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 (reader has sex with spiderman w/o knowing he’s satoru), 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.”
“I don't care about that, not right now."
“Y/N, listen to me. Listen to me. I could be anyone. I could be—I could be someone you know. Someone you don’t like or—Just, please. What if you regret this? You can’t hate me, I won’t survive it.”
His eyes soften, pleading for you to tell him to stop, to push him away because he simply lacks any strength to do so himself. Because Satoru is selfish and incorrigible and he’s a bug caught in your web, unable to get away. He needs you like he needs to breathe.
But you, ever so difficult, simply shake your head.
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 want in this moment is you. I don’t need to know who you are.”
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, slowly. “For all of it. The disappearing. The missed presentation. The lies. I wanted you in any way you’d give yourself to me, even if it meant you’d only take me as Spiderman. I shouldn’t have, but I did anyway. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”
You look at him for a long moment. “Do you really mean it or are you only saying that now that you’ve been caught?”
He winces and looks down at his feet submerged in water, before thinking better of it and looking up, face solemn and pained and deeply guilty. “I do mean it.”
You let him sit in his apology, the silence completely neutral. Finally, you let out a slow breathe and smile. “It’s okay, Satoru. I forgive you. I knew what I was getting myself in to.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Even if that was a jerk thing to do?”
“Oh, so you know?”
“Yes,” he says quickly. “Yes, I know. I was weak and I was stupid and God, I just needed you to look at me like—” He swallows, "like you are right now. Y/N I—I’m not proud of it and I need you to know that.”
“I know.”
He lets out a shuddering breath. “Okay. And one more thing—”
“If this is another apology, I'm going to hit you. I forgive you, I promise.”
“Just one more.” His lips twitch but he maintains his straight face. “I am just overall deeply apologetic for being me in all of this and letting it become such a mess.”
“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 🍔
summary: sukuna isn't pleased when he's forced to go to a new masseuse for his monthly sports massage, but upon meeting you he finds himself hopelessly smitten and desperately seeking more of your touch.
word count: 6.2k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, modern au, pining, yearing, sukuna is originally a bit of a jerk, confident reader, boxer!sukuna, reader is muscular, subby (ish) sukuna, piv, hand jobs, semi-public sex (in a massage room)
a/n: got this one in as an anon request I hope you all enjoy sukuna being NEEDY and stupid
Sukuna had been going to Toji for his sports massages for years.
They’d known each other since college, back when Toji would practice his craft on Sukuna for free on the path to getting his certification. Now Sukuna actually paid the guy to dig his elbow into his back once a month, certain that Toji’s impact had a lot to do with how effective Sukuna had been at avoiding silly injuries throughout his boxing career.
Toji was a rare gem amongst masseuses - strong enough and mean enough to do his job well, unconcerned by how much it might hurt to relieve Sukuna’s body of all the stress he’d put it under week after week.
He was the only person Sukuna trusted to do it effectively, and when he walked into Toji’s gym one day only for the receptionist to tell him that Toji wasn’t available thanks to a family emergency, he was devastated.
Part of him had considered cancelling on the spot, turning around and walking straight out the door, prepared to wait for a different time slot when Toji would be available. But his shoulder had been killing him lately and he could really do with some relief, so against his better judgement he sucked it up and agreed to see the other masseuse that worked at Toji’s gym.
Upon walking into the treatment room, he immediately decided that he’d made a mistake at the sight of you standing before him, all soft and pretty and welcoming in a way that Toji never was. You didn’t look like the type to be willing or even capable of inflicting pain upon anyone - he doubted he’d even be able to feel your tiny hands once they were pressed against his back.
Call him sexist, but he really believed that men were just better suited for that line of work.
Sure, a nice, relaxing massage would be better delivered by a woman, but a sports massage? He doubted you had the strength for what he needed.
“Sukuna, right?” You’d asked, peering up at him with wide eyes. “It’s nice to meet you. Remove your clothes and cover yourself with a towel, I’ll give you a few moments to get settled-”
“No need,” he said sharply. “When’s Toji back?”
You wavered. “We’re not quite sure. His daughter was in some kind of sudden accident, he might not return for a few weeks, he needs to be there for his family in this difficult time…” You trailed off before continuing, taking stock of the resignation on Sukuna’s face. “I can assure you that I’m perfectly capable of attending to your needs. Toji hired me personally and can vouch for my skill.”
Chewing on his lip, Sukuna appraised you once more. You were a pretty thing, even in the ugly green uniform that Toji had picked for his specialists. His thoughts lingered on what you might’ve meant when you said that Toji could vouch for your skill - did you mean that in a clinical manner, or was Toji using you for different means?
Sukuna wouldn’t have been surprised if the latter was the case. You were his type which meant you were probably also Toji’s type, a thought that had a fresh wave of dread washing over him because if Toji had only hired you because you’d been sleeping with him, Sukuna was in for a rough massage.
“Happy? Or are you gonna throw a tantrum?” You asked, a little impatiently, your hands firm on your hips. He was almost impressed by the bite in your voice, but it still didn't particularly convince him you’d be any good at this.
However, the flex of his arm as he moved a little reminded him just how much he needed this massage, so biting back his pride he nodded, speaking through gritted teeth. “Whatever, sure.”
You looked far from impressed, but upheld your professional image regardless. “Great, you get yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
It took Sukuna all of five minutes to realise that he might’ve underestimated you.
He’d laid down on the table as normal, half expecting to spend his half-hour session asleep, figuring he could at least catch up on that if you were no good at what he’d paid you to do. And to start with, you’d been as gentle as he’d expected, your hands running tenderly over the muscles in his back, no doubt impressed by them.
But that was where your kindness stopped.
“You’re carrying a lot of tension up here.” You spoke matter of factly, fingers prodding a knot on the upper left side of his back. “It must be painful to sleep on your side right now.”
Sukuna grunted in affirmation, uninterested in making conversation or doing anything that might make you feel praised, even if you were technically right in your assumption. You didn’t seem deterred, it was almost like you were expecting him to be difficult, and he wondered if Toji had warned you about him in advance.
Walking around the table, you positioned yourself in the optimal place to work at the knot, and Sukuna found himself caught mid eye-roll when your palm dug into his back with much greater force than before, working away at the knot with enough strength that he found his fingers curling.
That was how much of the rest of his session went.
He’d been wrong to assume that you were too weak, because you’d worked at each section of his body with more ferocity than Toji usually would, almost like you were trying to teach him a lesson. Any knot found in his back and legs had been thoroughly beaten back into place, scared off by the skilled nature of your fingers.
When you were done, allowing him to sit up, a towel still wrapped around his midsection, he felt thoroughly frazzled, his red eyes a little hazy. His back felt better than it ever had before, the ghost of your fingers still prominent against his tanned skin. He had to admit that your touch felt nicer on him than Toji’s did.
Not that he should be thinking about that.
“All good?” You asked coolly, as if this was just run of the mill for you. He supposed it probably was. “If there’s something I’ve missed let me know and we can go over it again.”
“Uh- n-no.” He could’ve died of embarrassment at the way he stuttered, emasculated even further by you grinning down at him in amusement. The worst thing was that he couldn’t really decide if he was humiliated or turned on, or maybe both.
There was one particular body part of his that seemed to know the answer to that question, and he really hoped that you wouldn’t notice the slightly raised portion of the towel hugging his hips.
“Great, then you’re all good to go. Since you only come by once a month, Toji should be back by your next appoint-”
“Actually I think I need another appointment next week. My shoulder’s been acting up.” It was almost like an out of body experience, the words leapt from his throat before he could stop them and now you were smirking harder and he hated it and maybe he hated you.
“Oh, it seemed alright-”
“Well it's not.” He snapped, red gaze unwavering. You blinked at him a few times, staring down at him like you were trying to figure him out. It was clear that you’d been fully aware of his animosity towards you when he’d walked in, seemingly both puzzled and amused by his change of heart.
“Okay, sure. I’ve got an opening this time next week?”
“Great, I’ll be there.”
Sukuna didn’t like to admit how much he thought about you throughout that week. He especially didn’t like to admit to the sheer number of times he’d awoken with wet boxers, the dream of your touch still prominent in his mind.
He wasn’t sure what it was about you that had infected his brain so thoroughly. Sure, you were hot, but so were plenty of women, and Sukuna rarely had them rattling about in his head. It probably had more to do with your physical strength and perhaps your resolve, because even when he’d written you off, you’d shown him exactly what you were worth.
That, and the fact he couldn’t seem to get your condescending smirk out of his mind any less than he could stop feeling the ghost of your touch. He wasn’t used to meeting women who would treat him like that, more accustomed to the type that would fawn at his feet, those who were vapid and boring.
And you certainly weren’t that.
In the time between appointments, he’d even seen you across the gym when he’d been lifting weights. He imagined that you were there a lot, now that he could see your muscles, unobscured by those stupid clothes Toji made you wear. It wasn’t surprising that he’d never noticed you before, tending to stay in his own little bubble of focus at the gym, but now that he was aware of you he could barely tear his eyes away.
You were strong, so strong, doing weighted pull-ups with 20kg attached to you like it weighed nothing. And based on the way that his heart sped up at the sight, beating almost into overdrive as you smiled at him upon noticing his stare, he found that shit immensely attractive.
Shit, he really hoped Toji hadn’t been fucking you. That would suck.
Sukuna visited you again, and again you gave him the best massage of his life, driving your elbow into his back with a force that had him seeing stars. His heart fluttered with each simple touch of your hands, mind hazy with need as your fingers worked on his shoulders and he found himself wishing you were working on a different part of him.
That was how things continued for weeks, in which Sukuna spent an ungodly amount of money just to have you touch him again, pretending that he had various issues which he certainly didn’t because you’d thoroughly removed all his knots and tensions during his very first visit. But he wasn’t sure what else he could do, addicted to your touch and unable to find a more effective way to be close to you.
Because he was almost certain that you didn’t really like him.
Whenever he appeared, trying to make small talk or even flirt, you’d brush him off coolly, getting straight to the point, urging him to lay down and silencing him beneath the harsh and strong movements of your hands. He had no better luck at the end of sessions either, for you’d hurry him along claiming that you had another client waiting.
The waiting room was usually empty when Sukuna left so he doubted the legitimacy of your claim, but you’d left him at something of a loss as to how to handle you.
To be honest, he wasn’t accustomed to chasing after women. Usually, he’d sleep with whatever women chose to throw themselves at him, seeking fleeting pleasure in the form of one night stands, never putting much effort into seeking out someone he liked - as long as they were hot he tended to be game.
And then there was you, throwing his whole system and all of his beliefs completely out of check, because sure, he wanted to fuck you, but he also wanted to know you, and it was pissing him off that after several weeks of coming to you unfalteringly, he was no closer to you than he had been in that first session.
What hurt even more was the one afternoon that he came in for his appointment, figuring that he’d finally bite the bullet, swallow his pride, and just ask you out, only to find Toji waiting for him in the treatment room.
“Hey man, how’s it going?” Toji looked a little tired, having spent the last couple of months helping his daughter recover from her accident. Sukuna felt a flicker of annoyance at the sight of him, frustrated that his plans for the afternoon had been ruined.
“Good.” Sukuna said warily. “I didn’t realise you were back.”
He shrugged. “Tsumiki’s mom can look after her for a bit and I was going stir-crazy. Figured I’d come back to work and get back on a normal schedule.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah, figured I’d give my cover a bit of a break, I’m sure you were fuckin’ awful to her while I was gone.”
Sukuna hummed, chewing on his lip. “I mean, she was adequate, I guess.”
Toji seemed to suddenly perk up at his words, green eyes narrowing as he peered at Sukuna’s face. Sukuna tried to stay nonchalant, staring back at his friend like there was nothing more to be said on the matter.
“She was adequate?” He asked slowly.
“Sure.”
“Really? I thought you’d be cursing my name for letting some girl take care of you.”
“Well, she was decent, what else is there to say?” Sukuna snapped, wondering how he could ask Toji if he could switch over to being your patient permanently without taking a massive hit to his pride.
Clearly, he hadn’t hidden the emotion in his voice as well as he should’ve, because Toji was tilting his head to the side in question, a slowly growing smirk stretching across his face. “Got something you wanna tell me dude? You said you’d rather die than let someone else handle your massages.”
“Nothing.” He hissed quickly. “It was fine, just fine. I don’t pay you to talk, I got somewhere to be.”
“Okay, okay,” Toji said with a raise of his hands, but the grin didn’t falter and Sukuna hated that.
Toji’s massage sucked.
He didn’t think that anything had actually changed in terms of what Toji did - the issue was that it wasn’t your hands pressing against his back, it wasn't the sound of your gentle breaths cutting through the silence of the room.
It was disappointing, and he was humiliated that he actually felt that way.
He didn’t return for an appointment for a full month after that, going back to his usual schedule now that Toji had returned. He’d seen you in the gym a few times, but you were always working out with friends or sometimes guys and despite all his confidence there was something in him that felt afraid to approach you. He cared too much about the idea of you turning him down, laughing in his face like he had a chance.
So he left you be, and resigned himself to his fate.
When his next appointment rolled around, he’d gone into his usual room, waiting glumly for Toji to arrive, hoping for the entire encounter to be done swiftly. There was no joy in it now, it was nothing beyond a necessity for him to maintain his physical health.
His heart had practically leapt from his throat when you’d walked in through the door instead of Toji, greeting him with the smallest upturn of your lips.
“Hey.”
“Hey!” His words came out an octave higher than usual, and you couldn’t hide the smile it drew from you, sending humiliation coursing through him. That seemed to be a regular response in all matters concerning you, and he tried his best to push the feeling aside. “Toji back off work?”
“No, he’s here. He just gave your appointment to me, said I’m better suited for your needs.”
“Oh.”
Sukuna wanted to crawl in a hole and die, unable to stop imagining how that conversation would’ve gone down. Did Toji have a big grin on his face when he’d told you about the change? Had his tone been particularly suggestive, betraying exactly what Sukuna felt when he was around you?
“I can call him in if you’d prefer him though? He’s not got a patient right now so-”
“No.” Sukuna was quick to interrupt you, “it’s fine.”
“Just fine, huh?” You mused, seemingly to yourself. You didn’t give Sukuna a chance to admit that he was glad for the change, swiftly moving on and telling him to get undressed, sweeping out of the room for a few moments while he got himself settled atop the table, his heart racing at a hundred miles a minute.
He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed your touch until your hands were on him once more, sturdy in their feel but somehow much softer than Toji’s. You’d remained silent as you’d gone through your usual routine, quiet and even breaths falling from your lips, fingers pressing on the knots that had reformed at the base of his neck and in his shoulders. For once he actually needed to see you, having grown tense in your absence over the past few weeks.
“Is the pressure okay?” You’d asked softly, to which he replied with a quiet grunt of affirmation, because of course it was, you always knew exactly what to do to ease his strained body.
He wondered how it would feel to have your steady hands wrapped around his cock, squeezing with just the right intensity to have him unravelling.
“Adequate, would you say?” You asked, with an amused lilt. Sukuna froze up, any tension that you’d eased immediately flooded back into his shoulders at the words he’d spoken to Toji about you during his last session.
That bastard had really sold him out. He was probably in his office laughing about that shit.
