of that alone lives on in a loop in my heated mind, and I know it’s a certain death if this gets out, but how can I not write to you, how can I not memorize every movement? Every flutter of your eyelashes like a butterfly's wings when I curled my fingers, the way your teeth sunk into your plush lip? It will be ingrained, as is the sweet way you asked for me to take you.
Soon, princess, soon.
“Mnh, morning handsome,” you murmur behind him, eyeing his perfect form and exhaling. “This is a sight I could get used to.”
He says nothing, making you frown then, you sit up and stretch, just wearing a little slip of material, walking up to him now carefully, feet padding on the marble stone beneath you, cold and unyielding. Your hand touches his back and he tenses, the muscles bunching, not pulling back but not giving in, looking over his shoulder so you see the set of his jaw.
“Toru?”
“My mama calls me that too,” he murmurs, cursing himself now internally. He is mad, furious, sick that you have this, but how can he be when you originally were just dragged here, and he acted as he did?
“Are you okay?” He turns, and you see a letter open in his hand, feeling sick to your stomach. “Fuck I thought I got rid of them all, I forgot one.”
“You had many?” He asks, tense now, a hand crumpling it as he reads it. “The fucker really called your cunt a flower, and your juices his nectar huh?”
“Oh shit,” you back off then, covering your face. “Satoru, as soon as we became intimate, I burned them. I swear, please do not be-”
“Shh,” he halts you, easing your wrists down, you see his blue eyes glowing with anger. “I’m not mad at you, of course I knew you kept things from him. It’s just… it’s just it makes me fucking want to kill him for ever touching you, ever.”
“I know the feeling,” you murmur softly now, tears in your eyes, as you think of yesterday. “Seeing Jia on your arm, laughing and kissing you? It killed me, it made me nauseous, I wanted to throw her into the fucking river.”
“I’d gladly let you,” Satoru grimaces, running a hand across your cheek and setting the note down, the other hand slipping up your waist. “I know it hurts you, trust me sweetheart. I fucking hate that you have to endure this.”
You swallow nervously, your throat gone dry. “You’re really not mad at me? I expected you to burn it right here.”
“Oh, I’d love to burn it, but I am not mad at you for having it,” you blink in surprise, letting him cup your face possessively, fingers wrapping your jaw. “I know you’re all mine.”
“Greedy for me?” You tease, earning his groan, as he kisses you now, hungrily, backing you until your knees are against the foot board of the bed, an arm on either side, towering over you with hungry lips.
“Fuck, Suguru had no right to ever touch you, I swear to god I want to dismember him in front of the whole fucking country.”
You take a shaky breath, feeling his anger, the tenseness of his lithe form in front of you. “I won’t go to see him.”
“You can,” he exhales as he picks you up in his arms, letting your feet dangle off the floor, as you wrap them around his neck. “How can I tell you not to?”
Your forehead rests on his, as memories swim back, of yesterday morning knowing his hands were on her waist, but not like this, not like you. “You don’t kiss them like this, hold them like this.”
He shakes his head, swallowing down the guilt of having to do anything with them, knowing it hurts you. “No, I have never kissed or held anyone like you.”
“Then I’ll know you’re mine,” your tears slip down your cheeks, as he sets you down, feeling his own emotions rise. “You do everything to show me how much you care, please don’t mistake it, though I am… horrible at sharing things sometimes, please know I care too.”
“You’re not,” he shakes his head, brushing aside your tears in the quiet of your chamber, tears burning his pretty blue eyes. “Do you want to keep the note?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” He asks again, cupping your face tightly, kissing your forehead so sweetly. “He uses lofty, poetic words that I cannot.”
You lean back now, head falling so you can look up at him, brows going together, the sunlight filters and illuminates his pretty features, breaking your heart. “You do not need to use poetic words, I love your filthy ones.”
“Do you?” He hums a bit, hand slipping across your bare shoulder, exhaling and leaning low. “You don’t want me calling it a flower?”
“Call it a cunt,” you giggle even through your tears, and he can’t help but grin, before it falters, and he sighs, tugging you close, burying his head against your neck. “I thought you’d want to kill me just now.”
“No, just him,” he mumbles, then falters again. “Jia, she was all over me yesterday, grinding on me… I know you don’t wanna fucking hear but how do I just keep it inside?”
You ease back once more, and meet his gaze.
“I feel like I’m unfaithful and lying,” he swallows and brushes your hair back, sighing now.
“Satoru…”
“No, I feel horrible, like I have no control over shit when I ‘run’ the country, and all I do is hurt you.”
“You do much more, stop that,” you frown now. “You’re not being my cocky, conceited emperor. Where is he?”
“Wherever the conceited empress went,” you both are quiet for a moment. “I don’t want anyone but you.”
“I know.”
“My body didn’t even react,” he looks down at your pretty breasts, brushing his fingers across them. “Couldn’t if I wanted to, little witch and her spells.”
“I put a good one on you,” you want to tease, but it hurts, his pain – your pain, mingling together on your breaths as your lips meet once more. A gentle press, his strong hands against you, holding you so tightly. “If I don’t get my monthlies today, we will know.”
Any signs of them?”
“None yet,” you bite your lip then, brows together. “I’m scared it’ll take time to get pregnant, and we don’t even have time if…”
“I’ll put more cum in you then, and we’ll keep trying,” you blush now, so pretty in front of him. “I’ll drink your ‘nectar’ and all.”
“Lord he was something,” you laugh then, head against his chest, feeling it shake slightly as he chuckles. “I still haven’t gone to talk.”
“No?”
“No.” Satoru pauses for a moment, unsure of how to approach this. "Spit it out, Toru. I know that look."
“When he… when he fingered you, did you bleed?”
You pause then, frowning and nodding. "How could you know?"
Suguru’s tales make sense, he relished surely in the fact that he did ‘take your innocence’. Satoru sighs as you study him, rubbing the back of his neck. "A guess."
