Frauudkkuna

serenity || 18

[solilorenson]

can you blame him?

[proudgoonette777]

textposting about katsuki with a crazy ass gf (based off of this post) just Bc i have it on my mind still

notess: aged up characters, arguing, reader is unhinged (ur honestly just like me), reader luvs him so much likee he knows that very well, smut themes, university setting, he’s genuinely right where he wants to be, this ended up cute somehow

read something else frm this universe

[onelime]

only talking to sukuna's stomach mouth when he pisses you off

Sukuna’s developed an irritating habit. Whenever he’s fed up with you, or whenever he doesn’t want to entertain one of your questions, he’ll simply stay quiet and gesture towards his stomach. It’s kind of like saying ‘talk to the hand’. But in his case, it’s ‘talk to the stomach mouth’. 

Then his stomach mouth will shoot you this wide, smug grin, like it’s more than happy to converse with you. And you’ll just toss up your hands and groan, annoyed that your husband won’t even bother to speak with you face to face. 

But recently you've taken Sukuna up on his offer, turning the tables to give him the silent treatment while still chatting away with his stomach. Because Sukuna underestimated just how much that mouth of his likes to rile someone up. Even if it’s the rest of his body. 

Now, Sukuna’s lounging on the bed, limbs draped carelessly along the mattress. He’s trying to feign indifference. Trying to pretend he’s unphased by the fact that you haven’t spoken to him in four whole days. 

But you know better. You see the slight clench in his jaw, the scowl that deepens on his face each time he steals a look your way. He watches as you sit by the window, gazing at the scenery outside. 

When the silence stretches on longer than he can bear, Sukuna sets his pride aside to clear his throat and ask, “Are you still doing this?” 

You don’t even spare him a glance, continuing to look out the window. “Middle Mouth,” you say, “will you please inform the rest of Sukuna that I have no idea what he’s talking about?”

Sukuna scoffs in disbelief, but that mouth of his flashes its teeth and singsongs, “Sukunaaaa. She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I heard you,” Sukuna huffs, speaking to you instead of his stomach.

He hates this whole situation. Hates that you're not speaking with him. Hates that you’ve given his stomach mouth a nickname. And he hates that the mouth is entertaining it at all. 

 His jaw clenches once more, and he sighs before saying, “You’re ignoring me.” 

He’s not wrong. For almost a week, you’ve been avoiding your husband, refusing to interact or even look at any part of him other than his stomach maw. But despite all of his sulking and sour moods, you act as if nothing is amiss.

“Middle Mouth, will you please inform the rest of Sukuna that I am not ignoring him. You and I just had a lovely conversation, didn’t we?”

“Sukunaaaa,” the mouth singsongs again. “She isn’t ignoring you…well, me.” That grin returns, and you can’t help but let out a quiet laugh. Why didn’t you start speaking with your husband’s stomach mouth sooner? He really is entertaining.

“Stop that. Don’t humor her,” Sukuna scolds.

“Middle Mouth, you can converse with me as you please.”

“I intend to,” his maw replies. 

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, but he’s not sure whether to direct his glare at you or his abdomen. “How long do you intend to keep up these antics?”

You brush an imaginary piece of lint from your clothes and say, "Middle Mouth, please inform the rest of Sukuna that I’m still waiting on a proper apology from him." 

“I’m warning you, do not–”

“Sukunaaaa. She is waiting for a proper apology from you.”

Sukuna stares murderously down at his lower half. He’s finally met his match. The only ‘enemy’ that he can’t silence by force. Himself. 

And secretly, you think that he slightly enjoys that you’re speaking with his stomach mouth. It shows him that despite this silent treatment, you still desire some form of communication with him. 

So he’ll put up with the teasing, the inside jokes, and the fact that his wife is being stolen by his own body.

You decide to press your luck a little bit further, and say something you know will send your husband over the edge. “Middle Mouth–”

“Not again,” Sukuna groans, tossing his head back.

“Do you remember what I told you? What we talked about last night?”

“What?!?" Sukuna demands, sitting up abruptly and sending the covers around him flying.

“Oh, I remember,” his maw says, immediately grinning and playing into it. 