“I said you were decent, actually,” he mumbled, figuring that he might as well stand up for himself. The sweet quality of your giggle caught him off guard, eyes widening in shock because he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard you laugh before. You were usually so stoic with him, never offering him anything more than a smug smile.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. Why else would I be here so damn often?”
You hummed, fingers still pressing into the muscles of his upper back. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out, since we both know there’s nothing wrong with your shoulder.”
Falling silent, he felt his cheeks warm under the question. He was usually so in control where women were concerned, usually he was the cat toying with a mouse, but he felt that the roles had been thoroughly switched now. Still, you continued stroking his back, his cock hardening with each careful move of your fingers.
He was convinced he was leaking onto the towel below him when he heard you let out a gentle sigh. “Sometimes, I’m almost convinced that you come here just to see me. But that would be crazy, right? You must’ve spent a small fortune at this point.”
Sukuna didn’t want to think about how much money he’d spent in the last two months, but he couldn't say that he regretted a single penny. Fortunately, he was accustomed to winning his matches and through competition earnings and sponsors he had more than enough to afford it.
Though, that money could certainly be better spent on you rather than half of it lining Toji’s pockets.
“Would you like it if that was the reason?” He felt like a teenager again, trying to feel out a crush before committing to something that might end in rejection.
“I think I’d be confused as to why you didn’t just ask me out.” You giggled again, hands stilling but not pulling away from their position on his back.
Well, now he felt a little stupid.
“I think I’d be flattered though. Maybe I'd even be interested,” you continued.
“Maybe?” He asked, heart fluttering. He was still staring down at the floor through the hole in the table, completely at your mercy, only able to imagine what expression you were wearing as you peered down at him, completely distracted now from the task at hand.
“Mmmm, hypothetically, if that was the reason.”
Sukuna swallowed hard, starting to catch on to the fact that you wanted him to speak the words out loud, to swallow his pride and confess his desires. He hated how you always had the upper hand with him, always in control since the very first time he’d met you. He hated how much he liked it, how much he wanted to do whatever you told him to.
“I want you.” The words came out all matter of fact, spoken more like he was listing groceries rather than confessing. He wanted to brush over it and get to the part where you were his, the moment that you’d climb on top of him and ride him until he couldn’t breathe, your hands pressing at his shoulders while you did so.
But you were something of a sadist, because instead of simply accepting his confession, you said: “more.”
And he didn’t hesitate, throwing himself over the threshold because now he’d admitted to his liking of you, what was the point in maintaining a stoic sense of pride?
He pushed himself up onto his forearms, twisting around to look at you. “I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about you, hell I fuckin’ dream about you. I want you, I want you to touch me more, fuck.”
“Yeah?” Your expression was ecstatic, eyes glimmering with glee. Sukuna suddenly found himself overly aware of how naked he was and how dressed you were, feeling almost shy under this newly found attention.
“Yeah, I mean, look at you.”
“It’s funny, when you first showed up here a few months ago, you didn’t seem to like me much at all.”
His body literally sagged, wishing he could go back and undo all the rudeness from the first time he’d met you. At this point he’d been thoroughly humbled - you’d proven that women could be just as effective at giving sport massages as men, and you’d also stolen his heart in the process. He had really learned his lesson.
“Sorry. I was a jerk.”
“You were. It was cute hearing you stutter after that first session though, really adorable stuff.”
“Stop.” He groaned, his cheeks reddening.
“Pretty sure you were hard too.”
He had been, just like he was in that moment, but he hated the fact that you’d known and had said absolutely nothing for two months. He was torn between wanting to implode beneath the weight of his own cringe, and being the happiest he’d ever felt, because he was pretty sure that through all your teasing this was you accepting his confession.
“I also really liked watching you invent excuses to come back every week. My friends were sure you were gonna ask me out.”
Sukuna shrugged, sitting up properly now and trying to relax. It wasn’t often that he’d been free to peer so openly at your face like he was right now, and it was a tough task to keep himself calm because you were just so lovely and he really wanted to lean forward and kiss you. He wanted you on the table with him - on top of him, beneath him, whatever - he just needed you.
“Look, I didn’t wanna seem like a creep and overstep a professional boundary,” he confessed. “I was scared it would be one of those situations where a guy thinks a stripper loves him.”
Again you laughed. “Aw, that's actually kind of a sweet consideration. Toji told me that you were a jerk through and through, but I guess he’s wrong.”
Sukuna pouted at the idea of Toji telling you anything about him, although his buddy clearly did a somewhat decent job at wingmaning considering he’d orchestrated the current situation.
“I actually thought you’d approach me when I was working out. I was always smiling at you in the gym but you’d never come over.”
God, he really was an idiot.
He wanted to kick himself for not catching on sooner that you were open to his advances. It was something of an embarrassment for someone who usually held such confidence.
“Again, I didn’t want to be one of those gross gym bros trying to bother a girl while she’s working out,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know- I wasn’t sure if you’d be interested in me so I didn’t want to risk it.”
“Well I am. Interested in you, I mean.”
He blinked at you a couple of times, red eyes scanning your face almost in disbelief. He wasn’t sure why it came as a surprise to him, since he’d never had much of an issue getting women to like him, but for some reason you’d just seemed so unattainable. You’d always seemed aloof to him in a way that suggested his chances of dating you were about the same as dating a celebrity.
And yet, here you were.
“Oh.”
There was a moment of silence before Sukuna recovered, remembering that he was usually good with women and letting his body spring into action. His hands found your hips, tugging you forward and positioning you between his legs which were dangling over the side of the table. The towel had kept its position around his waist, but left little to the imagination as he held you there between his muscular thighs.
Lips crashing against yours, his arms wrapped firmly around your torso, pulling you closer into his grip and allowing him to deepen the kiss. You tasted faintly of honey and were just as addictive, a desire for more surging through him as he explored your mouth, your tongue dancing with his as though you’d done this a million times before.
Bravely, his hands toyed with the hem of your shirt, lifting it experimentally, thrilled when you aided him in pulling it off over your head, leaving you in your sports bra which he was equally quick to discard. It was nice to have his hands on your skin for a change, running his fingers over the muscles of your back as you lost yourselves in the kiss once more. He wondered if you’d enjoy him massaging you, or if you’d find his untrained attempts rather pathetic.
You didn’t give him much chance to find out, thoroughly distracting him with the slow movement of your hands down the length of his torso, stopping only once you reached the edge of the white towel covering him. He gasped against your mouth once your hand slipped beneath, fingers brushing gently against his pubic hair before finding the shaft of his cock.
“How about you lay back for me?” You murmured, breaking the kiss, eyes blown wide with desire. Sukuna’s cock twitched in your hand at the question, more than happy for you to tell him what to do. He shuffled back on the table, laying down on his back and relaxing as you hopped up on top of him, your knees placed firmly on either side of his thighs.
Your hand was stroking his cock languidly, lashes fluttering enticingly as you stared down at him, clearly enjoying the pleasure gripping his face with each careful touch. Your other hand was stroking his thigh, slowly massaging the muscle where dark bands of ink wrapped around his skin.
“I’ve always liked these.” You hummed, eyes flickering to the tattoos. “I admire them whenever you come in.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mmm. They’re hot.”
Again, Sukuna was twitching in your hand, caught off guard by the impact the simplest of compliments seemed to have on him so long as they were falling from your lips. A low groan escaped from him as you squeezed his cock a little harder, running your hand along the length of it with the same expert motions you’d use on his back.
Generally, when women had tried jerking him off in the past, it had never felt quite as good as it did to simply get himself off with his own hands - it was impossible for them to understand his body in the way that he did. And yet, under your touch he was writhing desperately, his stomach tensing with each firm stroke, trying to hold it together despite the fact he could already feel himself coming undone.
It was clear that you knew what to do - switching up the pressure and the nature of your movements, testing to see what had him shivering with the greatest intensity. Occasionally, your thumb would swipe the tip, spreading pre-cum down his shaft, all while you kept eye contact with him, your legs squeezing hard against his thighs.
“Is the pressure good?” You asked in a low tone, a teasing smile on your pretty face, speaking to him like this was just another normal appointment, like your hand was wrapped around his bicep rather than his cock.
“You know it is.” He managed to huff out, his face scarlet, only spurring you on further.
“Aw, good.” Your hand picked up speed and moments later he was cumming all over your hand, his seed dripping down your fingers, making a mess beneath the towel he was still covered with. You’d released him, and as you pulled your hand away he’d expected you to wipe it clean on the towel; instead, you raised your fingers to your lips and licked them clean of his cum without a second thought.
He was already hard again.
Fortunately, you seemed to be one step ahead of him.
Unravelling the towel hanging off his hips, you freed his cock from its confines. He watched you carefully, noting the way your eyes gazed upon it, the way your throat bobbed with a gulp at the sight. That, at the very least, restored his ego to some extent - for once he didn’t feel like he was totally on the backfoot with you.
“Impressed?” He asked, puffing out his chest with pride.
“Yeah, actually,” you responded easily. “Very impressed.”
Once again, he felt shy beneath your easy confidence, still not quite used to how easily you would say what was on your mind. There were no games, no manipulation, no pretending that you cared about something less than you really did.
He appreciated it.
“There’s only five minutes left of our session, and Toji needs the room after.” You said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Do you think that’s enough time?”
It certainly wasn’t enough time for what Sukuna wanted from you. He wanted to spend hours worshipping every part of your body, wanted to eat you out until you were crying, wanted to show you what it was like for him to be in charge. More than anything, he wanted to be buried inside of you until you were both numb and overstimulated, wanted you clinging to him in the throes of exhaustion and pleasure.
But none of that seemed fit to do in your treatment room, so it would have to wait for another time.
“I think I can be quick,” he said honestly, only to be met with a smug grin.
“Oh, I bet you can.”
“Shut up,” he mumbled, “it’s not my fault you’ve got me all riled up.”
That earned him another soft laugh, and he found that he was entirely smitten with the sound.
“Oh, how flattering of you,” you purred.
“What can I say? I’m charming.”
You didn’t respond to that, offering him nothing more than an almost shy smile as you discarded the rest of your clothes, a blush lining your cheeks for once as he took in your naked beauty. You were as gorgeous as he expected, and he found his hands trailing down your sides before coming to rest on your hips, wishing he could kiss every inch of you.
But you had speed on your mind, and leaving Sukuna in his position laying back on the table, you hovered yourself over his cock, taking it once more in your hand and rubbing it through your folds a few times before lining yourself up and sitting down on it with a quiet little gasp.
Sukuna groaned in sheer pleasure at the tightness of your walls wrapped around him, his fingers digging hard into the skin of your hips as he helped ease you down his length until he was buried to the hilt within you. “Oh fuck, you’re so tight.” he groaned.
“No, I think you’re just big.” You bit back at him with some effort, your hands braced on his chest while you struggled to adjust, thighs trembling ever so slightly.
“Maybe.” He tried to hide how much your comment had swelled his ego.
After giving yourself a few moments to breathe, you started to move, raising yourself up and bringing yourself down again on his cock, sweet groans and whines pouring from you as you found a rhythm, doing all the work yourself while Sukuna supported your hips. He was gazing up at you like a man who’d just witnessed an angel, red eyes shiny with affection at the sight of you on top of him, breasts bouncing with each movement.
He couldn’t remember the last time it had felt so good to be inside someone.
Probably never.
Eager to be closer to you, he propped himself up on his forearms, encouraging you to steady yourself on his shoulders. You leant forward, hands firm against his skin, your breasts pressing up against his chest, forcing you to move from long movements of your hips to simply grinding yourself against him.
A yelp left you once Sukuna decided that he wanted to help, thrusting his hips upwards and taking you along for the ride. He picked up a brutal pace, aware that the two of you were on a time limit, chuckling at the way your fingers scrambled for purchase against his skin, finding safety in the familiarity of the shoulders you’d been massaging for weeks.
“Feel good?” He rasped against your ear, aware that your movements had largely stilled, letting him take charge in filling you so thoroughly.
“S-so good,” you stuttered, and Sukuna felt a sick sense of pleasure at hearing you falter in such a way. He’d been humiliated enough for a little while and figured it was time for the tables to turn, at least for a little while.
He was certain that if things were going to work out between the two of you, he’d find many moments in which you were in control.
But right now? This wasn’t one of them.
You’d had your fun, and he was going to have his.
Just as he’d wanted, you came before he did. You did your best to muffle your cry of his name by burning your face into his shoulder, but he was sure that you’d still be heard if there were any prying ears on the other side of the door. He couldn’t really care less about such a thing - Toji had heard him having sex plenty of times throughout college.
He’d kept up his movements, fucking you through the orgasm until you were whining pathetically against his shoulder, begging him to slow down. He did no such thing until he had reached his own peak, spilling into you with a deep groan, only registering moments later that he probably should’ve pulled out first.
It wasn’t like him to forget a condom, never having fucked a girl bareback before.
But you were something different. The moment you’d offered your affection to him his mind had gone haywire, completely forgetting important details like that in favour of having you completely to himself.
He’d buy you the morning after pill as an apology.
Cradling you against him for a few moments, he wished you could stay like that for a while longer. Your weight atop his sweaty body felt lovely, and he desperately wanted to continue stroking your hair, losing himself in the intoxicating scent of you that seemed to drive him crazy.
But reality came knocking in the form of a fist against the door of the treatment room. “All done? I do have a patient in ten minutes so I need to set up.” Toji called out. You leapt from your position on top of Sukuna swiftly as if suddenly remembering yourself, glancing at the door nervously.
Sukuna wondered how much Toji had heard, wondering if the man was standing outside grinning like a Cheshire cat, ready to quiz Sukuna all about it the moment he exited.
It was likely, since Toji had always been a nosy bastard.
Too bad Sukuna wouldn’t be telling him anything about you. You were sacred to him, and it would stay that way - he wasn’t about to share anything with Toji.
“Yeah, just a few minutes!” You called back to Toji, your voice wavering a little. It was cute, how frazzled you seemed to be - he wanted to see more of that.
Letting out a heavy breath, you looked at Sukuna, who was slowly sitting up. His red eyes were darting about your face, trying to read your expression, hoping to god that this wasn’t some spur of the moment, one time thing. He wanted to take you home, wanted you in his arms.
If he had to go back to lying about aches and pains just to see you at a scheduled appointment, he was pretty sure he’d lose his mind.
“Do you wanna come to my place later?” You spoke before he could, giving him an almost bashful smile.
“Yeah. Yeah I’d like that,” he responded, shoulders relaxing.
He was pretty sure that your words alone had released a knot in his back.
That was just how good a masseuse you were.
a/n: need him so bad my GOD
ANYWAY hope you enjoyed this little one shot while I work on the next chapter of crazy in love! thanks for reading, reblogs and comments are appreciated as always <3
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ after three weeks of watching sukuna completely unravel over his feelings, you decide it’s time to put him out of his misery by kissing him.
✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, college!au, established friendship, first kiss together, sukuna is even more pathetic, mutual pining, reader has the upper hand, idiots in love, lots of kissing, sukuna is down horrendous for reader, longing.
part one.
three weeks had passed since that tuesday afternoon, and the thing about sukuna was that he was nothing if not stubbornly, infuriatingly predictable in his unpredictability.
he'd gone right back to flirting with you the very next day, like nothing had happened, like you hadn't watched his voice crack and his ears go pink and his entire carefully constructed confidence crumple like wet paper. he'd shown up at your usual coffee spot with that sharp grin and a comment about how you looked cute when you were sleep-deprived, and you'd blinked at him over your latte and said;
"cute enough to kiss?"
and sukuna had promptly choked on his own spit.
it was almost too easy, really, the way sukuna’s brain would short-circuit for a solid three seconds before he managed to pull himself together, the way his tattoos seemed to ripple with tension across his forearms as he scrambled for a response, the way his eyes would go just a little bit wide before he remembered to be annoying about it.
but he always recovered. that was the thing; sukuna would cough and sputter and glare at you like you'd personally offended his ancestors, and then he'd lean in close and say something like, "you wish, sweetheart", with that particular tilt to his mouth that was supposed to make you flustered.
except it didn't work anymore, because you'd seen the cracks in his armor now. you'd seen the way sukuna’s hand shook when he reached for his phone, the way sukuna had looked away first, the way sukuna had said please like it was a word he'd never learned how to use.
and you'd seen the way sukuna had started looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
that was the part that stuck with you, honestly. the way you'd catch sukuna staring at you across the library table or from the other end of his worn-out couch, his expression soft and unguarded in a way he'd never let you see before that tuesday. the way he'd immediately look away the very second your gaze met his, his jaw tightening like he'd been caught doing something really embarrassing.
three weeks of this; sukuna flirting and panicking and flirting again, of you pushing just enough to make him squirm but not enough to break the careful dance you'd both settled into.
three weeks of both of you pretending that something fundamental hadn't shifted between you, that you hadn't accidentally kicked open a door sukuna had been trying to keep closed so freaking bad.
but today, you were done pretending.
today, you were going to kiss your flirty best friend, sukuna, and you were going to do it in a way that left absolutely no room for interpretation.
today, it was a saturday afternoon, the kind that felt lazy and golden and full of possibility, and you'd shown up at sukuna's apartment with a bag of takeout from that thai place he liked so much and the specific kind of determination that came from weeks of watching him flail.
sukuna opened the door looking like he'd just rolled out of bed, which was probably accurate given that it was almost two in the afternoon and he'd texted you at 4am about a dream he'd had where his stats professor turned into a sentient spreadsheet. sukuna's pink hair was messier than usual, sticking up in ways that shouldn't have been attractive but absolutely were, and he was wearing that faded black t-shirt that had a small hole near the collar and made his tattoos stand out even more against his skin.
"you brought food," sukuna said, his voice rough with sleep, and the way his eyes lit up made something warm curl in your chest. "i was about to text you to ask if you wanted to order something. i haven't eaten since, like, yesterday."
"that's disgusting," you said, stepping past him into the apartment. "and also incredibly on-brand for you."
sukuna made a little sound of protest that was mostly performative, shutting the door behind you and following you into the living room like a large, tattooed shadow.
the apartment was the same as always — slightly cluttered, faintly smelling like his cologne and whatever takeout containers he hadn't thrown out yet, with that old leather couch that had seen better decades and the coffee table covered in his notes and empty energy drink cans.
you set the takeout bags on the table and turned to face him, and of course, sukuna was already looking at you with that familiar, lazy amusement, like he was already gearing up to say something annoying.
"you know," sukuna said, folding his arms across his chest in a way that made the muscles in his forearms shift, the dark lines of his tattoos pulling tight over bone and tendon. "you're kind of spoiling me. showing up with food, looking all—" sukuna gestured vaguely at you, his eyes dragging down and then back up in a way that was supposed to be teasing. "—like that. i might start expecting this."
"expecting what?" you asked, and you kept your voice light, casual, like you weren't about to completely upend both of your lives. "me bringing you food because you can't be bothered to feed yourself?"
"no," he said, and his grin sharpened, that particular tilt to his mouth that meant he was about to be a menace. "you showing up. looking good. being all—" he made another vague gesture, his fingers curling in the air like he was trying to grab the right word. "—you know. you."
and there it was, the thing that had changed, that you'd noticed more and more over the past few weeks.
sukuna had stopped simply saying you looked cute or making some comment about your outfit — the pink haired boy was getting softer, clumsier, like he was trying to say something real and didn't quite know how.
you could feel your stupid heart beating a little faster in your chest, but you kept your expression steady, and your posture easy. you'd been planning this for days now, running through it in your head again and again, trying to figure out the right moment and the right way to do it.
"you," you repeated, and you stepped closer to him, just one step, close enough that you could see the way his throat moved when he swallowed. "is that supposed to be a compliment, kuna? because it's kind of vague."
sukuna's eyebrows pulled together, just slightly, the way they always did when you deviated from your usual deflections. his arms were still crossed, but you could see the tension in his broads shoulders now, the way sukuna was holding himself just a little too still.
"it's not vague," he said, and his voice had dropped just a fraction, that roughness from sleep still clinging to the edges of it. "you know what i mean."
"do i?"
you took another step closer, and now you were close enough to see the way his pupils had dilated just slightly, the way his breath had caught in his throat. his tattoos seemed to darken against his skin in the afternoon light filtering through the windows, those familiar lines shifting as his muscles tensed.
"you're doing it again," sukuna said, and there it was, that slight crack in his voice, the one that had been appearing more and more often over the past few weeks. "the thing where you're—where you act like—"
"act like what?"
sukuna's arms uncrossed, and for a moment he looked like he didn't know what to do with them, his hands flexing at his sides before he shoved them into the pockets of his sweatpants. the gesture was almost defensive, and you could see the way his jaw worked as he ground his teeth together.
"act like you're going to—" he stopped, swallowed, tried again. "you know what. you know exactly what you're doing."
"do i?" you asked again, softer this time, and you let your gaze drop to his mouth for just a second before bringing it back to his eyes. "tell me, then. what am i doing?"
sukuna's breath hitched; you heard it, the way it caught in his chest and came out uneven, and you watched the flush start creeping up his neck in that splotchy pattern you'd become intimately familiar with over the past few weeks. it started at his collarbones, just visible above the collar of his t-shirt, and spread upward in patches that stained his skin pink.
"you're—" sukuna started, and then he had to stop to clear his throat, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet apartment. "you're trying to make me—i don't know what you're trying to make me do, but you're doing it on purpose."
"maybe," you said, and you let yourself smile, just a small one, the same way you had three weeks ago. "maybe i just wanted to see what would happen."
sukuna's eyes went wide, and you could see the memory of that tuesday flickering across his flushed face — the way you'd leaned in, the way he'd frozen, the way he'd spent the rest of the evening in a daze, not flirting once, just staring at you when he thought you weren't looking.
"that's not—" sukuna started, and then his voice cracked, and the sound of it made something in your chest ache. "you can't just—that's not fair. you can't just do that and then act like nothing happened."
"i'm not acting like nothing happened," you said.
you reached out, slowly enough that sukuna could stop you if he wanted to, and let your fingers brush against his wrist. the skin there was warm, his pulse racing beneath your fingertips, and you felt the way he shuddered at the contact.
"i'm acting like something did happen. something that changed things. something we've both been pretending didn't happen for three weeks."
sukuna's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and absolutely nothing came out except this small, strangled sound that might have been your name or might have been a prayer. his pulse was hammering under your fingers, fast and uneven, and you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too quickly, like he'd just run up several flights of stairs.
"i—" he started, and then he stopped, and his free hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, the movement jerky and nervous. "you're serious. you're actually—this isn't a joke?"
"no," you said, and you stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body, close enough that you could smell his cologne and something underneath it that was simply him. "it's not a joke. it was never a joke."
sukuna's eyes searched yours, and you could see the war going on behind them, the part of him that wanted to deflect and the part of him that wanted to just let go. his jaw worked, his throat moved, and his huge hand came up from his neck to hover near your face, not quite touching, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he made contact.
"you're serious," sukuna said again, and his voice was so quiet, so fragile, nothing like the sharp confidence he usually wore. "you're not—you're not just messing with me?"
"i'm not messing with you," you said, and you lifted your other hand to cup his jaw, your palm warm against the stubble there. his skin was hot, his pulse fluttering under your thumb where it rested near his ear, and you watched his eyes flutter closed for just a second before they opened again. "i'm not. i want to kiss you, kuna. i've wanted to kiss you for a while now."
the sound sukuna made was something between a whine and a groan, and his hand finally made contact with your face, his fingers splaying against your cheek like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. his palm was warm and slightly rough, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the way they shook against your skin.
"you can't just say that," sukuna said, and his voice was wrecked, completely destroyed, like you'd reached into his chest and pulled out something he'd been trying to hide. "you can't just say that and expect me to—i've been—do you have any idea how long i've—"
"how long you've what?" you asked, and you let your thumb trace along his jaw, feeling the way his muscles jumped under your touch. "how long you've wanted to kiss me?"
sukuna's eyes were bright, almost too bright, and his blush had spread to his cheeks now, staining them pink in a way that made him look younger, softer, nothing like the sharp and untouchable figure he pretended to be.
"yes," he said, and the word came out rough and raw, like it had been scraped out of him. "yes, okay? i've wanted—i've wanted to kiss you for years, and you—you just sat there on my couch like it was nothing, like you didn't—"
"like i didn't know?" you finished, and you leaned in, your forehead almost touching his, close enough that your breath mixed with his. "i knew. i just didn't—i wasn't ready. and then that tuesday, when you—when you looked at me like that, i thought maybe you were ready too."
sukuna's hand on your cheek tightened, just slightly, and his other hand came up to grip your hip, his rough fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt like he was desperately anchoring himself. sukuna's eyes searched yours, and you could see the fear there, the uncertainty, the desperate hope he was trying and failing to hide.
"i'm scared," he said, and his voice broke on the last word, splintering in a way that made your heart ache. "i'm scared that this is—that i'm going to—"
"you're not going to mess this up," you said, and you leaned in closer, your lips almost brushing his. "you're not. i'm right here. i'm not going anywhere."
and then you closed the distance, and you kissed him.
it was soft at first, just a gentle press of your lips against his, testing, asking. sukuna's mouth was warm and slightly chapped, and you could feel the way his breath caught against your skin, the way his hand on your hip tightened convulsively. the kiss was tentative, almost shyly so, and you could feel the tension in sukuna, the way he was holding himself back like he was afraid of breaking something.
but then you pulled back just enough to breathe, and you looked at him, and the expression on sukuna's face literally made your heart stutter.
sukuna's eyes were wide, his pupils blown so dark you could barely see the red of his irises, and his lips were slightly parted, wet from the earlier kiss. sukuna's blush had spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt, and his breathing was fast and uneven, his chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon.
"was that—" he started, and his voice came out as barely a whisper, cracked and fragile. "did you—"
"yes," you said, and you couldn't help the smile that spread across your face, so warm and so genuine. "that was real. that was me kissing you."
sukuna made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and his hand on your cheek pulled you back in, and this time the kiss was not soft.
this time, it was desperate.
sukuna’s mouth was hungry against yours, like he'd been starving for this for long years and had finally been given permission to eat. his lips moved against yours with a kind of frantic urgency, and his huge hand slid from your cheek into your hair, his long fingers tangling in the strands and pulling you even closer. his other hand was still on your hip, his grip almost bruising, and you could feel the way sukuna’s whole body was trembling against you.
he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word from the past three weeks into the press of his lips.
sukuna’s warm tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him, and the sound he made when he tasted you was something you'd never forget — a low, desperate sound that vibrated against your mouth and made your knees feel oh so weak.
you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands finding his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the way his muscles were coiled tight like he was barely holding himself together. his tattoos shifted under your palms as he moved, those familiar dark lines stretching and pulling over warm skin, and you could feel his pulse hammering under your fingertips.
when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together, and sukuna's eyes were squeezed shut like he was trying to process what the actual hell had just happened.
his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and his hands were still in your hair and on your hip, gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.
"that," sukuna said, and his voice was hoarse, wrecked, completely destroyed. "that was—"
"good?" you offered, and you were smiling, you couldn't help it, the way his whole body was trembling against yours.
"good," he repeated, and he let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob, somewhere in between. "good doesn't even—i've been wanting that for—and you just—"
sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes bright and his face flushed, and there was something raw and open in his expression that he'd never let you see before.
"you have no idea how long i've been waiting for that."
"tell me," you said, and you reached up to brush a strand of pink hair from his forehead, feeling the way he leaned into your touch. "tell me how long."
sukuna's lips curved into a smile that was soft and almost shy, absolutely nothing like the sharp grins he usually wore. his blush was still adorably staining his cheeks, and his ears were pink, and he looked so vulnerable and so open that it made something in your chest ache.
"too long," sukuna said, his voice still rough, still fragile. "longer than i want to admit. years, maybe. i don't—i really didn't know how to tell you, and i didn't want to mess things up, and then that tuesday—"
"that tuesday," you repeated, and you laughed, soft and warm. "you were so pathetic. your voice cracked."
"shut up," sukuna said, but he was laughing too, his body shaking against yours. "i was caught off guard. you never—you never do that."
"maybe i should do it more often," you said, and you leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the way he melted into you. "maybe i should kiss you more often."
sukuna's breath hitched, and his hand in your hair tightened, and he turned his head to catch your mouth with his, this kiss slower than the last, deeper, like he was trying to savor it. his lips moved against yours with a kind of tenderness that made your heart swell, and his tongue was tracing your lower lip gently before pulling back.
"yeah," he said against your mouth, his voice barely more than a whisper. "yeah, you should. you really, really should."
and you did.
you kissed sukuna until the takeout got cold, kissed him until the afternoon light shifted into evening, kissed him until he was a trembling, blushing mess in his own living room, his tattoos warm and familiar under your hands and his heart racing against your chest.
sukuna was still pathetic, still whining and blushing and falling apart every time you touched him, and you loved it.
you loved him, you realized, and you'd probably loved him for a little while now, even before that tuesday, even before everything changed.
and from the way sukuna was looking at you, his eyes bright and his face flushed and his mouth curved into that soft, shy smile — he loved you too.
"so," he said finally, his voice still hoarse, his hand still tangled in your hair. "does this mean you're my—like, you're—"
"yes," you said, and you kissed the corner of sukuna’s mouth again, just because you could. "i'm your something. we can figure out the labels later."
sukuna made a sound that was almost a whine, and he pulled you closer to him, burying his blushing face deep in your neck and mumbling something you couldn't quite hear but you were pretty sure was 'finally'.
and you laughed, warm and happy, and held him, and the evening light filtered through his windows and painted the room in shades of gold and pink.
three weeks of pretending had led to this, and it had been more than worth it.
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ when you finally decide to flirt back after years of brushing off sukuna’s teasing, he quickly discovers he can’t handle a taste of his own medicine.
✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, college!au, established friendship, uno reverse card flirting, sukuna is really pathetic, lovestruck behavior, yearning hidden under friendship (?), sukuna is blushing.
part two.
the afternoon light coming through sukuna's apartment windows was that tired golden color, the kind that made everything look a little too soft and a little too warm for a tuesday that felt like a thursday.
you were sprawled on the pink haired boy’s worn-out leather couch with your laptop balanced on your thighs, trying to finish a reading assignment that had no business being this dense, while sukuna sat on the floor across from you with his back against the coffee table, his phone in one hand and a half-empty energy drink in the other.
sukuna's tattoos stretched across his forearms every time he moved to scroll through whatever mindless content he seemed to be invested in, those familiar dark lines shifting over muscle and bone like they'd always been there, like they were just another part of him you'd stopped really noticing years ago. the four-eyes motif on his biceps caught the light when sukuna leaned forward to set his drink down, and you watched him crack his neck in that lazy way he always did when he was bored, the movement causing his jaw to flex once before he settled back against the table leg.
"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up from his phone, and there it was — that particular tilt to his mouth, the one that meant he was about to make things annoying on purpose. "didn't know my forearms were that interesting, sweetheart. could've just asked for a closer look."
you didn't even blink.
"your forearms are fine, kuna. i was actually staring at the window behind you because there's a really weird-looking bird right on the fire escape."
sukuna finally looked up, one dark eyebrow raised, and he turned his head toward the window just to check. when he saw nothing there, his gaze slid back to you with that familiar mixture of amusement and mild offense.
"you're lying."
"oh, am i?" you clicked back to your reading assignment, highlighting a sentence you'd already highlighted twice. "bird must've flown away. tragic timing, really."
sukuna laughed once, short and sharp, and went back to his phone, but you knew damn well he wasn't done; sukuna was never done when he was bored and you were the only person in the room. it was like a game for him, or maybe like a compulsion — throwing out these little flirtatious comments just to see if he could get a reaction, any reaction, even though he'd known you for long enough to understand that you'd stopped reacting to that particular brand of nonsense somewhere around year two of your friendship.
"you know," he said after a moment, dragging the words out like he was savoring them. "most people would at least pretend to be flattered. but you just sit there like a brick wall with a laptop. it's kind of insulting, honestly."
"i'll try to care about your feelings more," you said flatly, not looking up. "let me just find that emotion real quick."
sukuna kicked at your foot with his own, just a light tap of his sneaker against your socked heel.
"you're the worst."
"you're the one who keeps flirting with a brick wall. that sounds like a you problem."
sukuna grinned at that, wide and sharp and entirely unbothered, because this was simply how things worked between the two of you; he'd flirt, you'd deflect, he'd laugh, and then five minutes later he'd ask if you wanted to order food or complain about his stats professor or show you some ridiculous video he found at two in the morning.
it was comfortable, it was routine, and it meant exactly nothing, and you both knew it.
but today, something about the light and the quiet and the way sukuna was sitting there looking entirely too pleased with himself made you feel like switching things up.
just a little.
just to see what would happen.
you set your laptop aside slowly, making a show of closing the screen and placing it on the cushion next to you, and then you turned your body toward him.
sukuna was already watching you with that lazy curiosity he always got when you deviated from your usual patterns, his phone completely forgotten in his hand, and you let your gaze drag over him in a way you never actually did — leisurely and meticulous, like you were taking your time with something you'd been saving for later.
his eyebrows pulled together just slightly. "what?"
"nothing," you said, and you let your voice drop just enough to change the texture of it, to make it softer and slower than your usual flat delivery. "just looking."
you watched the confusion flicker across sukuna's face, quick and genuine, because this wasn't how the script went;
you weren't supposed to look at him like that. you weren't supposed to sound like that. and you sure as hell weren't supposed to slide off the couch to sit on the floor next to him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his, close enough that you could smell whatever cheap cologne he'd grabbed off his dresser this morning.
sukuna's hand tightened around his phone.
"okay. you're being weird."
"am i?" you echoed your earlier words back at him, tilting your head just slightly, and you let your fingers rest on the floor between you — not touching him, not yet, but close enough that the proximity felt intentional. "i thought this was what you wanted, kuna. you're always saying all that stuff. figured i'd finally give you a response."
sukuna's throat moved as he swallowed, and you could see the moment his brain started scrambling to catch up with what was happening. the confidence he normally wore like armor seemed to flicker, just for a second, and his gaze dropped to your hand on the floor before snapping back to your face.
"that's—" he started, and then stopped, and you'd never seen sukuna stumble over a word in your entire friendship. "i mean, yeah, but—you don't actually—"
"don't actually what?"
you leaned in just a little, and you watched the tips of sukuna's ears go pink. his ears, of all things. the same sukuna who could make a waiter uncomfortable by accident just by existing was sitting here with pink ears because you'd leaned about four inches closer to him.
"don't actually find you attractive? because i never said that."
sukuna's mouth opened, then closed, and then opened again, and absolutely nothing came out except this small, strangled sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh or the end of his dignity.
you could feel the heat coming off his arm where it was braced on the coffee table, you could see the way his chest had started rising and falling just a little faster than before. his tattoos seemed to move with every small shift of his muscles, the dark lines pulling and relaxing as he failed spectacularly to figure out what the hell to do with his hands.
"you're messing with me," sukuna said finally, and his voice literally cracked on the last word.
ryomen sukuna's voice cracked like he was fourteen years old and talking to his first crush, and you had to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.
"am i?" you asked again, softer this time, and you let your finger trace a small, idle pattern on the floor between you; not toward him, not away from him — just there, like you were thinking about it. "i don't know. maybe i just got tired of you being the only one who gets to have fun."
sukuna's blush was spreading now, crawling down his neck in splotchy patches that disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt, and he was gripping his phone like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
you could see his pulse beating in his throat, quick and uneven, and his eyes kept darting between your face and the small space between your bodies like he was trying to calculate something he didn't have the formula for.
"this isn't—" sukuna started, and then he had to stop to clear his throat, and the sound was embarrassingly loud in the quiet apartment. "this isn't funny."
"i'm not laughing."
"you're definitely laughing on the inside. i can tell. your eye is doing that thing."
you blinked innocently. "what thing?"
"the thing where you're being an asshole and enjoying it."
but sukuna's voice was way too high to land the way he wanted it to, too breathy to sound like anything other than a man who was rapidly losing control of a situation he'd assumed he'd always be in charge of. his leg was bouncing now, that restless energy he got when he was nervous translating into small, jerky movements that he probably didn't even realize he was making.
you let the silence stretch, you let him sit in the discomfort of not knowing what came next, and you watched as he absolutely failed to fill it with one of his usual easy quips.
sukuna's brain was working overtime behind his eyes, you could easily tell — trying to figure out if you were serious, if this was a joke, if he was supposed to laugh it off or lean into it or run in the opposite direction.
finally, he did the last thing you expected.
he looked away.
sukuna actually looked away, his jaw tightening as he turned his face toward the window, and you could see the way his hand shook just slightly when he reached up to rub at the back of his neck. the movement made his sleeve ride up, exposing more of those dark lines, and you noticed the way his fingers trembled against his own skin.
"you're doing this on purpose," he muttered, and his voice was so quiet you almost didn't hear it. "you're trying to—i don't know what you're trying to do, but you're doing it on purpose."
"maybe," you said, and you let yourself smile then, just a small one, because he looked so genuinely thrown off that it was actually kind of endearing underneath all the hilarity. "maybe i just wanted to see what would happen."
sukuna turned back to look at you, and his eyes were wide in a way you'd never seen before — less of the sharp, amused glint he usually carried and more of something raw and uncertain, like a door you'd accidentally nudged open that he'd been keeping firmly closed. his blush had settled into something deeper now, staining his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and his lips were parted just slightly like he was still trying to figure out how to breathe normally.
"well," he said, and his voice cracked again, softer this time, almost fragile. "are you happy? because i'm—i'm not—this is—"
sukuna gave up on words entirely and just gestured vaguely at himself, at his flushed face and his bouncing leg and his white-knuckled grip on his phone, and the gesture said everything sukuna's his voice couldn't.
you laughed then, not meanly, just a warm exhale of a sound, and you bumped your shoulder against his gently.
"yeah," you said, your voice back to normal now, dropping the flirtatious edge entirely. "i'm pretty happy, actually."
sukuna stared at you for a long moment, his chest still rising and falling too quickly, and then he dropped his head back against the coffee table and made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine.
"i hate you," he said to the ceiling. "i genuinely hate you. you're the worst person i've ever met."
"you're blushing."
"shut up, i'm not blushing. my face is just warm. from the—it's warm in here."
"it's twenty-one degrees in here."
"shut up."
sukuna didn't move his head from the coffee table, but his large hand found your knee — just a brief, clumsy tap before retreating, like he'd meant to do something else and changed his mind at the last second. his fingers were warm through the fabric of your jeans, and you could still feel the slight tremor in them even after he pulled away.
you sat there together in the golden afternoon light, the silence softer now than it had been before, and you watched as sukuna slowly, painfully tried to collect himself.
his ears were still pink, his breathing was still uneven, and every few seconds, his gaze would slide toward you and then snap away again, like looking at you for too long might somehow make things worse.
it was, without a single question, the most pathetic you had ever seen him.
"sooo," you said after a while, keeping your voice light and easy. "you want to order that thai place, or are you too busy being embarrassed to eat?"
sukuna lifted his head just enough to glare at you, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he still looked like he'd just run a marathon in a sauna.
"i'm not embarrassed."
"okay."
"i'm not. i just wasn't expecting—" sukuna stopped, swallowed, tried again. "you don't just—you never—"
"never what?"
he held your gaze for a long, charged moment, and something in his expression flickered — some thought you couldn't quite read, some emotion the pink haired boy shoved back down before it could fully surface. then he looked away once again, reaching for his abandoned energy drink like it might offer him some kind of salvation.
"nothing," he said quietly. "forget it. thai sounds fine."
sukuna didn't flirt with you for the rest of the evening.
not once.
and if you caught him staring at you when he thought you weren't looking, his expression soft and confused and a little bit scared like he'd just discovered something he didn't know how to name — well, you didn't mention that either.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⋮ Sukuna's an angel. Or at least, that's what he used to be before he was cast out for his disobedience. He's dragging himself— torn and bloody through whatever godforsaken forest he had crashed in. Everything looks bleak for Sukuna until he spots your little cabin on the muddy riverbank. Perhaps you, the clumsy witch residing within its wooden walls, can grant him salvation.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋮ wc : 7.7k, a little self-indulgent whoops, angst (idk Sukuna gets kicked out of heaven), idk how coherent this plot is either pretend it happens in a span of months, religious themes, slight fluff, eventual smut, true form sukuna x fem!reader, descriptions of injuries, blood, two cocks (only one is used), oral (fem recieving), fingering, piv sex
art creds :: please let me know the artist of the third image, have tried looking everywhere </3
Angels were made not to feel arrogance, fury, pain — all those emotions that made us human.
Sukuna knew that was a lie the second he was cast out, the heavens above tearing his white wings straight from his back and leaving two gaping wounds in the process. The sky split as he fell, shaking the core of Earth itself with a blinding light surging through the gap left behind. It was the sort of light that burned through the fallen angel, all the way down to his very bones and set him alight from the inside.
Divinity unravelled into sin.
Sukuna's back throbbed in agony, a pained howl ripping through his throat as he continued to fall.
And fall.
And fall.
Wind lashed against his defiled body. The experts called this spectacle another shooting star, a meteor streaking its way through the night sky. Onlookers gasped in awe as he disappeared into the black horizon. They couldn't be further from the truth.
Sukuna kept falling — all the way until the taste of betrayal in his mouth turned into mud and dirt. He had crash landed into a forest in the death of night, a shell of what he once was. A crater had bloomed where he had landed, the forest ricocheting like shrapnel over him — yet Sukuna refused to succumb to the pain.
An unbridled rage gripped him as he lay there, twitching as the blood ran down his back.
How dare they?
He was made out of light, fire, and yet the heavens stripped him of his glory — all because he refused to submit to a lesser being made of clay. Sukuna's arrogance had resulted in him getting cast out, and to that he spat on the ground. What he had left was defiance as he pushed himself up, muscles rippling as his chest rose and fell shakily. His breath was ragged as his four red eyes scanned the dark surroundings.
Beneath him, the soil soaked in the red of his blood, the precious liquid having dripped out of his wounds where his wings should've been and down the curve of his spine. Dying alone here wasn't an option for Sukuna, however. He wasn't about to give the heavens a reason to rejoice. He wasn't about to prove their judgement of him as final.
That was why he grunted low, forcing himself to move despite the way his back screamed in protest. The effort was truly ugly — all the grace he had in his former body having evaporated out of him the second he was ousted.
Two of Sukuna's four palms skidded momentarily against the mud before he mustered up the energy to stand tall. He swayed once, then twice.
Sukuna did not fall.
Spite won over anything else, allowing the forest to part before him as he moved through it. The branches thwacked against Sukuna, until they gradually thinned and the stubborn roots began to lose their grip on the earth below. Moonlight washed over his body, baptising his nudity that he was so painfully aware of. He wasn't ashamed, not at all. Sukuna was irritated at this indignity bestowed upon him.
He pushed on, feeling the ground slope beneath his bare feet until the air grew clearer around him. It felt cooler, damp, and the odd sound of running water met Sukuna's ear. It was clear that the source came from a river now that he was face to face with it.
Water.
A pang of thirst hit him — something that he had never felt before his exile. Sukuna's body moved towards the source of life without thinking, until he had sank onto his knees and gulped until the liquid threatened to bubble back up. Only then did he rise once more, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand.
When he scanned the area once more, nothing in particular stood out. But then Sukuna's eyes widened, trying to make out the shape in the darkness that resembled something akin to shelter squatting by the riverbed. A faint glow bled through what must've been the windowpanes. Above sat a chimney from which light smoke curled out in thin tendrils that dissolved into nothingness.
It wasn't anything grand by any means, but it was enough. It felt alive, something Sukuna wasn't accustomed to yet. He stared after it for longer than he meant to, his scarred skin tense and prickling with something he couldn't name.
Each step grew heavier than the last as Sukuna set his target on the hut. He was still bleeding, still clinging onto survival — shaking violently as defiance mixed with exhaustion. Yet he dragged himself on, all the way until his knees finally gave out from exhaustion.
The night went on, swallowing the pitiful fallen angel's body. His nails dug into the dirt, and just for one hopeful second, Sukuna thinks he could pull himself back up like he has done before.
But he couldn't.
His eyes shut, and consciousness flickered away. The very last thing Sukuna was aware of was a feminine hum followed by a sharp gasp, a figure looming in front of him as he passed out.
For the first time since Sukuna fell, he didn't rise — not for a while.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Why I outta— ah. You're awake, it seems."
Was he?
Sukuna's head swam, nausea hitting him as consciousness came floating back in small fragments. He found himself unable to breathe, body shooting upwards as a terrible cough wracked his lungs. The scent invading his body was herbal, bitter and left him gasping for air as you watched — clearly unimpressed.
"You can stop that, y'know," you muttered, cracking open a window and letting daylight in. "My precious herbs aren't that bad."
When the worst of the dry heaving had subsided, Sukuna grimaced, looking down to see his upper body bandaged and lower half covered with a blanket of some sorts. He then raised his head, taking in the wooden beams of what was presumably your hut. Oddities were strewn around everywhere in the small space, cluttering your living area with metal trinkets and hanging ropes of garlic amongst other things.
And then he registers something soft underneath his hulking body — a narrow bed that was almost folding in half because of his weight. Honestly, it was a miracle to you that it was still intact.