“Is that terrible?”
“No, not at all sweetheart,” he brushes your hair back gently. “If not gentle enough, and long enough fingers, you can break a maidenhead.”
“Oh… oh!? Oh god… and me and you…”
“It’s also normal to break it horse riding, anything, so do not feel terrible, I was still your first,” he tries to calm you as your brows draw together. “But he did say he ‘took it first’ so after this letter I was curious.”
“I thought I’d gotten some spotting or something,” you admit, remembering the confusion and how scared you were, it’s not like you could tell someone. “Is it why it didn’t hurt with you?”
“It didn’t hurt because you were soaked,” he teases now, sighing. “Dripping wet and easy.”
You heat up, flushed cheeks warm under his lips. “You're not upset at me?”
“Sweetheart I was a whore,” you giggle a bit then, nodding. “A complete whore actually, till you reformed me.”
“Are you reformed forever?” You ask softly. He lifts you now, big hands on your hips, moaning and kissing you gently.
“I am too susceptible to your witchcraft,” his kisses get more desperate, more needy. “Mnh I care not even if you'd laid with him, I just want to kill him for going around saying such.”
“He really did?” Your face has fallen, he nods. “Perhaps I should see him, to smack his face.”
There is a knock on your door, the two of you sigh.
“Another day of duty and not fucking your perfect cunt,” he feels you heat up at the comment as he presses you firmly against the bed, silky hair falling over a brow. “You're all mine tonight.”
“Am I?” He smiles and nods, so much still left unsaid, lingering in the air between you both, his arms on either side of you, pinning you there.
When would he build the courage to tell you he's fallen in love?
“If I have to…”
“Use Kiyotaka’s method?” You raise a brow, he grimaces at the thought. “I think it’s preferable to actually fucking-”
“As if I could,” he presses against you, hard and insistent. “From the moment I saw you in those baths you’ve had me ruined.”
“Oh did I? With my witchy ways?” You tease softly, he just studies you, carefully in the chambers you both now share, on the bed it’s nigh impossible to get you both out of some days.
“Acting innocent,” he scoffs – your hands trailing down his chest make his abdomen tighten, his breath hitching, looking down at a face he finds so fucking precious. “You knew the spells you cast.”
“Maybe so,” you tease, he hears the knock again and curses, glaring at the door. “Toru, if you have to… do what is needed, I’ll understand. I know how much trouble I cause with my jealousy.”
“Even if you weren’t, I don’t like doing things I don’t want to,” he brushes your hair back gently. “I think it’s time I change much about this country with you by my side, hmm?”
“I would enjoy that, too, you can do what you want, without… the shadow of the past.” You’re stroking his cheek, studying him calmly.
It’s not just the sex with you both.
It’s so much more, but the nerves get you, the situation gets you, when will you both just be able to enjoy this blossoming love?
*****
Suguru Geto did care for you.
He simply just didn't love who you were, what you stood for, everything about the monarchy in your country, but it was better there than this fucking empire. That white haired dick of a husband you have who has other women on his arm right now, but you seem perfectly content.
You didn't kiss him back, that wouldn't have bothered him before, you were just a game at first after all, just a pawn. His job was to use you to gain Intel for his group that was going to riot against your family, but god – every time he kissed your neck you would moan so pretty, you'd arch your back so he could kiss down your breasts, spilling secrets as he acted casual.
You were so painfully easy to manipulate, even easier to toy with, and Suguru loved that about you. How you confessed your love and spilled so many details his team could make sure to start wreaking havoc, to one day stop all of this archaic way of being, and usher in a new era.
The thing is, Suguru became fond of you in all those years together before he joined that revolution, and he knew you'd be hurt by this. It's why when you were promised he almost felt relief. He didn't want your death or assault on his conscience – it wasn't you who wanted to do all those things after all, you were just a girl when he met you.
Suguru was a little older, not by much but he'd already been through hell by the time his family adopted him and he became well respected. He saw the poverty you were too sheltered to, saw the corruption of your own parents who truly sold their daughter off without blinking an eye.
Yes, he had many of those necklaces you cried over, but he didn't expect your tears to hit him like they did. He didn't expect the assignment he had to be so sweet, for her pretty cunt to be so perfect, for her eyes to look at him with love.
Maybe he started falling then.
When he saw you again and kissed you, it was this piece of him that had been missing falling into place, like a missing part of a puzzle. You pulled back so fast he didn't get to really chase that feeling. Seeing your husband getting kissed across the way, locking eyes with Suguru and giving him a glare though?
He can't help but be upset for you.
If he had broken every vow and married you, got you against your own family, he would be having multiple partners.
“Thank you Sir Geto,” the former concubine Lola is in disguise as a lady in waiting, looking up at him now with pretty blue eyes. “You must want the empire to fall as badly as I do.”
Suguru had snuck her into the grounds as his servant, she apparently wanted revenge on Gojo himself. Suguru had no qualms about it, considering he could possibly get you away from him, and single handedly take down the empire – or at least, damage it.
She wasn't going to kill Satoru, but she was going to seduce him and make him ill, just enough time for Suguru to sneak you out of here. He already had the perfect disguise from Lola. She wanted Satoru back, for whatever odd reason. So she'd do anything – including getting herself pregnant so Satoru couldn't cast her away.
You'd be upset for a bit of time, but Suguru wants you back. The chaos at home and the uprisings, he planned on becoming the leader, and who better to bring a nation together than the country's princess?
“Of course, remember I want her,” Suguru’s tone is dark, she just giggles, she'd already sucked Suguru off at the bar last night but he can't say he's very interested. Just thought of you and how he wishes he could have had your lips around him.
“Good luck with her,” he raises a brow and she rushes off, you walk past her towards him now.
Yet you were furious when you finally did meet up with him, crossing your arms and raising a brow, so much smaller than the six foot four knight yet you held your own.