“Well, I was thinking about it and–”

“Why are you speaking with my wife at night?”

“Our wife. And what we discuss during late hours does not concern you.” 

“Anyways, as I was telling you, Middle Mouth, before I was rudely interrupted–”

“No. This ends now."

In seconds, Sukuna’s beside you, all 7 feet of him towering over you intimidatingly. He rubs a hand across his jaw, like he has to physically force the words out of his mouth. “I.. apologize for not answering when you asked me which of my cocks I urinate from.”

“…”

“The answer is both of them.”

Immediately, your mood lifts. You turn away from the window, smiling and facing your husband like nothing was ever wrong. “Apology accepted.” And then to his stomach mouth, “We’ll continue our conversation later.” 

a/n: idk why the mouth is referring to him in third person...js to be annoying ig lol

[cumchiato]

୨୧ — When his daughter brings home her first potential boyfriend at fifteen, Sukuna doesn't say a word. He simply sits across from the terrified boy at the kitchen table, his fork clinking against the plate, the sound sharp in the tense air. The entire time, he maintains unblinking eye contact while you attempt to salvage the rest of the dinner conversation with meaningless small talk.

After about twenty minutes, Sukuna finally speaks, "You touch her wrong, they won't find enough of you to bury. Got it, boy?" The boy is out the door just as you bring out the dessert, and your daughter doesn't speak to her father for three days. But when rumors start to circulate that the same boy pressured another girl into something she didn't want, his daughter quietly finds him outside sipping on his favorite whiskey.

Sitting next to him -her shoulder pressed against his-, she whispers, "How did you know?" Sukuna just shrugs, but there's understanding in the silence between them. After that, she doesn't fight his "inspections" quite so hard. He's always been her protector after all.

︵︵︵ ๑❤︎⁠๑ ︵︵︵

୨୧ — During a parent teaching conference, his daughter’s literature teacher suggests she might be "troubled"… due to her persistent interest in writing dark, violent stories… The teachers eyes flicker towards Sukuna’s tattoos and scars, suggesting it might be due to the home environment.

Wrong choice of words.

Before you can intervene, Sukuna leans forward and asks with a deadly calm, "You ever read Dostoyevsky? The fucking Bible?"

The teacher nods, shrinking back in his seat…

"All full of violence. All considered genius. My daughter’s writing isn’t the problem." His voice never rises, but the temperature in the room seems to drop a whole ten degrees as he continues. "Your small mind is."

Two weeks later, your daughter rushes home holding her regional writing trophy. Sukuna has her piece professionally framed and hung in the living room next day.

Because at the end of the day, that’s still his little girl.

[sinkuna]

Sukuna and his Teenage brat <333

[hunnismokah]

choso spread my husband omg

[hijkio]

Stop and THINK‼️

[sweethearticism]

𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇. ( ♡ 𝚃𝙸𝙶𝙴𝚁 𝙷𝚈𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙳!𝚂𝚄𝙺𝚄𝙽𝙰 𝚇 𝙵.𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁 )

sukuna's convinced he'll never find a mate. he's tried it all, mate pairing programs, rehabilitation. no one wants him. who needs a bond anyway? he prefers the solitude. you're his last hope. an optimistic volunteer thrown at him by that pesky support program in hopes that he'll finally find a mate. will you be the one to show him that he doesn't really wanna be lonely? or will you throw him to the curb like everyone else? well, his rough exterior and unexpected rut truly puts you to the test.

♡ ﹕ 8.6k words

♡ ﹕ this was commissioned by @lycanqueen

꒰ 🍓 ⸰   ✦ 𝓒ws. hybrid au :: human!reader :: smut :: hurt/comfort :: mean!sukuna :: sweet!reader :: possessiveness :: pining :: hybrid ruts :: scenting :: marking :: oral ( f.receiving ) :: face-sitting :: p in v :: rough sex :: mating press :: multiple orgasms :: emotional sex :: overstimulation :: choking  :: breeding :: talks of cubs :: creampie ꒱

"Maybe they were right about you. You are a lost cause."

So this rehabilitation agent had guts? Sukuna would give him that much.