Above all else, one realisation had hit Sukuna — you had touched him.
His gaze snapped at you as you stood a few steps away by a cluttered table packed to the brim with various bottles.
"Woah, what's with the look?"
Sukuna's jaw tightened, and then he tried speaking. He cleared his throat, testing out the words on his tongue.
"I assume that you were the one to have . . . moved me."
You swallowed, choosing not to lie. There was no need to — you two were the only ones there for miles around. "That I did."
"That is rather bold of you to touch something that was once of pure divinity," Sukuna pointed out, shifting so that he was seated upright. The searing pain in his back had gone, replaced by a deep but manageable ache that seemed to resonate inside of him.
"Whatever you were, that doesn't matter now," you pointed out, unaware of his circumstances. "You landed on my property, all bloody and battered and you probably should take it easy for a while."
Sukuna's eyes narrowed at you as he attempted to stand. Immediately, a hiss left his throat.
"Don't move like that, you'll tear something." Your voice was firm as you stepped closer without thinking. Above his shoulder, your hand hovered in uncertainty — had you upset the man?
Sukuna sat back down begrudgingly, slightly stung at the dismissal of his status. The bed creaked once more in protest, and you swore you heard wood splintering somewhere. The sound made you grimace, yet your voice took on a more gentle tone. Something was clearly wrong with whoever this man is, and something in you said that he was capable of far more than he let on.
"Well . . . you can stay here as long as you like. Just be careful, please. I made this furniture myself and it took quite a while."
That got a different sort of reaction out of Sukuna. His mouth twitched — barely.
"You house a fallen angel," he mused, looking up at you, "and your flimsy chairs are your main concern?"
Your eyes widened, the pieces of the puzzle slowly connecting together in your mind. Fallen angel? Well, that would have explained the two large gashes on his back. "Is that what you really are, Mr . . . ?"
"Sukuna, and yes. That I am."
You mumbled out your own name, suddenly falling quiet as you took in this new revelation. Sukuna cocked his head, studying you curiously. "Your silence intrigues me. Tell me — should you not be scared, little one?"
"Of what?"
"Of what I am."
You thought for a second. It wasn't like you were completely unafraid of what Sukuna was — finding him in such a vulnerable state was more than a sure sign that danger lurked not too far away. But if you thought deeper . . .
"I'm well acquainted with things that are out of the ordinary," you explained, choosing your words carefully. "A fallen angel is bound to be another addition to that."
"And what makes you so special?"
"I didn't say I was special," you blurted, trying to preserve your image. "I'm just a witch— or, well, a practising one."
Sukuna hummed low, the sound rumbling in his chest.
"That explains the wards you have hung around this hut."
He wasn't wrong — for the sake of your safety, you had cast a ward many moons ago to keep out any negative energy away from you. Sukuna wasn't at all surprised that he had bypassed that. You had let him in willingly, after all. Whether that was a good choice on your end, well, time would have to tell.
"I didn't know you could see them."
"I can see many things the human eye cannot," he replied simply.
And then your mouth ran faster than your mind could, a sceptical look shooting Sukuna's way. "Doesn't seem that way to me, considering the fact that you crashed face first into the ground."
Silence.
You grimaced — it appeared that your horribly timed attempt at a joke didn't land well. No pun intended.
But unexpectedly, a rush of air left Sukuna's nose. It was short and sharp, more out of disbelief than anything else. It even startled him, making him adjust the mildly amused look on his face into one of irritation.
"Your mouth runs carelessly, little one," he said.
"Seems as though I'm not the only careless one around here." You were really testing the waters now.
Sukuna stared at you, so you stared back.
Really stared.
You thought he would retaliate, but he didn't. An awkward cough from you filled the silence. Then, some shuffling as you moved in place.
"Anyway," you said, "I've tended to your back as you can see.
"I can indeed," Sukuna said flatly. "I'm not quite fond of the . . . smell."
Figures.
A sigh left you as he watched you wander off, the sound of clinking meeting his pierced ears. When you came back, bottles of various liquids occupied the space in your hands — ranging from the deepest yellows to creamy whites. "These are just some home remedies I used after washing your back. I'll need to apply these again when I change your bandages."
"And when will you be doing that?"
"Now. Because as you can see, you're bleeding through the old—"
"Absolutely not."
A pause.
"Absolutely yes," you argued. "You may be of higher power but that doesn't mean you're invincible to infection, especially now that you're on my turf."
Sukuna simmered in his seat, refusing to look your way.
"I suppose you'd like to reopen all your wounds then?"
. . .
That got him to turn, just enough for you to carefully roll the bloodied bandages off his torso. You could ignore the four arms for now as you set the bottles of ointment to the side, face to face with the large gashes running down Sukuna's shoulder blades. The skin had split, making you wince as you tried not to focus too much on the injuries in front of you.
As you worked, your mind raced yet again — what atrocities had he committed to be deserving of such treatment?"
A grunt dragged you out of your thoughts. The ointment was slippery between your fingers and Sukuna's wounds stung terribly so as you applied it onto his skin. "If you could handle that fall, you can handle this, Sukuna."
"That does not mean I want to," he bit back as curtly as he could. It was all too much for the fallen angel, having wound up in some witches hut and being tended to like a stray dog. But what could he do except take it? That was why Sukuna stayed in his seat, body tense as he chose to restrain himself.
"There we go, nice and calm," you squinted, drying your hands clean and fetching a fresh roll of gauze to wrap around Sukuna.
"I am choosing patience," Sukuna gritted out, lifting up his arms one by one as you manoeuvred around him. You nodded, making sure he was securely patched up whilst the river outside continued to splash against the bank. The world around you both continued to move, and the heavens above remained a silent witness to what was going on with their fallen angel.
Sukuna — the being who had sworn not to kneel to anyone, remained in his seat on top of the creaking bed beneath your wandering hands.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Sukuna was making better progress than you had initially expected. Time trudged on, creeping in through the small things — like the light beams across your wooden floorboards shifting across your rooms. The river outside, too. It ebbed and flowed with each pass of the moon.
His bandages needed changing less often, slowly but surely. With the passing of time and somewhere between medicinal care to boiling weeds, living with Sukuna felt like less of a pressing matter and more of a routine.
A much welcome one, too.
It was far from a miracle the way Sukuna healed, but he was able to ignore the faint burn of the muscles of his back as he followed you around your hut. The skin had closed unevenly, causing it to scar and raise. That was a better outcome than infection, at least.
Soon enough, Sukuna picked up on your habits. Being cooped up with you made that easy, but not once did Sukuna intend for that to happen. He noticed that you woke up at precisely 5 a.m without fail, shuffling in and out of the bedroom you had so kindly given him as you went about your day.
You also had the tendency to speak to inanimate objects, banging pots and pans out of frustration when your spell casting didn't go right. Sometimes, you'd even practise in front of him — the former angel sitting there unimpressed as you tried potion-making.
His mouth would twitch without fail, every damn time when a plume of smoke would erupt in your face.
There were things about Sukuna you noticed as well. First of all, he hated wearing shirts. It took a lot of bribery on your end for him to let you fashion up a pair of loose pants for him to wear so that you didn't accidentally see them again. By them, you meant his twin pair of cocks. The imagery made you shudder, and it was one you would like to forget.
To compromise, he wore the baggy pants in exchange for being allowed to walk around topless. It was more 'freeing' for his four arms, which you supposed made sense. He sported quite a few tattoos he would rather not have explained, but at least they were nice to look at.
You also noticed how he liked to push your limits — doing nothing when you tripped over thin air or snagged your clothes against a stray hook in your usual fashion. He'd sit there, face passive and wondering how it was possible for you to be this unintentionally clumsy.
Oh, and he'd also push his body beyond the limits of what was acceptable, sending you into a panic whenever he feigned a grimace on his face.
"Don't push it, Ryomen," you warned, brows knitted as Sukuna tried walking the length of your hut without having to use your walls for support. He managed, but that didn't mean you couldn't see the sway in his step.
He scoffed, turning his head to look at you. "I am merely standing, little witch."
"You look like you're about to bolt out of my front door," you shot back, waving your favourite wooden stick at the man. "Sit."
Sukuna sat down without even realising, and when the realisation did hit — it was already too late.
You scurried off to make food, feeling a pang of hunger hit you, and Sukuna was also the perfect test subject for new recipes. He stayed rooted to the spot, bristling as a pang of annoyance hit him. He stayed quiet, staring into the wall and pretending not to notice how obedient he was around you.
Sometimes, silence was something you learned Sukuna needed. He'd have his off days, where his shoulders would hunch and the searing pain in his back would bring back spiteful memories of what had got him cast out of heaven. You would listen to Sukuna shift around until you found him in the morning sleeping upright.
His gaze would drift off, latch onto nothing as something ugly and scornful swirled beneath the red.
You never pried, no matter how much you wanted to.
Sukuna knew you wanted to as well, but you knew your limits. Those dark periods would pass, much like the rain over your hut, and everything was okay again — momentarily, but it was enough.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"I just fixed that, Ryo," you complained, the nickname slipping out from between your lips like second nature. Perhaps it had been a couple of weeks since you had first begun to nurse Sukuna back to health. There had been no talks of sending him off elsewhere now that his condition had improved rapidly. Quite frankly, you didn't want him to go anywhere either. You told yourself he was quite good with the handiwork.
Except for now, that is.
A rake stood between you both, the wooden handle having splintered after Sukuna had taken it from your grasp. He had intended to rake up the leaves, but his grip was far too powerful. He patted the splinters off of his hand, staring down at the useless tool.
". . . I can fix it.
You let out a snort, shaking your head incredulously. "Not even my magic can turn that heap of firewood back into what it once was."
"Allow me to."
Sukuna's words made you cock a brow. "Do you really want to? I don't see any point—"
"This was my doing, so I will fix it," he said simply, as if he was telling you about his day. There wasn't any sort of challenge in his tone, which you could appreciate. It was simply just a matter of fact statement from Sukuna, to which you hesitated for only a second and nodded.
"Go ahead, then. But I'm putting you on time out if you break anything again."
Fair enough.
Sukuna was only gone momentarily as he returned with a branch. Without skipping a beat, he carefully fashioned a makeshift handle with his black nails and handed it to you before you could even process what he had done. You blinked then shifted out of neutral, wrenching the old splintered handle out of the rake and replacing it.
Lo and behold, it was completely functional.
"Well, would you look at that," you chuckled in disbelief, inspecting the rake from all angles. Sukuna reached out, intending to take the rake from you so that he could try out raking again — but then he stopped.
"Show me."
You gawked up at Sukuna, evidently startled.
"What do you mean 'show me'?"
"How you wish for me to rake your garden," he lifted up all four of his eyes off of the ground to meet yours, clarifying what he meant. "I do not wish to make the same mistake as before."
A smile broke out on your face then before you pursed your lips, not wanting to annoy the man. You demonstrated, opening your fist then closing it gently around the rake handle. Sukuna watched attentively before you handed the tool back to him. Your fingers brushed against his — and he went very, very still.
"Ah, ah. Gently. You don't need to flex your hand so hard."
Your fingers carefully adjusted his, until you could no longer see the wood threatening to bend under his grip again. Somewhere under your conscious, you noticed how Sukuna's breathing had deepened, but you were more focused on the way he mimicked your prior movements with utmost care.
The rake held in his grip.
"There you go! I told you not everything needs brute force."
Sukuna regarded the rake with thinly-veiled interest and turned his nose up. "Control, little witch," he murmured softly, "is incredibly difficult."
"Yes, but you're learning. Within time, you'll be able to handle anything with utmost care."
An odd look passed over Sukuna's face at that. He seemed almost pleased at your praise. That was why he went back to raking in silence as you supervised. His biceps flexed and relaxed with each almost reverent pull of his arms over the leaves. Something akin to affection settled in your chest, to which you swept away much like Sukuna was doing with the leaves.
When he had finished, he carefully propped the rake against the wall of your hut and turned in your direction.
"Is this acceptable?"
You nodded, quite pleased with how it had all turned out. "Of course. You did a great job, Ryo."
At the nickname, something in Sukuna stirred. He felt as if he had a purpose once more, and the feeling was addicting. A thoughtful yet dark look passed over his eyes before he turned his head away and nodded. "Then I will remember for next time," he said quietly.
He really did — having been caught by you several times testing out his grip on various items in your home. And each time without fail, your pulse picked up at the sight.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Church bells.
The sound was wrong in Sukuna's head.
It started off quiet at first — just a simple, distant toll that echoed all the way until the sound weaved its way through the forest. It hit your hut, making your head perk up one lazy morning whilst Sukuna picked berries off a nearby shrub. You frowned, trying to put a finger on what could possibly be going on.
"You hear that, right?"
Of course he did. How could he not?
The second ring of the bell resonated back into Sukuna, the sound too sharp as it pressed against his skull and branded him in a way that made his vision spark out at the edges. Before he knew it, Sukuna was shaking — his body having reacted before his mind could.
The air around him grew hot, until sweat beaded at his temple and rolled off in slick streams.
The third toll of the bell would prove to be Sukuna's unravelling, the ground under his feet cracking with a dry, splintering sound. His muscles spasmed painfully — causing a low snarl to claw its way out of his throat before he could swallow it back.
"Sukuna—?"
You were visibly startled at what was going on, looking at the increasingly hateful look on the former angel's face. The bell tolled once more, striking through flesh and bone and reigniting old pain on the scars on his back.
As if heaven itself was reminding him of his cursed status once more.
Your face paled, reminded of the wards that were around your hut. The air seemed to hold its breath, reacting to the unholy presence Sukuna was bleeding out onto your land.
"Sukuna," you called out firmer this time. Despite your common sense screaming at you not to approach him, you did. "What is that? What— are you okay?"
Before you could blink, he turned to face you. For the duration of a heartbeat, you could see something feral in Sukuna's eyes — something that was ancient and powerful and most likely forged from the depths of hell itself.
"Do not dare come close to me."
You flinched — wondering what on earth had come over you.
And then the bells rang again, the realisation hitting you like a bucket of cold water. In between your wards and what was most likely wedding bells, Sukuna fought the innate urge to kneel — pummelled by the weight of reminder of exile once more.
Sukuna didn't look at you when he spoke once more, his words landing heavily between you. He didn't speak out of anger this time — but out of finality.
"I should not have stayed this long around you. The heavens have noticed, and you are not safe with me."
You opened your mouth to speak, blood rushing to your head as you tried making sense of Sukuna's sudden collapse. Then, he cut you off.
"I should not have stayed this long," he repeated, getting off of his knees with his shoulders squared. You stared after him, in utter disbelief as he walked towards the forest and let it swallow him whole. And whilst the bell kept ringing in the distance, a sickening feeling bubbled up in your gut — making you follow shortly after.
Perhaps your inability to think rationally was the sole reason why you were able to follow Sukuna. He had made incredible progress, light almost invisible the deeper you went. But the claw marks on the bark of the trees served as your guide as the bell chimed once more. The sound may have been muffled now, but it was no less potent — dragging out noises so visceral from Sukuna's chest.
"Sukuna?" You called out, frustrated grunts leaving you as you nearly tripped over a tangle of branches.
Not once did Sukuna stop.