“Princess… I mean. Empress,” he takes your hand in his, seeing your scowl fade just a bit when you see Gojo. You shake yourself out of it, looking up at him instead.
“We can talk somewhere private, eyes are everywhere,” You're smarter than before, he can see you've grown, affection tugging at his heart, who you lead him to a quiet area surrounded by cherry blossoms. They fall and some land in your braided hair, Suguru delicately brushes the pink petals off.
“You're so beautiful,” he means that, but you're crossing your arms. “Can I not even say it?”
“No, you may not,” you bristle. “Care to tell me why you're telling the world you took my virginity!?”
*****
‘Do what you must for now, Satoru. I'll always know you want it to be me.’
The words echo in his head, making him furious with his current situation, he doesn't want to do anything. You know he must pleasure these girls at some point but how does it make it any better? How can he not be disgusted when it's not you?
“Satoru, please,” he’s getting lips kissed up his neck by Jia, he knows he’s likely going to fucking have to do something, but the thoughts are making him sick. He has this sinking feeling worrying about you that he can’t explain. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” he lies through his teeth, she’s grinding against him, but there’s nothing to grind against, how can he have excitement since he evil little empress entered his life? “I'm still so exhausted.”
“I know you were tired, but you can’t still be so tired?” She pulls back and bats her long blond lashes at him, pouty lips.
“I was at battle, it was physically taxing…” She kneels between his thighs now, hand paling his cock over his robes, Satoru sucks in a breath, jerking back and gripping her wrist.
She blinks when she feels nothing – his empress clearly broke his cock, and he's not mad about it. “Why are you not-”
“Um, hold on,” the last thing he needs are impotence rumors, however, he lifts her up and turns her, cursing with what he knows he's going to have to do.
Why couldn't you just come please them? At least he'd get to see his pretty empress lapping at a cunt and get some pleasure from it. As it stands he must hope that Kiyotaka’s ridiculous idea would work. He slips her skirt up, cringing at the fact that he has to put a damn fake cock in a girl.
It's not as big as him!?
Kiyo said it was, which may be an insult – But if she was foolish enough he could make it work.
“You're blindfolding me?” She giggles and Satoru just cringes. Hoping she's wet enough he wouldn't have to finger her upon all other things.
You approved of the idea but it's not okay with him even so, inserting it into her and watching her gush down it. Maybe at one point it would have been attractive or exciting, but it certainly wasn't now.
“Oh it feels so good! You're so big, mmm!” he sighs, clearly it is working but now he has to get this girl off without his own cock and he's not sure how to do it with such a contraception. He tries to angle it until she’s making all those noises he thinks he used to enjoy.
He can't wait to get rid of them.
He keeps thinking of you. You met with Suguru and he just hopes he doesn't mess with your head, he seems manipulative and if he hurts you Satoru will fucking kill him. The thought of killing him floods his mind more than the girl moaning and making a mess in front of him.
After she… is done or whatnot – He wasn't paying attention – Satoru has to kiss her even, perhaps that is the worst of it. He has to smile and play his role.
He immediately sinks into his copper tub after his dumb fucking meeting where the pretentious fucks at least seemed a little more satisfied than they were before. He supposes giving the women some pleasure and attention helped – they at least dropped the idea for another concubine, but there is no washing off how he felt
Laying back his eyes flutter shut, picturing how beautiful you looked this morning in his arms and hoping you will be back soon. Just thinking of you riding him in this tub has him aching, stroking it and wincing at how sensitive he is. But he'll wait to give it all to you, and hope that you're still all his.
****
You knew Satoru was probably using that fake cock Kiyo procured from the brothel, and you’re not happy about it of course, but you were okay with it. In a way it prevented Satoru from having to use his own and avoided rumors if it worked, but also he was making someone cum, he was kissing them.
That hurts.
Not in the way that you're upset with Satoru, if he could have already done so they'd all be gone now, but every girl was a delicate important part of a partnership with the empire. Once at least there were heirs the concubines could stay but Satoru didn't want any of them here anymore.
You don't either. But you understand, this was his world, and he just couldn't accept that anymore, he was ever so the man who wants to control everything he craves the power away from the elders and the ones that run things in secret.
You still don't know how you feel right now, the gnawing in your mind that you can’t focus on right now. All of the ‘what ifs’ – what if he did end up doing more, not because he wanted to but… because he needed to? You'd forgive him – you love him after all, but it would hurt if he did in fact enjoy one of them. What if their pretty tits and their cunts on his fingers got him throbbing?
You can't think that way, especially with a secretive Suguru standing in front of you. You raise a brow, his dark hair is long and flowing against his face. At one time not long ago, Suguru was everything to you, your comfort when Gojo didn't try to know you, the man who first touched you.
Who was he now?
“I shouldn't have said it, I was hurt,” you flush furiously now. “Yet I did make you cum first and I felt…”
“Clearly you got my maidenhead,” you struggle to even say it, blushing at the conversation. “I won't disagree, yet to run around and say it to strangers, to ruin my reputation? What have I done to ever deserve your cruelty?”
Suguru pauses, saying nothing for a moment, stepping closer. “You haven't done anything,” he cups your face, an arm wrapping your waist now, tugging you against his hard body. You pull back, but he doesn't let you go.
“Do you not remember I am married?”
“So only you are loyal?” You blink back tears. “I just saw him kissing two girls and you have to be a pure little flower?”
“You know nothing of him, or my life,” he walks you until you're pressed against a tree, the branches curling overhead and keeping you both enshrouded in the cool shade. You're sniffling back tears of betrayal and hurt that he brushes off. “He… cares for me…”
“He loves you?”
You swallow now, looking down, only to earn your chin being tilted back up.
Does he love you?
He hasn't said but it feels like love. You want his love.
“I would only see you,” his fingers slide across your face now, thumb brushing your lower lip. “I'd tell them all to fuck off and burn the empire down for you.”