The sun pierced his eyes and slitted his pupils as he stared at the man before him, unshaken. Bold, for someone with noting but a flimsy clipboard for a weapon if Sukuna let his temper get the better of him.

He never had an issue with it before. So where were his claws?

"That mean I can finally do my own damn thing now?" He gruffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he propped against his doorway. He ignored his tail that hung low.

The man furrowed his brows. Sucked in a breath. Looked like he was searching for patience in the late afternoon air. His hand with the clipboard dropped as he stood straight.

"You don't get it, do you Ryomen?"

"What's there to get? That I can't play housecat for your domesticity programs?"

"Behavioural programs."

"That've made shit progress."

"It's not as if you make it any easier."

"Your potential mates bore me."

"You scared them off. Every one of them."

The man didn't need to match Sukuna's tone to scathe him. His face never broke clinical aloofness, even with each word loaded. Baggage of the ugly truth: that Ryomen Sukuna was a lost cause.

Countless mates. Five? Six? He lost track. He pretended to forget their names but he remembered every one.

The first left quietly. Said he was too loud.

The second left loudly. Said he was too quiet.

The third claimed she was frightened. The fourth didn't even give him a reason. Fifth and sixth were some ugly variation of all of the above.

Sukuna stopped caring.

He did care, at one point. That's why he let his coworker convince him to join this stupid 'hybrid nature rehabilitation program' in the first place, right? Because maybe tigers were too bold. Too frightening. Too much.

Too much. That's what the last one said.

Well, if he was too much for anyone, maybe they weren't enough for him.

The agent sighed. Pinching the bridge of his nose and probably contemplating why he chose to work for a facility that boasted a 100% rehabilitation record. Guess Sukuna was about to ruin that too. As he did most things.

"Look," the man said. His shoulders slumped. "We do not typically give up on our patients, but surely you understand that we've tried everything in the book for you, right?"

Sukuna didn't reply.

"Behavioural therapy. Group counselling. Mate pairings and courses. You've chased away every volunteer and potential mate. Somehow even frightened off your therapist last month."

"She was weak."

"She was doing her job. You act like. . ."

Sukuna grunted. His claws threatening to lash out and tear up his own shirt. "What?" He knew the answer. Knew that sickening word that they all used for him. "An animal?"

The man didn't answer. Didn't have to. He sighed again and checked his clipboard. "This is your last shot for clearance."

"And if I don't pass?"

"You'll be escorted to a private facility."

Hybrids were monitored under lock and key by the state. Sukuna guessed he couldn't really blame them. They were different. Unpredictable.

Animals.

Sukuna regretted ever approaching the program in the first place. If he knew what he knew now— that he was simply built to be on his own, he would have swallowed the furball and bit his own tail. Lived out the rest of his life without the feeling of being watched.

Now, they knew he was unstable. Now, they considered him a threat. Guess his claws really were clipped.

"Thanks to your last stunt, none of the volunteers stepped up for this," the man said, flipping through his clipboard.

Sukuna huffed. "What's the point then? Just ship me off already." At least he'd get to be alone, then.

"Because miraculously, one of our assistants offered to help." The man looked up. "She's new. And your last shot." He handed over the clipboard with a small picture clipped at the top right.

That's the first time Sukuna saw you.

The second time he saw you, you smiled at him. Stupid move, really. For someone so small, so frail— so breakable.

"It's nice to meet you," he's sure you lied as you stuck out your hand. Chirpier than a bird hybrid. Bright eyed as a squirrel. Were they sure that you were human?

"Yeah. Hi." He gruffed, not reaching for your hand. It looked too gentle for him.

You dropped your arm to your side, still smiling, but softer. Before you trotted off to lug the rest of your belongings into his home.

He helped you, of course. Tiny thing like you probably would sprain her spine if she did it all by herself. Pathetic.

This was his last hope? They might as well cage him and ship him off already.

Within a week, he was sharing his space again. The few days of blissful solitude had come to an end. Now, there was a canvas in his living room. Pink body wash and products littered across his bathroom counter. Books from authors he couldn't even pronounce occupying his empty shelves.