He was in your line of sight now, which had to count as something. It was a marvel that he was still moving, all the way up until he reached a crater in the ground.
Sukuna then staggered in his step. You almost slipped in mud, yet pushed on.
The man dropped onto one knee, exhaling sharply and wincing like it hurt for him to do so. Sukuna's nails tore through the dirt, like it'd anchor him — but to no avail.
This happened all whilst the bells echoed over and over, but this time? Sukuna openly let his body shake as you came closer yet again.
"Do not—," he croaked, cursing your stubbornness. "I am warning you again. Do not come any closer if you value your life."
You did slow, yes. But did you stop?
No.
"You can't even stand, Ryo," you stammered, trying your hardest to keep your voice steady. As always, Sukuna shook his head, attempting to hide his evident weakness.
"And since when has that ever been your concern?"
"Since you landed in front of my hut all those moons ago," you vented, throwing your hands up in the air. How ridiculous.
Another toll interrupted you, causing Sukuna to grind his teeth down until something in his jaw cracked. All four arms braced against the forest floor, back bowing almost violently. It hurt to watch.
"You do not understand. You will never understand," Sukuna snarled, teeth digging into his tongue. His anguish was evident, rendering you speechless in its intensity. "This-this darned sound. It kills me."
"So let it. I'll figure out the rest."
Your words, incredibly foolish, got his attention. He looked up, red eyes bloodshot as disbelief crossed the pained lines on his face.
"Stupid witch. You are nothing short of reckless."
"I know, but I'd rather you let me try something instead of trying to deal with it all alone."
Ring.
Whatever little control Sukuna had left had vanished into nothingness — causing his entire body to give out. You were positive he could hear your heart beating erratically in your chest as you cursed and tried dragging him to a nearby tree. It didn't work — Sukuna's body was nothing short of dead weight.
"Fuck—," you gritted out, choosing the second best option. You propped him up against you, letting him slump against your front — his forehead on your shoulder. A low sound left Sukuna then — broken and agonised.
"Sukuna," you whispered, not exactly expecting a response.
He didn't.
Without hesitation, you gently pressed your warm palms over Sukuna's ears after ridding them of any mud. He stiffened in your hold as you both sat there in the forest, taking in the way the sound of the bell dulled considerably — enough to give him some relief. What once was laboured breathing that rattled him to the core, turned into something uneven yet steady at long last.
"We can just stay here until the bell stops," you murmured, eyes honed in on Sukuna. For a long, heavy minute, he didn't move.
But then more of his weight shifted onto you. You grunted, deciding to just let him be. You didn't know how much time had passed, but when you finally were able to remove your hands?
Sukuna didn't move.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Days passed.
Sukuna was okay again, but there was one thing nagging in his mind. He brought it up one evening as you tapped away at one of the loose floorboards with a hammer.
"You have removed the wards," he mentioned casually.
. . .
"Yeah, of course," you said without looking up. The hammer continued to strike the nail, digging it further in place as Sukuna watched intently.
"And you did so knowing of what I'm capable of. What other dangers linger outside of your door."
Sukuna was right — by removing those very wards that had kept you safe for so long, you were inviting all sorts of dangers in. But none of that seemed to matter. Not anymore.
"Well, they hurt you," you shrugged, setting the hammer down once you were done. "I didn't want to keep something like that around."
Sukuna's eyes dropped to your hands, the same ones that took care of him without hesitation, without expecting anything back in return.
"You touched me back then," he continued. "I explicitly told you not to come near me, yet you did anyway."
You gnawed on your lower lip, shaking your head. Did he seriously expect you to just leave him there?
"You were in pain. What else did you want me to do?"
"That is no excuse, little witch," Sukuna pressed on — but there wasn't any ounce of hostility in his voice. "I do not recall you asking for permission to touch me like that."
That got you to stand up and truly look at Sukuna in the eyes. "And if I did ask for permission that day, would you have said no to me?"
He didn't answer, not right away. The river outside seemed to grow louder, overtaking the silence as you waited for a response. And a response he gave, even if it was far from what you had expected him to say.
"No. Not at all."
The words settled over you both, solidifying whatever odd bond was between you.
"Then don't expect an apology from me," you grinned slightly. Sukuna only stared back, a fond look crossing his face. "You won't get one."
"I cannot help but question why you are not afraid."
"I was, actually," you corrected gently. "But that wasn't enough for me to leave you in that state."
"And so you stayed." Sukuna's voice dropped into a quiet murmur. "You covered my ears in that forest when you could have simply left me, and you stayed."
"Of course I did, and I'd do it again. You needed someone back there, Ryo."
Silence.
"And what about now, little witch?"
A dangerously loaded question indeed, but you were not one to shy away from anything that much was clear.
"I'm still here, aren't I?"
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"I find myself liking your touch more than I should. Why is that?" Sukuna teased one evening. You were sitting with him, legs against his as you stitched up a tear in his pants. You didn't want to answer that — solely because you didn't trust your mouth to say anything rational.
Sukuna let out a whistle of air through his noise out of amusement. "Your silence says more than any words you give me the pleasure of hearing."
"Can you just go back to disliking idle chatter? You talk too much," you huffed, tugging the needle through the fabric and ignoring the heat flooding onto your face.
"Ah, but look who remains seated by my side," Sukuna remarked coyly. He shifted ever so slightly, causing your thigh to rest against his bulky one.
It's just an accident, that's all, you told yourself — but neither of you corrected your direct physical contact. You pulled the thread a tad too strongly, movements faltering because of him. You cursed, adjusting your grip on the needle.
"Careful," Sukuna warned. "You will end up hurting yourself."
"Well, then stop distracting me," you scoffed, shooting a half-hearted glare his way.
"Oh? Am I distracting you?" Sukuna tilted his head to look down at you, all four of his eyes studying you with an intensity that made your stomach twist almost pleasurably. "I am simply sitting still. You are the one shaking, little witch."
"Excuse me? I am not shaking—"
"You most definitely are shaking."
You exhaled shakily, finishing off the last stitch before packing your needle and thread way in the cookie tin you kept them in. "You should stop staring at me like that, then."
"Like how?"
"Like you're a pervert who's about to touch me."
That elicited a throaty chuckle from the former angel next to you, which was the happiest he's ever sounded. "I would not have called it perverse. I thought I was becoming rather acquainted with what you humans call 'intimacy'."
Sukuna's words had your pulse quickening almost drastically. It was difficult to navigate this entire situation with a being as unstable as him, but the thrill was like no other. You dared to glance his way, eyes meeting red.
"Since when did you care about intimacy?"
"Since I met you."
Sukuna leaned back, one arm thrown over the back of your patchwork couch behind you. You willed your mouth to move, finding that it had suddenly run dry. "You sound almost sincere, y'know. I could almost believe that you're not joking."
"When have I ever been one to crack jokes like this around you?"
In your silence, Sukuna pressed on.
"I crave your touch more than I have ever craved the validation of the so-called God that cast me aside like nothing. You quietened the burn in me, little witch, and I find myself reluctant to be anywhere but here."
When you refused to look at him, Sukuna had to take matters into his own hands. He had spent many nights contemplating your dynamic, knowing that you were just what he needed to tether himself to earth. Yes, it was selfish, but Sukuna was also a risk taker — and he'd do anything to prove himself worthy of your affection.
With that, Sukuna removed himself off of his couch and kneeled between your legs. You spluttered, accidentally kicking out of shock. This prompted him to gently grab your foot with a practised softness, two of his four hands kneading at your calf. "You can't possibly be serious—"
"I am. And I intend on showing you my devotion."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Sukuna stayed true to his word.
Curiosity won over, melting with the innate urge to love you the way he deemed fit. Of course there was a more romantic way to go about it, but having his mouth on your cunt was heavenly — pardon my language.
He stayed on his knees as if he was in worship, hands having settled on your waist after dragging you off the very edge of your couch. The springs groaned, inaudible as Sukuna's mouth latched onto your pussy after spreading your lips open with two thick thumbs. His tongue was nothing short of thorough, exploring each and every fold despite inexperience rendering his movements sloppy.
But that was how you liked it — it was raw, sincere. You cried out, one hand bullying its way into Sukuna's hair and tugging as his lips found your clit. "So eager for me already. I must be doing something right."
And he was — languidly sucking your clit into his mouth and grazing it with his sharp teeth. "Oh, God," you keened out, back arching off the couch. Your whines melted into a sharp squeal when Sukuna slapped the side of your thigh.
"Language."
"My bad— ahhh," you choked out, feeling one thick finger slide deep into your cunt. It appeared that Sukuna's nails had retracted, leaving you to writhe and clench around his digits as they explored your gummy walls.
Sukuna hadn't felt a heat like this before, and quite frankly — he was addicted. He was inexperienced when it came to the subject of sex, but gazing down on humanity for as long as he used to had given him enough of an idea of what to do.
Sukuna stood up, hands now gripping your ass as he folded you in half and plunged his tongue in. He loomed over, drinking each and every drop of moisture your pussy had to give him. Your legs twitched, hooking over his shoulders and around his neck to lock him in place. The fallen angel couldn't breathe — but he had never felt so alive in his cursed existence.
"Th-that's so filthy Ryo . . ."
Your voice cracked at the nickname, eyes lidded at the way he parted from you with a wet pwah. Sukuna had pulled back enough, revealing his wet, tattooed chin and glossy strands of your slick connecting his face to your mound.
"Filthy," he mocked, licking a fat stripe up the expanse of your aching pussy. "I am worshipping you, my dear witch — and not even the heavens above can drag me away from you."
He was serious, too, drawing out shrill cries that sounded more divine than any choir he had ever heard. Sukuna was dead set on drawing one orgasm out of you with his tongue first before even beginning to think about his own stirring of his loins.
And that he did — curling his tongue deep within as your first orgasm washed over you. It was so incredibly hot, the way the sensation seemed to clutch at your womb before spreading throughout the rest of your body. Sukuna's mouth didn't stop, not until you were sobbing out weakly from overstimulation. It was only then he set you back down on the couch, casting his eyes down on the prominent tent both cocks had formed.
You noticed too — mustering up enough energy to sit up and tug at the drawstrings.
"Come here," you rasped. "Please."
Sukuna swallowed, nodding as the feeling of instability cascaded over him for the first time in weeks. But when he lowered himself down once more, forehead against yours as he freed both cocks — he felt anchored to you once more. His lips found yours, slow but steady in its movement, and you kissed back.
The sound of your lips on his, smacking and tugging eagerly filled the room, accompanied by a surprised yet pleased moan at the way you could taste yourself on his tongue. "You're shaking, Ryo."
"I know, I know," Sukuna whispered, drawing your lower lip into his mouth. "You have that effect on me, my dear."
His kisses resumed, all whilst a hand tangled in your hair before settling around your throat like a rosary. Sukuna didn't squeeze — he simply let his hand stay there, feeling the way your pulse felt so alive under his hand. He revelled in the way that he was the one making you feel like this.
When he finally pulled off of you with a final kiss to your temple, Sukuna's weeping tip smooched the entrance of where he so desperately wanted to be inside of. It caught against the rim of your hole, popping in ever so slightly before he backed off. It was too much for the man, his hips beginning to move on their own.
"You want this, right? Please tell me you do," he begged through gritted teeth. You clenched around Sukuna, trying your hardest to suck him back into your warmth.
"If you do not fuck me right now, I swear—"
Again, that was all the confirmation Sukuna needed. He only needed to use one cock, the upper one having been jerked off by one of his free hands.
A brief panic flooded you when he pushed in, pussy convulsing as you tried adjusting to his inhuman size. But you could handle it — Sukuna knew you could as his fourth hand travelled down to grope at a breast. He rolled a taut nipple under his palm while you clawed at his bare forearms, relishing in the mild pain before his fingers found your clit. The relief that flooded him was almost unbearable as your mild discomfort ebbed away into growing pleasure.
That was when Sukuna finally let go.
His name left your mouth half garbled as he bottomed out into you, your pussy stretching in ways it never had before.
"F-fuck, Ryo—"
Sukuna had to still, the two of you panting in near unison as you processed the feeling of his blunt head almost kissing against your cervix. Each plump vein adorning his cock had you fluttering around Sukuna, making him drop down and press his forehead to yours once more. His breathing came out ragged, four eyes having squeezed shut as he processed the feeling of being inside someone for the first time.
"You are so-so warm," he uttered. "You feel so alive."
You didn't have a chance to respond, hips bucking as Sukuna withdrew his hips. The dragging pull out of you felt like an eternity before he fucked back inside — making you feel each aching inch that he reserved for you alone. Sukuna watched the way your pussy clung onto him, etching the way it sucked him back into his memory.
Then, he saw the way your eyes threatened to shut on him, a blissed-out look crossing your face as his thrusts grew in tempo. Sukuna rolled your clit between his fingers, making you gasp sharply and come back to reality.
"Eyes on me," he drawled, hips not stopping for even a second. "I want to be the one you look at when— fuck, I make you fall apart on my cock."
You don't know where he had learned to talk like that, but it wasn't like you minded. After all, Sukuna had noticed you get increasingly more wet, making the glide all that more delicious as he rutted into you. The slick sounds of skin meeting skin filled the hut, obscene in all its glory. It felt primal, and Sukuna had truly never felt better.
At one point, Sukuna had lost himself so deep within the throes of pleasure, and his mouth had started to run. "Tell me, I need to hear it," he asked greedily, desperately. "Would you damn yourself for this? For me?"
A laugh left you, shaky and delirious as you nodded. "Yesyesyes, mmh. D-don't stop please," you gasped out, clutching onto Sukuna like he was your lifeline. "Heaven is right here with me, Ryo—"
That was all it took for Sukuna's entire pace to change. He fucked you like a man possessed, driven by the carnal need to mould your pussy to the shape of his thrusts. His upper cock leaked profusely, smearing the bulge in your belly with pearly white.
Heaven, heaven, absolute. Fucking. Heaven.
You had spoken the truth — it was right there with you both. Sukuna buried his flushed face in the crook of your neck, biting down with as much restraint as he could manage and littering your neck with a scattering of marks. "My salvation."
One hand splayed over your stomach, pressing down as you cried out for the nth time. Orgasms had bled into each other, until your nails had raked down the healed scars on Sukuna's back. It was that sensation alone that elicited a full body shudder from the former angel.
A warmth filled you up from the inside, your vision blacking out as you came alongside Sukuna. He stayed buried deep, having slotted his lips against yours but not moving. You were cocooned within his safe arms, your head cradled in one of his hands. You both twitched against each other, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm and taking in the way Sukuna's cock continued to leak steady roped of cum.
Neither of you moved right away either. Sukuna stayed where he was, half kneeling and half slumped over you.
Then he slid out of you, gently hushing you when you grimaced at the floods of cum that seeped out of your hole and leaked into the couch. Well, it was due time for it to be replaced anyway.
Despite having pulled out, Sukuna didn't stray too far away from you — taking a long moment to catch his breath with you seated firmly on his lap. Aftercare was a concept foreign to him, but he'd figure something out — somehow.
"You're very . . . quiet right now," you mumbled hoarsely, prodding fun at the man.
He did that thing again instead of laughing outright — exhaling through his nostrils in fond amusement. "I am listening to your heartbeat, my dear witch. Do not interrupt me now."