You scoff, he's kissing down the side of your neck, hungry kisses that remind you of back then, but your nails dig into his tunic, shaking your head. “You wouldn't even run away.”
“I regret it,” you can't believe him, as he laps his tongue up to your ear, hands on your hips. “I’m so sorry,” Suguru cups your face gently and pulls back a bit. Your lips tremble as the familiarity hits, as he leans low. “I was an ass.”
“An understatement,” Suguru sinks to his knees in front of you. Making you panic as his lips kiss up the waist of your silk yukata. “Get up, what are you doing!?”
“Just at least let me taste you again,” he looks up with amethyst eyes, hands sliding up your thighs. “I dreamt of licking your pretty, perfect pussy so many times, of even seeing it.”
“You certainly cannot!” You kick at him only for him to snatch one of your thighs, fingers drifting up your stocking clad leg, slipping your skirts as you shove at his head. “Get up this instant before I have him behead you!”
He chuckles now, eyeing your cunt and moaning, his breath ghosting your inner thigh. You kick him off you and lose your balance, he buffers your fall and you brace yourself up, looking at a face you once held dear. The boy you grew up with, his huge hands grabbing your waist and grinding you on his length.
“I want your nectar all over me, to drown in your sweetness, your pretty rose just so dewy for me,” those words you read over and over. He leans up on his elbows now, cupping your face, his other hand slipping up your stocking and higher. “Prettiest girl there is. I'd only see you.”
You take a moment, shutting your eyes, thinking of the last couple months. When Satoru was cruel, when he kissed up Lola's thigh, when he flaunted them. Yet there are memories of him trying. Changing for you, turning them all down as you rode him on his throne, grinning so handsome when he came back from battle.
His love even if he doesn't say it.
You had a young love with Suguru, but there was nothing like what you felt with your emperor. You grip Suguru’s wrist before he can toy with your clit the way he used to, scowling down at him.
“It's a cunt,” Suguru pauses, raising a brow when you pin down his wrist, smiling meanly down at him. “A messy, slutty cunt.”
“Princess–”
“I’m not your princess,” you lean back and smack his handsome face sharply. “I'm a fucking empress, your flowery words won't work on me anymore. I assure you I cum harder than you ever could have made me.”
It's Suguru’s turn to scowl, yanking you back down when you go to stand, cheek reddened by your handprint. “So you don't want it all sweet and gentle? Oh princess, I could fill your messy cunt so full you'll be broken.”
“You're shit at dirty talk,” you smack his other cheek as he pins your wrists, your breaths making your chest rise and fall spastically. “I’m not so sweet anymore.”
“Yeah, I clearly fucking see it,” he grips your hair, slamming his lips upon yours only for you to bite him, he laughs, pulling back from you, his dilated eyes tracing the curves of your face, the swell of your breasts straining against your gown.
“Don’t you dare even look at my tits,” your words make him smirk up at you, swiping the crimson blood off his lip.
“I think I love you more like this.”
“You’re psychotic,” you stand now and grab your skirts so hard your hands hurt, only to make it a few steps before his words halt you.
“Don’t wanna know about your parents?”
You turn to him, lips swollen from his kisses, god your filthy words and the way you just hit him, bit him, threw him down? Your pretty breasts heaving up and down in that gown? Fuck you’re so pretty like that, it’s all he can think when you walk back up reluctantly, fingers twitching on your fabric, so different than what he remembers you wearing.
High cut gowns, corsets, intricate curls, you’re not that girl anymore, clearly judging even from your eyes. Perhaps Suguru never really knew you, and just knew the girl you’d been so raised to be, not a girl who smacks him and says ‘slutty cunt’. Then again, this was likely that fucking emperor’s influence, and as hot as you are, that infuriates him.
He doesn’t feel bad for whatever will happen to him.
Maybe he’ll feel bad that it’ll hurt you.
“What about my parents?” You demand, coming to him and tilting your head back to look into eyes that are making you furious, making you sick.
“There are uprisings back home," Suguru says, a calculating glint in his eyes, still dilated while they trace the curve of your neck.
“Uprisings?” You frown now, though your parents had essentially married you off, they were not cruel. Your mother had been kind in fact, and your father doted on you as a little girl, though of course you were not ‘a son’ which they still actively wanted.
It doesn't mean you want harm to come.
So absorbed in the whirlwind that was Satoru Gojo and this empire, you haven’t spared them all the thoughts that perhaps you should have. Guilt gnaws at you, under his annoyingly astute gaze, one that you currently can’t read. Was he being truthful, or was he manipulating you?
"Your parents are in a very precarious position, the commoners grow tired of them living in wealth while they starve. Something you know nothing about, hmm?” He tilts your chin up, nausea rolls in waves through your stomach. “Locked in your tower, and now an Empress.”
“I know pain, I know suffering in my own way, of course not in that capacity and I don’t pretend to know,” you blink hot tears, shoving at his chest. “Do you know the pain I went through when they sent me away with nothing!?”
“Did you even miss me?” You scoff, shaking your head in his grip. “Or miss the idea of me?”
“I could ask you the same Sir Geto, if you ever cared would you spread such rumors?” He pauses, jaw tensing.
“I was hurt how quickly you moved on.”
“It wasn’t my intention to fall in love…” Love, you love Gojo. Every moment torn apart from him is agonizing, unlike without Suguru where you longed for him, without Gojo it was like a piece of you was ripped out and bleeding.
“If you want to come back, I’ll make sure they’re protected,” you gasp, stepping out of his hold. “For you I would.”
“Make sure they are… are you involved!?” His lips purse together.
“As I said, you know nothing of poverty, especially in our home, it’s far worse than here.”
“If there are uprisings, I will use an alliance with the imperial forces, I wouldn’t leave my husband, leave my duty behind! How involved are you, Sir Geto?”