You were sweeter than the three spoons of sugar you dumped in your strawberry tea every morning. Softer than the dinner rolls you insisted on making every Wednesday and Friday. Shy. Gentle.

Too gentle for someone like him.

In the beginning, Sukuna had watched you. Like a tiger stalked its prey. Scouring for the first sign of discomfort. A hint of fear. Even those who started off strong couldn't keep up the act for long. Not with him.

Which was what made it so odd.

You were timid, sure. But not afraid of him. Guess he'd give it some time.

Because that's simply his fate now, right? Watch a new volunteer skip into his lair and run off with their tail between their legs once he got too much. No one stayed. Not like they did with everyone else.

Others made hybrid bonding look easy. They'd join circles and find mates in the same week. Same night, even. Claiming it all as 'the right timing'. The right person.

Sukuna was a wrong person. Therefore, no right person would fit. Like an unwanted puzzle piece.

Not that he cared. He didn't need to fit in with anyone. If he was too much for any twisted jigsaw of companionship then he'd simply be the missing piece. A corner piece no one looked for. The one that made no difference to the puzzle. The one that no one needed.

He preferred being alone, anyway.

If this last ditch effort blew up in smoke, he guessed he'd have his wish. Whatever facility they'd stuff him into— at least he would be alone. It was better that way.

By himself, he didn't have to soften his tongue. By himself, he didn't have to pretend that he did not have stripes, claws and canines. Didn't have to soften himself for someone who wouldn't soften for him.

Didn't have to watch anyone leave when he became too much.

You didn't leave.

A week went by. Then two. Three, before he knew it. You rooted yourself into his floorboards like a flourishing flower and offered him the same sunny smile every morning.

"How'd you sleep, Sukuna?" You'd ask, as if you cared.

"Fine." He'd grumble from the coffee machine. The bitter stain on his tongue refused to ever let him return the question.

Why should he bother with someone who was going to sign him off anyway? Might as well show her what she was getting herself into. His poor behaviour and slacking social skills, as his therapist put it.

You never flinched. Humans sure were resilient.

But he was hybrid. And everyone knew that tigers were ruthless.

He wouldn't shroud his nature to make himself more palatable for you. For anyone, ever again.

It's odd. You actually tried.

You adapted your body clock to him. Sukuna woke up drearily early. To catch the dawn on his ears during his morning run. He supposed you started waking up shortly after him. Giving you enough time to ready breakfast for him when he stepped back through the door.

Eggs. Bacon. Any raw protein you could think of. You were unfortunately, a good cook.

"This isn't necessary," he said from the counter, but still wolfed down your perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs.

"Waking up early has its perks." You mused, sipping your tea. Probably strawberry. Or rose. He hated that he now knew your favourites.

You made his bed whenever he wasn't looking. He scolded you for it, the first few times. You insisted it was fine. That you liked cleaning up.

You tried to watch movies with him. Plopped beside him on the sofa and struck him your signature smile.

"Wanna watch something?" You asked, soft. Already dangling the remote. Sukuna couldn't help but compare the size of your hand to his.

He scoffed. "What? Some romcom?"

"Or horror." You bashed.

His instincts told him that a gentle soul like you wouldn't last ten seconds with a horror movie. Still, he indulged you. The last thing he wanted was to endure some stupid hybrid hallmark film.

A slasher flick. He didn't pay attention to the name. All he knew was that you quivered halfway through it and that stirred an urge in his gut.

Urge to what? Now that, he once again had no answers to.

It was warm. Low. The same way he felt when kids dropped their ice creams and mothers tripped in grocery stores. He couldn't name it. But he did drape his arm over the back of the couch. Not grazing your shoulders but, there.

You'd probably have nightmares tonight. Silly girl. Now he would be obligated to return the favour.

Because you did, a few nights ago. When he tossed and turned. Creased his sheets and slashed his blankets. Sukuna wasn't one to dream— but he did have nightmares.

About the darkness. About the cold. About a void that for some, unfathomable reason, unsettled him.

"It's okay, shh." Your voice reached out to him through the shadow. Light against the darkness.