You grabbed one of his hands, placing it atop of your bare chest and letting him feel your pulse properly.
"Like this," you coaxed, looking up at him. The river outside continued to ebb and flow, the water curling against the riverbank the way your fingers did around Sukuna's tattooed wrist. He closed his eyes and hummed, relishing in calm after the storm.
For the very first time since his fall, Sukuna felt no pain in the silence that followed.
tags 18+ minors dni !! very self indulgent hehe … i’m so soft for him y’all don’t understand 🥹
his lips are cold at first. always cold, like he’s been pressing his mouth to the rim of a glass full of ice just to feel something. you’ve learned to expect it but it still makes you gasp every time, that first shock of chill against your warm mouth, and he loves it. you can feel him smile into the kiss, that infuriating curve of his lips that says got you.
he doesn’t rush. satoru gojo could move faster than light if he wanted to but he kisses you like the world outside doesn’t exist. his hands find your face first, always. long fingers spanning your jaw, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones in slow hypnotic circles. he tilts your head to the side and deepens the kiss, easing you into it, letting you feel every second of it. his bottom lip slots between yours and he just rests there for a moment, breathing you in.
then his tongue traces the seam of your lips, asking, always asking even though he knows the answer will be yes. you open for him and he hums into your mouth, pleased and low, the vibration traveling straight down your spine. he tastes like sugar and something sharper underneath, like the candy he definitely stole from your stash and the mint gum he chewed to cover it up. his tongue curls against yours lazy and thorough, exploring, and his teeth graze your bottom lip just hard enough to make your breath catch. he soothes it immediately with a soft sucking kiss that leaves your lip slick and tingling.
his mouth wanders. it’s a problem, actually, because he can’t stay in one place for long. he pulls back from your lips and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then the bow of your upper lip, then the tiny crease where your smile would be if you weren’t so breathless. he kisses the tip of your nose, your cupid’s bow, your cheek. by the time he’s finished mapping your face your eyes are closed and your lips are parted.
he kisses your closed eyelids, left then right, feather-light. his lips brush your lashes and you feel them flutter against his mouth. he exhales a laugh and the air ghosts warm over your skin.
then he’s at your jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses down to your chin, then up the other side. he finds the spot just beneath your ear and latches on, sucking gently, not enough to leave a mark but enough to make your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt. he kisses the shell of your ear, the delicate skin behind it, the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. he breathes there, nose pressed to your skin. “you’re so warm,” he says, “smell so good.”
he kisses your throat. your collarbones. the hollow at the base of your neck where he can feel your heartbeat rabbiting against his mouth. he stays there for a long moment, just feeling it, and when he pulls back his eyes are dark and half-lidded and his lips are pink and kiss bitten and wet.
he kisses you on the mouth again, harder this time, less controlled. his composure slips and his hands drop from your face to your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him. he kisses you like he’s starving, like the taste of you is the only thing that keeps him human. his tongue slides against yours and his teeth click against yours because he’s smiling again, he’s always smiling, even now. especially now.
his hands roam. up your sides, down your back, fingers splaying wide like he’s trying to touch all of you at once. they settle on your lower back and he presses you closer, impossibly closer, and he’s so warm now, all that cold burned away by the heat between you. he kisses the corner of your mouth again, your chin, the tip of your nose. a quick peck to your forehead. your left cheek. your right cheek. back to your lips.
he pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, and you can feel his lashes brush your brow.
“hey.” he says, voice wrecked.
“hey.” you breathe back.
he kisses the bridge of your nose. “you’re my favorite.”
you roll your eyes but you’re smiling, he can feel it.
summary ⸺ satoru begs you to attend a meeting with the higher-ups, but not for the reasons you thought. inspired by this art by @/baobei-bu!
warnings ⸺ SMUT, gojo is a warning by himself, VERY public sex, reader has a vagina, fem reader implied, no penetration, fingering, fondling, making out, panty-ripping, exhibitionism, kinda cucking but the only ppl humiliated and humbled are the higher ups, porn no plot, but plot if you squint, reader is a strong independent woman (until gojo charms her, bc who wouldn't turn into a cockslut for gojo?), this took me at least five hours to write for no good reason?, not edited (like always....)
a/n pls enjoy and thank u to the queen for making such delicious art (p.s. go to their twitter for nsfw ver i squirted)
general masterlist
“Pleaseeeee,” Satoru has his face buried in your chest, nuzzling in further while complaining. It’s almost comical how he—head of the biggest clan in Jujutsu—is leaning down to match your height. You, meanwhile, stand firm, arms crossed, regarding him with a mix of exasperation and reluctant affection as he leans down to meet your gaze. “Will you come with me?”
The question comes as the dreaded meeting with the higher-ups looms, a gathering he's been dodging all day. It technically began ten minutes ago, and you barely managed to wrangle him into his formal kimono just twenty minutes earlier. You sigh, fingers brushing his hair. “Satoru, you know what they think of me. I'm not exactly their favorite person.” You’re both standing in the middle of your shared bedroom, you imploring him to be on time for his meeting to avoid getting even further shit from the higher-ups.
Mind you, you’re the more rational one between you and Satoru—in fact, most of the people who know you would agree that you’re a very mature, wise person in general (with the exception of some circumstances, of course). And despite the respect your skill commands, the higher-ups have never warmed to you, not since you refused to play a pawn in their games. Marrying Satoru, the one jujutsu sorcerer they could never control, only amplified their discontent. They see you both as threats—powerful sorcerers bonded in defiance.
At the mention of "higher-ups," Satoru's pout deepens, and his pleading voice grows more insistent. “Pleeeease,” he drags out, practically whining. “I have separation anxiety.”
You feel a pang of sympathy. These meetings are miserable for him—hours trapped in a room with men twice his age, trying to dictate his every move. “I don’t know, Satoru…” you murmur, hesitating.
But Satoru takes advantage of your softening resolve, hugging you tighter, his face pressing into you again. “Don’t make me go in there alone!” he says, his voice muffled. “You have no idea how much you silence them. One word from you, and they all think twice. I’m already one step away from wanting to kill them all.”
A sigh escapes you as you realize he’s not letting up. And while you’re reluctant, you know that your presence, your opinion—one of the few he truly values—might actually give him a sense of calm in that harsh room. “Alright, alright,” you concede finally, hand smoothing the fabric of his sleeve. "But no making a scene."
His answering smirk is smug, giving you a fat, sloppy kiss on your cheek that you’re not afraid to show your partial-disgust about. You all but have to wrestle him off of you white he’s smothering you in kisses, getting out something about how much loves you, oh so thankful to have such a wise wifey like you as you get ready in a kimono similar to his and head to the limo waiting outside of the manor you and Gojo reside in.
As soon as you get in, Gojo turns sharply to Ijichi, who’s shifting the gear. “Put the divider up.”
“O-Okay, Gojo-san.” A little intimidated by the commanding tone in your husband’s voice, he quickly presses the button to activate the screen, and Gojo pounces on you, grabbing you and hoisting you up by your sides to put you on his lap.
“Satoru!” you exclaim, surprised as he captures his lips with yours. His hands roam your body as he moans, almost obnoxiously, because he knows you’re always paranoid whenever he initiates anything in public. Your crotch aligns with his thigh, big and stuffed with muscle as he drives your hips to grind on him, and despite yourself and your circumstances, you find yourself leaning into his touch.
“My pretty wife,” he purrs, now trailing kisses down your jaw and into your neck. “So pretty, so supportive.”
Despite his dizzying movements, you try to get a hold of yourself. “Satoru, we shouldn’t be doing this here. We need to discuss what to sa—”
“Fuck that,” he sighs, so breathless that you want to cave in.
“No, but—”
His eyes darken, and his hands start creeping up your legs, going slowly and slowly closer to your pussy. “Baby, you know I value what you have to say,” and his fingers graze your folds, making you leak even more with his teasing, “but I wanna listen to something else.”
He drags his index finger up and down your slit, making you whimper. His fingers then prod into your hole, putting pressure there but not quite delving in. “Satoru,” you whine out, clutching his upper arms as he has his way while toying with you.
“Yea, that’s what I wanna hear,” he groans, giving you a kiss. It is then that he rewards you with inserting his digit in, curling to hit your spot as he fingers you. HIs other arm is around you, holding your panties’ crotch to the side to allow him to touch you. “My good girl.”
As he’s touching you, the squelching sounds fills the enclosure you’re in and you’re desperately praying to God Ijichi can’t hear the lewd things the both of you are doing in the back. You’re just reduced to whimpering, unable to reject Satoru’s dizzying touches, his free hand leaving your panties to grope at your inner thighs, ass, and breasts. It’s like he’s devouring you with his kisses, urgent, as he continues curling his fingers.
Between kisses, you try to get out a “Satoru—mmph,” smooch, “we shouldn’t be—mm” smooch, “shouldn’t be doing this here!”
“What,” he drawls, and with the glint in his eyes you know the fucker’s trying to toy with you, knows what he’s doing is mischievous. “I can’t touch my wife?”
Before you could utter a response, however, the limo suddenly slows, and the sensation of using the brakes to stop the car makes you sober up. “We’re here, Satoru we need to go—-” As you’re trying to rip yourself off his lap, he pulls out the finger that was inside you and uses his hand instead to entangle it with the crotch of your panties, pulling and pulling until the cloth is nothing but shreds, falling off your body.
Oh my god, you were not paid enough for this shit.
With his oh-so-irritating eyes—the same ones that you spent despising in your early school years—he looks at you through his pretty white lashes as he makes a show of sniffing the now tattered shreds that were your panties and putting them in his pocket. Under your kimono, you can feel your slick escaping your panties as the cool air wafts through it, landing on your pussy. You look at him in disbelief. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
He giggles, giving you a kiss on the cheek while helping you off his lap, putting a hand on your head to make sure you didn’t bump your head against the car’s ceiling. “Let’s go and deal with those hags, my love.”
To be honest, you don’t really understand why Satoru is so handsy today. He’s on some sort of man-ovulation, you think, as you stride into the room. Even ripping off your panties was a bit excessive, if not out of pocket (no pun intended). Breaking out of your thoughts, you grounded yourself in the present, noticing hostile eyes turned towards your husband, and then you. You match their barely-subtle glares with a stink eye of your own, holding your chin up as you walk past them dismissively. Just as you’re about to take a seat next to Gojo—being mindful of your kimono so you don’t flash any of these old bastards—one of them speaks up.
“Gojo-sama, why is this woman here?”
You continue to take your seat, noticing Satoru’s jaw clenched. But right as he’s about to say something, you cut in for him. “This woman,” and you smile, deceptively sweet, “is the lady of the clan. It would do you well to remember the hierarchy of the Gojo clan.” You don’t need to turn to look at your husband to know he has a proud smile on his face, making no effort to hide his smugness. What shocks you instead is that he swings an arm around you, effectively dragging you closer to him until you’re basically sitting on his lap, and his hands go to roam your sides.
Now, some old grandpa starts talking, commencing the meeting, on their usual bullshit of the need for extermination of Sukuna’s vessel, but Satoru pays them no mind. Instead, what they receive in response is non-committal hums as his hands drag themselves up your stomach and down where your legs are crossed to the hem of your kimono, and then under.
Any semblance of paying attention to the meeting and responding to their infuriating beliefs leaves your mind as you blank out, panicking that Satoru is trying to commit public indecency with you. As an argument erupts between the higher ups about something, you turn to Gojo to furiously whisper, “What is wrong with you today?! Cut it out.”
In your life, you’ve fought many curses, first grade and even special grade included as you climbed up the ranks of Jujutsu sorcery despite having a non-sorcerer upbringing. What you will never be able to defeat, however, is your husband’s charm. Satoru knows what he’s doing as he lets out a deep moan in your ear, making you squeak and become even more flustered, as he continues to make lewd noises, puffs of his breath fanning across your neck.
a/n gojo the type to start moaning randomly to make you fold #sorrynotsorry
The indecency of all of it—-Gojo basically whimpering in your ear sweet nothings like good girl, that’s my wife, gonna let me finger you in front of all these ugly hags, right?—-being loud in your ear but also just quiet enough that you’d only hear made you so wet, heat throbbing between your thighs as Satoru’s hands start rubbing your fold. It’s a teasing touch, one not enough to satisfy you but to stimulate you nonetheless.
It’s just when his index finger starts slowly circling around your clit that you buck your hips slightly, making him look at you teasingly, peering down at you from above your shoulder. “Oh you liked that, didn’t you?”
“I hate you,” you puff out, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck as Satoru’s circles on your clit get more tangibly, simulating you oh so deliciously. To make sure you hold yourself up, you set your elbows down on the table, Satoru’s arms engulfing you as you’re forced to take whatever touches he’s giving you under the table.
“She’s so loud,” he whispers, pointing out the noises your pussy was making as his digits roved over your folds. The squelches were tangibly there, audible to anyone who would strain their ears. You could tell your lack of response to the meeting was catching attention, because there were several eyes towards you, waiting for something; it was then you realized that they had posed a question but were simply too fucked out to respond.
A voice comes out to reprimand your husband sharply. “Gojo-sama, this is hardly appropriate.”
Satoru chuckles, not stopping his ministrations as he picks up a cup filled with water, his smug gaze still turned towards you while observing and appreciating your every hiccup and reaction. “Can’t my spouse attend this meeting? I value her opinion above everyone else’s in this room, after all,” he drawls, lodging his chin in the curve of your neck. “Besides,” and he flashes a dangerous grin to the man who spoke out, “weren’t you the ones who were oh so worried about me not having an heir?”
At this point, you’ve filtered out all noises, focusing and honing in on the sensation of your orgasm coming. His digits are playful, curling up to hit your g-spot repeatedly, his palm tickling your clit. Each time he hits your spongy spot a bout of electricity runs up your body, pulling you closer and closer to your orgasm.
“But guess what,” and he gives you a kiss on the cheek, despite the aversion the rest of the higher ups have to any displays of affection, “we can solve that problem right here, right now.” He punctuates it with a harsh sink of his fingers into your plush cunt, and, with that, you finally cream his fingers, a result of Satoru teasing you all day now. You try to temper the shakes wracking your body by slamming your fist against the table, trying not to moan out.
It seems that no one’s seen you riding out your orgasm out so visible, because there are gasps around the room at how obscene Gojo’s suggestion was. “It is shameful of you to be saying such things, Gojo-sama!” one of them sputters out, red with anger and outrage.
Your husband not so subtly rolls his eyes. “Then don’t bring it up all the time, old man.” Satoru knows how touchy and vulnerable you are right after you cum, so he’s running his hands softly up and down your thighs to quell your quivers affectionately. “Actually, what about this? You all haven’t witnessed us consummate our marriage, correct?” He smirks. “What about witnessing the heir-making next time?”
general masterlist
a/n pls see the vision like i want gojo to claim me and rail me into next tuesday while the higher ups just watch uncomfortably like maybe i am a freak like that. like gojo would be so obsessed with how he's claiming you in front of the fuckers that piss him off so much...might do a part two if pookiesa like this :P
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ sukuna spends six months confessing his love through flowers and their hidden meanings, only to realize you’d kept every single one without ever knowing why he gave them to you.
✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, college!au, nerd flower!sukuna, yearning, acts of service as love language, friends to lovers, idiots in love, a lots of flower symbolism / hanakotoba, hand holding, kiss, sukuna is blushing!!, secretly romantic sukuna.
the campus greenhouse had always been sukuna's favorite place, which was something most people wouldn't expect if they only knew him from his reputation.
people only saw the sharp jawline, the permanent furrow between sukuna’s brows, the way his broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than any one person deserved. they heard his dry humor, his quick wit, the way he could cut someone down with nothing more than a glance and a few carefully chosen words. they didn't see him here, elbows braced against a worn wooden table, fingers gently tracing the petal of a peony like he was handling something sacred.
you watched him from across the table, chin propped in your palm, half-listening to the lecture he'd launched into about fifteen minutes ago; something about victorian flower language, about the way people used to say things they couldn't speak aloud through carefully arranged bouquets.
sukuna’s voice was lower than usual here, way softer, as if the greenhouse demanded a certain reverence that even ryomen sukuna couldn't ignore.
"—and the thing is," sukuna said, gesturing with the hand that wasn't currently cradling a potted orchid. "people think it's all just romantic bullshit, but it's not. it's practical, really. a way of communicating when the words won't come out right."
sukuna’s tattoos shifted when he moved, those dark lines that crawled up his forearms and disappeared beneath his sleeves. you'd always liked that about sukuna; the way the boy never bothered to hide them even when professors gave him pointed looks on the first day of classes.
he was all sharp edges and hard lines, but then he'd show up at your apartment with a sprig of lavender tucked behind his ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"you're not listening," sukuna said, but there was no accusation in it, just a statement of fact, accompanied by the faintest quirk of his lips.
"i am," you lied, sitting up straighter. "you were talking about... flowers saying things."
his eyes narrowed, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
"i was talking about specific meanings. symbolic language. there's a difference."
sukuna set down the orchid and reached for another pot, something small with delicate white blooms that you didn't recognize. his fingers were careful, deliberate, the same way they were when he rolled a cigarette or tied his shoelaces or did anything that required even the slightest bit of precision.
it was hard to reconcile this version of sukuna with the one who'd shoved his way through a crowd last week just to get to the front of the coffee shop line, all elbows and impatience and barely concealed irritation.
"this one," sukuna said, holding the pot up so you could see. "is stephanotis. it means marital happiness, but also a willingness to be led. which is stupid, honestly, because why the hell would anyone want to be led anywhere? but the victorians were weird about a lot of things."
you laughed, and something in his expression softened just enough that you almost missed it.
sukuna had been leaving you flowers for months now.
not in a romantic way, or at least you'd assumed it wasn't romantic because this was sukuna, and sukuna didn't do romance. he did late-night study sessions that turned into ordering pizza at two in the morning. he did stealing your clothes and pretending he hadn't noticed they were yours. he did showing up at your door with a single yellow tulip tucked behind his ear and then plucking it out to hand to you like it was nothing, like he hadn't just walked across campus with a flower in his hair and dared anyone to say something about it.
you'd kept all of them, pressed between the pages of textbooks you never opened anymore, tucked into the frame of your bathroom mirror, dried and hanging from string tacked to your bedroom wall. there was something about the way he gave them to you; casual and offhand, like he'd just happened to find them and thought of you.
but sukuna never said why, he never explained the meaning behind any of them.
well, until now.
"so then you've got your roses, obviously," sukuna continued, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
the movement pulled his t-shirt taut across his shoulders, and you looked away before he could catch you staring.
"red for love, white for purity, yellow for friendship. but that's way too simple. anyone knows that. the real interesting stuff is the obscure ones."
the afternoon light filtered through the greenhouse glass, casting everything in a warm, golden, and beautiful haze. dust motes drifted between the two of you, slow and lazy, and a bee hummed somewhere in the corner, drunk on something sweet and pink that you couldn't name.
sukuna's voice washed over you like honey, and you found yourself sinking into it despite your best efforts to stay alert.
"like gardenias," he said, and your heart did something strange in your chest because he'd given you gardenias. three weeks ago, tucked into a mason jar on your desk after a particularly brutal exam week. you'd thought they were just pretty. "they mean secret love. the kind that can't be spoken aloud. which is dramatic as hell, but victorians loved drama almost as much as they loved repressed emotions."
he said it like a joke, like he was mocking the very concept, but his fingers had gone still on the table with no fidgeting, no gesturing; just stillness, and the way his gaze darted away from yours for a fraction of a second before snapping back.
you thought about the gardenias, pressed between pages 87 and 88 of your ancient history textbook, still faintly fragrant when you opened them.
"and peonies," sukuna went on, reaching for the plant he'd been touching earlier. "they've got a few meanings. shame, anger, but also romance and prosperity. it depends on the context, really. the victorians loved context, too."
a little pause.
"mostly, though, they symbolize a happy marriage. or a wish for one, anyway."
sukuna had given you peonies on your birthday. a whole bouquet of them, pink and lush and ridiculous, shoved into your arms with a gruff 'happy birthday, idiot' before he'd disappeared into the kitchen to make you dinner. you'd cried a little, though you'd blamed it on allergies.
your throat felt tight now, but you weren't sure why.
"basil is hatred," sukuna said, ticking off on his fingers now, counting down some internal list. "which is funny because it's also a cooking herb, so who knows what that says about italian grandmothers. ivy means fidelity. rosemary is remembrance. lavender is devotion, but also distrust, because again, context matters."
lavender. he'd left a sprig of lavender on your pillow last month after you'd fallen asleep on his couch.
you'd woken up to the smell of it, and to sukuna making coffee in the kitchen, humming something tuneless under his breath. you'd kept it tucked behind your ear for the rest of the day, and he'd looked at you differently after that; softer, maybe. or maybe you'd imagined it.
"what about camellias?" you asked, and sukuna’s hand paused mid-gesture.
your voice sounded strange to your own ears, thin in a way that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with the way your heart was suddenly trying to escape your ribcage. because he'd given you camellias too. pink ones, tied with a bit of twine, left in your backpack after a study session two months ago. you'd found them while looking for a pen and spent the rest of the night trying not to overthink it.
sukuna's jaw tightened for just a fraction, just for a second, but you saw it because you were looking, because you were always looking, even when you told yourself not to.
"camellias," sukuna repeated, and the word came out rougher than the others. he cleared his throat. "they mean... longing. desire, mostly. but specifically the kind that's acknowledged and accepted. not secret like gardenias, not hopeful like peonies. just... wanted."
the silence that followed was heavy and thick with something unspoken. a bee buzzed, a leaf drifted down from one of the hanging plants, landing softly on the table between the two of you like a tiny green question mark.
you thought about all of it.
the tulips and the lavender, the gardenias and the peonies, the camellias and the stephanotis sukuna had given you just last week, white and fragile and tucked into your coat pocket. you thought about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the way he always, always made sure you ate even when you forgot, even when you were too tired or too stressed or too something to take care of yourself.
you thought about the yellow tulips he'd given you first, and what he'd just said about them meaning friendship, and how maybe that had been the beginning. maybe sukuna had started there on purpose, testing the waters, seeing if you'd accept something small and simple before moving on to gardenias and secrets and things left unsaid.
"why are you telling me this?" you asked, and your voice barely trembled at all.
sukuna's eyes met yours, and for once, there was nothing sharp in them. there was no challenge, no defense, no carefully constructed walls. there was just him, just ryomen sukuna, the biggest flower nerd you'd ever met with his flower meanings and his pressed specimens and his soft spot for things that grew from the dirt.
"because," sukuna said, and his ears were turning pink, actually pink, the color creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. "i've been leaving you flowers for six months, and you haven't said a single word about it. and i thought maybe you didn't know what they meant, and i couldn't decide if that was better or worse than you knowing and not saying anything anyway."
sukuna's hands were shaking slightly.
you'd never seen sukuna's hands shake before, not once in all the years you'd known him. he was always so steady, so sure, so infuriatingly composed, but now, his fingers were curled into loose fists on the table, and the faint tremor in them made something ache behind your sternum.
"so which is it?" sukuna asked, and his voice cracked on the last word. just a little. just enough. "did you know?"
you thought about the gardenias pressed in your textbook, the lavender behind your ear, the peonies on your birthday, the camellias in your backpack. you thought about the way you'd told yourself it didn't mean anything at all, that sukuna wasn't capable of meaning anything, that this was just something the boy did because he was strange like that and unpredictable and full of contradictions.
you thought about how badly you'd wanted to be wrong.
"i didn't know," you said, and something in sukuna's expression flickered, dimmed.
you reached across the table before he could pull away, before sukuna could retreat back behind whatever wall he was scrambling to rebuild. your fingers brushed his knuckles softly, and he went very, very still.
"i didn't know the meanings. but i kept all of them. every single one. they're in my apartment, sukuna. pressed into my textbooks and taped to my walls and stuffed into my jewelry box. i've been sleeping with lavender under my pillow for three weeks because i didn't want to lose the scent."
sukuna's breath caught; you heard it, the tiny hitch that he tried to disguise as a cough.
"that's—" sukuna started, but stopped, and then he swallowed. his throat worked around words that didn't seem to want to come out. "that's really fucking weird, actually. keeping flowers for months."
"you're one to talk," you said, and your lips curved into a smile that felt wobbly and fragile and too big for your face. "you're the one who gave them to me."
"yeah, well." his ears were still pink, spreading now to his cheekbones, and you'd never seen anything more beautiful in your entire life. "i'm in love with you, so it's different."
the words hung in the air between you, simple and devastating. there was no fanfare, and no dramatic pause, simply sukuna being sukuna, saying the thing he'd probably been trying to say for six months through petals and stems and carefully chosen blooms.
"you could have just told me," you said, and your voice was shaking now, but so were your hands, and so was he, so it didn't really matter.
"where's the fun in that?" he asked, but his voice was rough, and his eyes were bright, and when you squeezed his fingers, he squeezed back like he was afraid you'd disappear.
outside the greenhouse windows, the afternoon was fading into evening, gold bleeding into amber bleeding into the soft purple of early dusk. the bee had gone quiet, the leaves had stopped drifting, and the only sound was your breathing and his, mingling in the warm, humid air.
"i'm in love with you too," you said.
because it was true, because it had probably been true for longer than you wanted to admit, because sukuna was a nightmare and a softy and the biggest flower nerd you'd ever met, and you'd spent six months tucking his gifts between the pages of your life like pressed flowers of your own.
sukuna closed his eyes just for a moment, just long enough for you to see the way his shoulders dropped, the tension draining out of him like water from a cracked vase. when he opened them again, sukuna was smiling. a real smile, not the sharp-edged thing he showed the rest of the world, but something small and private and almost shy.
"good," sukuna said, and then, quieter; "i have more at my apartment. flowers, i mean. i was going to give them to you tomorrow, but—" he shrugged, one shoulder lifting and falling. "seems like a waste to wait."
your heart turned over in your chest, sweet like honey.
"show me," you said, and when he stood up and offered you his hand, you took it without hesitation.
sukuna’s palm was warm against yours, calloused from god knows what, steady now that the worst part was over.
he led you out of the greenhouse and into the cooling evening, and neither of you let go, not even when the campus paths grew busy with other students, not even when someone whistled and sukuna flipped them off with his free hand, not even when you reached sukuna’s apartment and he had to fumble for his keys because he simply didn't want to release you long enough to find them.
his apartment smelled like him, like cedar and something floral you couldn't name.
there were flowers everywhere — on the kitchen counter, on the windowsill, in a vase on the coffee table that was definitely too small for the arrangement it held. you spotted roses and tulips and something dark purple you didn't recognize, and sukuna followed your gaze and went pink again.
"i might have gone overboard," sukuma admitted, finally letting go of your hand so he could gesture vaguely at the chaos. "i wasn't sure which ones you'd like best, so i just kind of... got all of them."
you walked over to the windowsill, running your finger along the edge of a potted plant you didn't recognize. it was green and leafy, unassuming, nothing like the showy blooms scattered around the room.
"what's this one?" you asked, turning back to look at him.
sukuna was standing in the middle of his own living room like he'd never seen it before, like he was seeing it through your eyes and finding it lacking. he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture you'd never seen him make, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur.
"basil," he said. "it means hatred, remember? i got it as a joke. thought it would be funny to have something that meant the opposite of everything else."
you laughed, and the sound seemed to break something loose in sukuna. he crossed the room in three long strides and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at his face.
"i meant it, you know," sukuna said, and his hands hovered near your waist like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch. "every flower. every single one. i meant all of it."
"i know," you said, and you reached up to cup his face in your hands, feeling the slight roughness of his jaw beneath your palms. "i know now."
he kissed you then, soft and careful, like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. his lips tasted like coffee and something sweet, and his hands finally settled on your hips, and the basil sat on the windowsill behind you, tiny and green and full of meaning.
when you pulled back, sukuna’s eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks. he looked sweeter like this, softer, like all the sharp edges had been sanded away by the simple fact of being wanted back.
"i'm still mad you didn't look up the meanings," he said without opening his eyes. "six months. i could have just told you in the first week and saved myself a lot of anxiety."
"but then i wouldn't have gotten the flowers," you pointed out, and sukuna snorted, and you felt the vibration of it all the way down to your bones.
"i would have given you the flowers anyway," he said, finally opening his eyes. they were darker than usual, soft with something you were learning to recognize. "i probably would have given you flowers even if you'd laughed in my face. it's a problem, really. my therapist would have a field day."
you laughed again, and sukuna smiled again, and the evening stretched out before you both, full of possibility and pressed flowers and the quiet understanding that some things didn't need to be spoken aloud to be true.
but it didn't hurt, you thought, as sukuna pulled you toward his couch and wrapped his arms around you like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it.
!Ryomen Sukuna; who falls in love with the concubine he hated the most
Every woman brought to his estate understood the rules of survival before they even crossed the threshold.
You bowed until your forehead touched the tatami. You spoke only when spoken to. You anticipated his moods, read the terrifying language of his four eyes, and offered flattery or tears depending on what type of amusement he was seeking that day.
To center your entire existence around Ryomen Sukuna was the only way to ensure your head remained attached to your shoulders.
Except you didn't.
You hadn't knelt when he first entered your quarters three months ago. You had been lying on your side, propped up on an elbow, reading a translated scroll from the northern provinces, and you had merely shifted your gaze to look at him, entirely unimpressed by the sudden, heavy drop in atmospheric pressure that usually accompanied his presence.
"Stand when I enter," he had commanded, his upper eyes narrowing into dangerous, ruby slits.
You had turned a page. "Then leave and enter again. Perhaps I will feel like it next time."
The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukuna’s jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.
You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.
If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.
He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.
And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.
"You are eating that wrong."
You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.
You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.
"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.
"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."
"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."
Sukuna’s lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.
He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.
He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.
It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.
"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."
You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."
Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.
"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."
You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.
The shift happened. In Sukuna’s dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.
But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.
The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rot—somehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."
The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.
And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.
During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.
You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukuna’s attempts to make you try a cup of sake.
But Sukuna had heard it.
He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lord’s table, and dismantled the man’s entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.
Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.
Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.
Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.
"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."
"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.
His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.
"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.
"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."
You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.
He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.
You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.
"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.
A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.
"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.
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