“I’m Sir Geto now,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I can just say they’re in danger, that’s all I can.”
You recoil from him like a reflex, a surge of anger bubbling up inside you. "You're manipulating me, aren't you? Using my family's troubles to control me?"
“You’re smarter than I knew,” your teeth clench so hard they hurt, unbelieving his fucking audacity. “I am not manipulating you though, I’m giving you a chance. I’ll be here another week if you change your mind.”
“I should have you killed now,” Suguru brushes a hand through your hair, hovering over you, you swallow, scared suddenly of him. “Do not kiss me.”
“I get it, you’re in ‘love’ with your emperor, who doesn’t love you enough to get rid of his other girls,” you shake your head, earning a sharp tug at the roots. “You think once the newness wears off he won’t want them?”
You almost throw up.
Your heart pounds so rapidly you feel dizzy, blinking back tears at his words – ones that are already in your mind, the insecurities that eat at you from seeing those beautiful women having access to the man you love. You trust Gojo, you do, but you worry that you won’t be enough, and Suguru seems to hone in on it like a cruel attack on your mind.
“A man like that from what I’ve heard? Isn’t into commitment, isn’t into anything other than having fun at his country’s expense.”
“You don’t get to pretend to know him,” your tears fall no matter how hard you try to keep them in, but you stand firm with your gaze locked. “If that day comes, where he doesn’t want me? I’ll go from there, but there’s no world where I don’t want him.”
“You said that to me,” his hands grip your upper arms. “You said I was the love of your lifetime, look how fickle you are.”
“Let me go,” you tug away for him to grab your wrist, turning you back toward him once more. “I said let me fucking go, Suguru. The only reason I won’t have him kill you is the memory of our childhood where you protected me. Though you never even wanted to, did you?”
“I take protecting you so seriously that I’m the one that fucking sent you away,” you gasp, and he curses, eyes shutting.
“You. What!?”
“It’s too much to explain-”
“You sent me to another country!? For what purpose? Then acted ignorant when you knew? Let me fall for you when…”
You can’t breathe, the pain Suguru puts you through in those moments is far, far too much, you rip away from him, ignoring him calling your name, rushing out into the now cloudy sky overhead and trying to catch your breath. Your heart pounds in your chest so loudly you think it will burst out.
You bump into a servant girl who has a little scarf wrapped around her lower face, looking at you and lowering her eyes quickly.
“I’m so sorry,” you manage to gasp out, she just bows and walks away, you don’t think you’ve seen her before. You have no time to think of that.
You need Gojo.
“How was the reunion?” Lola asks Suguru quietly, he sighs, eyes narrowing on your retreating frame.
“Something,” he mumbles, she touches his arm but he pauses, taking her hand off just as quickly as you had his. “Your plan, it cannot hurt her.”
“Of course not, I’ll make sure she doesn’t get hurt.” She rushes off, and Suguru wonders then – what were his feelings?
Anger, at the emperor, and disgust at himself at that moment.
He can’t just leave you here.
*****
Instead of sitting in your seat for dinner tonight, you rush over to Gojo, and his face falls when he takes you in his arms, holding you tight. The room empties quickly, Kiyotaka and Miwa both looking concerned at you, Satoru’s arms grip you closely as the door echoes with a firm close, leaving you two alone.
“Shh,” he doesn’t know what to say, he’s never seen you like this, crying to the point you’re sniffling, unable to speak, all while he rocks you gently, inhaling your hair and shutting his eyes. “I’m sorry if it’s because of me.”
“S’not,” you manage to mumble, shaking as the sobs wrack your body. “I just… can’t… I can’t do this… I c-can’t anymore, I j-just…”
“Sweetheart,” you’re nonsensical when he leans back and cups your tear streaked face, and it breaks his heart into pieces, swallowing nervously while brushing your hair back, sticky from your tears. “You have to take a breath, please.”
He sits you on his lap, brushing his hand up and down your body, aching to fix it, whatever it is – knowing some of it was beyond his scope right now, even as he had things in action. To see the pain he’s put you through wounds him to his core, the girl he loves crying so hard that her face is puffy and swollen, eyes bloodshot and glittering with fresh tears.
“I’m here,” he murmurs soothingly, you cling to him again, burying your face against his neck. “This is because of me.”
“It’s not,” you shake your head, sobs shaking your frame, Gojo hugs you closely, sighing. “What happened that makes you… think it’s that.”
Satoru pauses, sighing, you lean up to look at his eyes, welling with his own emotions. “Kiyo’s trick worked, but… I still…”
He can’t finish his sentence.
Your heart breaks more, anger at this situation makes you want to explode. They put you both in this, and you found each other, just to drag you both the fuck apart in every way imaginable?
“You didn’t um… you weren’t in her or…”
“Not at all, didn’t even have to use the fingers,” he crooks his lips up, a sad smile on his lips. “It still felt wrong. I can’t scrub my skin enough.”
“It’s good it worked, it gives us time,” you murmur, even though it hurts, and he knows it does. “I have my own reason for being upset, it’s not you. I knew your plan and told you I would not get upset.”
“What happened, then?” He eases you to sit on the table, his hands resting on your upper thighs.
“I need a drink for this, and so will you.” Satoru’s jaw tenses, swiping your tears first with the rough pads of his thumbs. “Trust me.”
“I’m fucking terrified if something got my tough little empress like this,” he tries to lighten the mood, like he’s not hopelessly in love and furious that likely Suguru has you this upset. He pours you a little dish of sake and puts it to your lips. “Take a sip.”
“The only time I’ll follow your orders,” you tease even while you tremulously sip the little dish, he laughs softly, pulling back and tilting your chin up, thumb swiping your lip.
“Who’s going first today?”
“I’m tired of that being a thing for us,” you admit. “Aren’t you?”
“Very, I’ll go first since yours seems more upsetting,” he sits back in the chair, hands brushing your calves underneath your silk dress, exhaling at just how beautiful you look like this. It’s hard to remember it’s not just the two of you. “I had to hold a fake cock.”
You snort and cover your mouth, he glares all pretty up at you, snowy lashes trembling with his anger. “Sorry, shit, I… oh my god…”
You’re laughing as he throws back a sake dish, snorting himself. “You mean little thing.”
“Sorry, it just sounded so funny and I needed that laugh,” you swipe your tears, leaning now, your arms wrapping around his neck. “Continue, I’m sorry.”
“Laughing at my expense, cruel empress,” he kisses you though, moaning against your lips before pulling back, frowning. “Making her cum was… it just felt so fucking…”
“Shh,” you kiss him once more. “No details then. It worked?”
“Yes, she made a mess and it was quite annoying, I bathed as soon as I could,” he shivers as if he’s disgusted. “The only squirting I’ll accept is from your cunt.”
The softly flickering candles of the cast iron mounts on the walls cast an ethereal glow across Satoru's chiseled features, illuminating the soft curve of his lips as he smiles at you, devious and cocky, so fucking charming you struggle to hold back those words threatening to spill in that moment.
You love him.
“Filthy man,” you brush his hair back softly. “Sometimes it’s so easy with us it scares me, when the world seems to want to crush it all.”
He’s quiet, long fingers wrapping your wrist, kissing the inside of it with a soft peck. “I know, I feel the same way about you. Basically she came, seemed happy enough and apparently thought the blindfold was kinky.”
“Would you use a fake cock on me?” You grin and he scowls. “What!?”
“I’d never even let you have the hint of another cock in that perfect cunt,” you’re throbbing as he leans close, a hand entangling in your hair. “If you liked anything but me inside of you? I’d fucking lose it.”
“I’d never like anything better,” you blush then, looking down shyly at your admission. “Bet you’re gonna be so cocky about that.”
“Fuck yes I am,” he grins, then sobers up a bit. “You’d know if it wasn’t my real cock, hmm?”
“Of course I would… so that’s all though?”
“A kiss which was maybe worse, but yes, she fucked off and then I met with Kiyo to make more progress. Now,” he stands up between your thighs again, pouring you another glass. “Tell me what made you that upset, and who I need to dismember.”
“Have another drink,” you order, he does just that, sipping one side of the glass, putting the other to your lips. “Like the wedding night.”
“It is,” he caresses your cheek, tasting the sweet rice wine mixing with your lips when they take over yours again. “Mnh, lay it on me.”
“Suguru, he…” How do you even say all he did? “He said there’s an uprising with my parents.”
“Shit, what!?”
“Yes,” you sigh now, looking up into Satoru’s baby blue eyes, lost in them for a moment, hands slipping up his arms. It’s quiet save for your own heartbeat thudding in your ear, the distant clinks and murmurs of servants and others walking around outside. “I’m not sure how much I believe him, but he’s got something to do with it.”
“I heard he was involved in that sort of thing, but your parents?”
“Mhm, it seems he wants to take them down, and the only way to ‘keep them safe’ is to go with him.”
Satoru’s hands tighten bruisingly on your waist where they rest, pulse hammering as rage fills him. “He's playing a dangerous and dumb fucking game against me. I’ll help them, I promise.”
“I know you will,” your thumb brushes his lip now in return, leaning close and resting your forehead on his, sighing. “He kissed me and…”
“What. The fuck. Did he do?” Satoru asks – feigning a calm, his eye goddamn near twitching at the thought of his fucking hands on you. You’re blushing furiously, trembling in his hold. “I will not be mad at you.”
“He begged to… taste my ‘dewy rose’,” Satoru’s gripping so hard you gasp. “Toru!”
“Sorry, shit…” He’s going to murder him in cold blood.
“I told him it was a ‘slutty cunt’ and smacked him,” he laughs then, cupping your face, seeing your shaky little smile. “Twice.”
“God I fucking love you,” it’s quiet then, it had come out so teasing, so natural, but your eyes lock, and the moment hums through both of your veins, until he sobers up, swallowing and stepping back just a bit, his hand tracing your body carefully.
“You love me?” You whisper, eyes glimmering with a fresh set of tears, he closes his eyes and takes a breath, before looking back at you, his heart hammering in his chest.
“I wanted to say that at the right time, but it just came out, and-”
You cut him off with a kiss that pours everything you feel into it, two hands on either side of a face you find so precious, pulling back to see his dilated pupils swallowing that azure of those irises. He just watches you, lips parted, breathless, your tears slip and fall down your gown, leaving little spots and blotches, trying to compose yourself.
“I love you, Satoru Gojo,” he exhales, kissing you deeper, tugging you against his hard body, lost in you then. “Mmm, I didn’t know w-when to tell you.”
“You love me?” He asks, voice heartbreaking, looking at your husband, your emperor…
Satoru.
He’s just Satoru when he’s with you, when he’s kissing you until you’re dizzy, when your thighs press on either side of your hips, arching desperately.
“Fuck everything right now, I need you.”
“Mnh!” He’s lost, pulling back, his hands gripping your hips to drag you closer, the dishes falling off the elegant table cloth, your hands braced on his strong chest, feeling the heat through his robes.
“He doesn’t get to touch you,” he whispers, you pause then, biting your lip, and he takes a pause, moaning. “I can wait. What else, shit…”
“He said… you’d move on, once I’m not shiny and new,” Satoru’s jaw clenches then. “That hurt the most, because it’s my fear.”
“Sweetheart, there’s no one but you,” your tears meld on his lips, wishing it was just you both, alone in your perfect little world. “Mnh, he’s trying to manipulate you, but guess what?”
You blink just a bit, dizzy off him, off the love he feels that you share, such happiness mixed with so much anxiety – yet all you can feel in this moment is that love.
“What?”
He smiles tenderly, gaze flickering across your face. “He doesn’t know who he’s fucking with, doesn’t even know you, how ruthless and smart my little empress is.”
You’re arching and kissing him again, all those thoughts swim from your mind – the fact that Satoru had to pleasure them, the fact that Suguru took shit too far, you can’t comprehend anything but that Satoru Gojo loves you. Real and tangible, pulling back with a desperate gasp, body humming.
“When you look at me like that, and I forget all about the world,” you say softly, lost in his ragged breaths, in how close he is. “I forget Suguru, I forget those girls, it’s all gone… and just you.”
“Then let it all be me,” he whispers into your mouth, his breath hot against your swollen lips, cupping your face so tightly. “All me, sweetheart, let me make sure you forget he did anything to you.”
“Please,” Satoru kneels right before you, parting your thighs.
“God tell me how you slapped him again,” you giggle, even through your tears, every emotion rampant as he toys with your clit. “Call it that again.”
“A slutty cunt?”
“Fuck I’m so in love,” your laugh dies as his fingers spread your puffy lips, kisses trailing over your stockings. “This cunt belongs to me.”
“Just you.”
He pauses, breathing ragged against the inside of your thigh, lips brushing lightly over the sensitive skin there, tickling you and earning your wanton moan, before you close your mouth as if to muffle the sound. He takes your hand off it, bringing your fingers to touch your own soaking wet cunt.
“Feel this? It’s all me,” he’s lost now, insanity filling his pretty blue eyes, thumbs tugging at your glittering lips, arousal pooling. Your finger lifts off, bringing it to Satoru’s lips, earning his moan as he laps it off. “Mmm.”
“All you, Satoru,” you answer back softly. “Only ever y-you.”
“Fuckkk,” he murmurs, voice thick and husky, his tongue drags up the length of your inner thigh, slow and deliberate and teasing as he drinks you up, precum drooling and making him ache. “He thinks he can fucking have you, huh?”
“He can’t,” you answer softly, gasping when he lifts you up with a smirk. “Where are we going?”
“Where everyone can hear me fucking my wife,” you blush furiously. “Those slutty concubines who are jealous, and your dumb fucking knight. Where does he stay, hmm?”
You’re throbbing now, letting him carry you with your fucking thighs wrapped around his hips, the palace echoes with the distant murmurs of people as he walks by casually. “You’re crazy!”
“I am,” he grins against your skin, passing several people until he eyes about the area all the guards are from your home country, sitting in the kitchens, he catches sight of Suguru then and smirks, earning a glare. “Ah, found him.”
You can’t look, you just cling to him and bury your face when he hauls you right into the study across from the kitchens, shutting the door and easing you down on a desk, spreading your thighs again. “You… here!?”
“Mhm, should echo good enough for him to fucking hear you scream my name,” he kneels between your thighs again, grinning up at you. “I want them all to hear you cumming, so don’t you dare close your pretty mouth.”
“It’ll be a scandal… it’ll… ah!” You can’t take it, the pleasure and desire mixing with the filthy thoughts of Suguru and the servants all hearing you, knowing they’d whisper it to the concubines.
You want this.
You cling to his silky white locks as he licks higher, desperately moaning, the faint echo of your gasps lingering in the room. “Love your cunt, love your taste, god I just fucking need you.”
It’s too much to remember propriety.
“After you cum?” He grins up at you. “I’m going to beat the fuck out of that man.”
“Toru!”
“Shh,” he’s rutting against his own palm, lapping that long pink tongue even higher. “All mine.”
When his tongue finally finds your core, it’s with a roughness that steals your breath. He licks into you like a man starving, one hand pinning your hips to the desk while the other grips your thigh hard enough to leave bruises, fingers dimpling in the plush of your thigh. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling sharply as pleasure coils tight in your core.
“T-Toru…”
“God, when you say that,” he palms his cock and moans, flicking his tongue up your slit. “And he thought he could taste this? Hah.”
Satoru’s lost in his anger, his jealousy, the need for you to be his and only his, forever. Never one day did he want to not have you by his side, on him, underneath him, lost in your essence, your scent, your beauty while he sucks your clit into his hot mouth and hums. You go to quiet yourself but stop it, finally just whining out his name, uncaring just like him.
You’re his, you belong to Satoru, all he can think of is the fact that you’re only his, that you’re made for him, that you taste so fucking perfect on his tastebuds. He had you first, he’ll be the one to only have you.
Your thoughts aren’t much different, no – spiteful, possessive, petty, you want Suguru to hear it too, you want all the concubines to know Satoru wants you, and only you. And that you are his – arching your hips up for more, hearing the hushed
“That’s it, fuck my face, make all that noise,” Satoru’s stroking his cock – your nails press into his scalp with your tugging, with your arching, cunt just drooling down his face. He drinks every drop up so desperately, the noises of just that alone so filthy, his cock pulsing in his own grip.
You gasp, tossing your head back, slamming the desk and making you cry out. You bite your lip, trying not to cry out as pleasure builds higher, his tongue relentless against your most sensitive spot, pausing and pulling back, saliva dripping in strings from where it was firmly planted on your slick lips.
“Sweetheart, let go,” he murmurs against you, flicking his tongue up with the lewdest sound, smirking. “Let them all hear who you belong to.”
Your hips jerk violently as you finally let go – you don’t hold back a thing, uncaring of just what the fucking court would think, in fact you hope it’s a scandal, you hope they talk about it. You hope all of those listening to your desperate whines and Satoru’s muffled moans realize it.
Even Suguru – especially him.
Touching you without your consent, trying to break you, those women and those people who just want to control and take you both away when they put you together, no it’s all too easy to spread your thighs wider and let the Emperor fuck you with his tongue. You let go so quickly, he knows every spot, a desperate little cry from your throat echoing as that orgasm hits you.
It’s so intense you can’t even see, that white hot pleasure just coursing over you in waves, gushing and pulsing all down his handsome face, earning his own soft whimper. Satoru laps at your mess greedily, drinking down every drop, his own cock ready to fill you, stretch you, but he lets it ride out, smirking as he hears those gasps all outside, the murmurs of conversation.
Fuck them.
Fuck Suguru, fuck the elders, and fuck those girls who say a goddamn thing to the girl he loves.
Loves, he loves you.
You barely have time to catch your breath and blink back your vision when your husband is flipping you around. “Bend over f’me, slutty empress.”
You’re all too eager, arching your ass up against him, your silk robes shoved up around your waist in mere moments, Satoru grips the base of his cock and moans when he finally gets that tip against you. The cold wood of the desk and the fluttering papers are doing nothing against your heated skin as he spreads you wide, hitching a knee on that desk.
His cock sliding effortlessly through your slick folds, making your head fall back, he leans over you, a hand on your throat. “Say it f’me,” he whispers, lining himself up with your fluttering hole. “Who does this tight little cunt belong to?”
“You,” you whimper when you feel that pink tip pop in with a filthy sound, lookign at him – drunk not just off the sake, but on him, both of your breaths converging. “Only yours, Satoru.”
Satoru kisses you, using one hand to brace himself when he fucks himself into you fully with just one mean thrust, drawing a filthy moan from your swollen lips, he pauses and groans, whispering your name, before he pulls back and slams in again, bruising your cervix. “F-fuck, that’s it, you’re s’good…”
His praise makes you wetter as he pounds your cunt in this damn study where everyone can hear, the sounds of skin smacking with every pummel of his hips loud, carrying through the thin door separating you both from the rest of the palace. All it does is make you wetter, more sensitive, letting him fill you so full, trying not to just scream with how he’s pounding your slutty hole.
“Ah- ah, louder,” he snaps his hips forward, pressing and exhaling, feeling you grip him like you’re ready to milk him dry, pulling back to lift your thigh even higher, until your other leg is just dangling, fully at his mercy. “Let them all hear how well their emperor fucks his wife, how they’ll never fucking get you.”
Each stroke sets a punishing rhythm, his tip brutally bullying your walls with every glide, tip grazing your spot in delicious drags that make you senseless. Coated in a sheen of sweat, cunt spasming and sensitive, his heavy balls hitting your needy clit in each smack, ripping every lewd and obscene sound from your throat.
“Satoru!”
In the hallway, you catch the sounds of them all, affronted clearly, Satoru chuckles and grins, leaning over you now. “That’s right,” he murmurs against your ear. “Let them hear how you take me, how you’re made for me.”
“For you,” you whisper desperately, feeling that pleasure building again, faster this time. “You love it, don’t you slutty emperor?”
“Says you, hah… pretty little whore f’me no one else,” you love it, the mix of his sweetness and his thick cock wrecking you. “Cum again, and again, let them all hear who I want wrapped around me.”
You are even more sensitive, lost in Satoru and his cock gliding easier and easier with how wet you are, arm wrapping and that hand sliding between your legs. “Ngh! Too much!”
Long fingers circle your clit with just the right pressure, pushing you to the point you can’t see, blackened fuzzy vision when he presses in so goddamn deep you feel him in your stomach. You feel him everywhere, clinging to his neck as he presses his heavy weight on you, his other hand leaving bruises on your hips, little marks of him he can kiss later.
“Love you,” you whisper again, testing the word on your lips, he pauses, fingers halting for a moment. “I do, love you. S’much.”
“I love you, fuck you’re all there is,” he kisses you again, moving slower now with those words in the air, the insanity of the situation fading. “Cum for me again, sweetheart, I want her milkin’ me for all this seed, fill you so full you’re round with my babies.”
That does you in, your cunt convulsing around him as your cunt does just that, milking him for all he has, he groans and follows you, painting your walls in white while desperately kissing you, drool spilling between you both. It’s messy, needy, desperate, his cock thrusting easier now, letting you swallow his moans, his cries.
You’re so shaky when he eases back with a filthy squelch, dripping your cum and his – your knees give out, he catches you with an arm around your waist, kissing you and turning you, smiling against your lips.
“Satoru you’re batshit you know,” he chuckles, his teeth glinting with that feral smile. “They all heard it, it’ll be…”
“The talk of the court,” he gently fixes your gown, peppering kisses on your sweat soaked brow. “Come.”
“I did.”
He snorts and kisses you again, the two of you slipping out to the several pairs of eyes on you all, Satoru grins at them, you see Concubine Jia, you see Suguru, the eunuchs of the court blushing and the servant girls whispering. Satoru’s robes are undone, you’re covered in his marks, as he looks directly at Suguru.
“Having a good night?” He asks everyone, raising a brow. “Something to say?”
“No! Your Excellence!” They all run off in different directions, Suguru’s jaw is locked, his eyes narrowed, studying the mess you are, you feel it and heat up in embarrassment.
“Let them see,” Satoru says softly, tugging you with him, where Suguru stands next to a servant, raising a brow at the man. “Ah, the failed knight. Heard you had some important information about my wife’s family?”
Suguru says nothing, just looking at you.
“I’ll have you in my aha…” he looks to the door open, the papers and ledgers strewn along the floor. “Study tomorrow, for a meeting. Sound good?”
He just inclines his head, Satoru unceremoniously lifts you over his shoulder like a goddamn cave man, but you can’t act like you don’t love it.
“See you tomorrow at noon,” as Satoru walks off with you, Suguru almost throws up in front of the entire room, seeing your giggling, flushed face as the tall man takes you away.
“You sure you don’t want to hurt her too?” Lola asks, Suguru shakes his head and scowls at her now.
“No. Only him.”
Lola just nods, turning away and glaring herself at that fucking display – before making sure she has just the right amounts of arsenic to take the girl Suguru and Satoru hold so dear.
She’s fucking tired of you.
ahhh so much drama ahead <3 I can't wait to get your thoughts!