"It's okay. I'm here. Wake up, please."

You were luck he hadn't broken your arm.

His grip was too tight. Claws too wretched. Not lucid enough to realise that he snatched your wrist when he had woken up.

"Get out." His voice rumbled. Eyes bloodshot and pupils tight. Sweat burned his forehead.

It must have not sounded like a threat, or maybe it was your stupid human resilience. You leaned over him. One knee on his bed and your hand ghosting his shoulder.

"You're freezing," you whispered.

He jerked from you. Rolled over onto his side and refused to allow himself to be vulnerable under your gentle gaze.

"I'm fine." He said.

You insisted. Are you sure? — Can I get you anything? — All the things that people said to catch you off guard and then left anyway.

"I said I'm fine."

His voice boomed, final. It was the first time he'd seen you flinch. He did not bother calling out for you as you shuffled out of the room. Assumed your bags would be packed by the morning. Your pink body wash nowhere to be seen on his counters and your books vanished from his shelves.

You didn't leave. Here you were, a few days later, with shaky knees and a horror movie. But insisting that you were enjoying it for his sake.

You never turned tail. Never backed down. Maybe it was more than human resilience. Maybe it was stubbornness.

That's the only thing that made sense to him. Why else hadn't you disappeared regardless of how much steam he'd blown at you? Especially when he was too much.

"Let's get one thing straight."

You had said something stupid one day in the kitchen. Something about being there for him. Some empty promise he had heard mixed and minced several different ways until it lost all meaning.

As if his mood was not sour enough.

Your back pressed into the fridge. His strong forearm shoved above your head. Sukuna's hulking body shadowed yours. Perhaps this was it. Where you finally became apart of that void that haunted his dreams.

"You and I. Are not. Compatible." His ears pinned back to his head. Tail coiled tight. Like his jaw and teeth that clenched.

Still, you held his stare. Even when it burned.

"Not a thing. Not. Possible." He spat. "So stop acting like you aren't just gonna sign me off so I can be caged up."

"I'm not—"

"I want you to."

He cut you off. Sharp as his heave as he craned closer. Close enough to smell your cherry shampoo— but not a hint of fear.

What was wrong with you?

"I want you to sign me off. So that we can stop pretending like any of this is gonna work and that I'm anything but better off alone."

The fridge rattled as he shoved himself off. He expected your knees to shake. Expected you to clamber out of the kitchen and stuff whatever you could into a suitcase for the night.

Instead, you watched him storm off. With those same, achingly gentle eyes.

Why were you so gentle?

Why did you stay?

Why did he find himself being gentler, too?

Of course, Sukuna didn't want to snap at you. You were simply the closest thing. The softest thing. His hands weren't built to cherish the tender.

Yet, tender were his hands, as they cooked for you. If you handled breakfast, it was only fair that dinner was his responsibility. Even if all he exchanged with you were grunts and gruffs, as long as you went to bed full, he was content.

Content? Odd. That wasn't a word in his vocabulary anymore.

His voice dangered tender's territory on nights you'd be out. Work, friends, whatever he never bothered listening to but for some reason found himself worrying over when the street lights switched on.

"Do you need a lift back?" He asked into the phone. Taking note to look uninterested, even if you couldn't see him.

"I should be fine, Sukuna." You chirped.

"You sure? It's almost midnight."

"I'm sure! What's the worst that could happen?"

To a sweet thing like you? A lot. More than he'd like to imagine.

Morals, he told himself. He pulled up in the middle of the morning to pick you up because of his pesky morals.

"Sorry you had to come all this way," you said as you shut the passenger door.

Sukuna considered your dress. Hated himself for it.

"What?" His tongue clicked. "Were you expecting to walk all the way back?"

"What's the worst that could—"

"A lot."

It wasn't like the other times. His voice raised, but didn't roar. His brows narrowed, but didn't glare.

The car ride was silent.

Your smile was sickening.

Cute.

He watched you closer. Not as a tiger stalked prey. Not anymore. He couldn't name this.

He refused to call it gentle.

Even when he carefully observed the way you fixed your hair every morning. How he noted which of your curves that the sun bounced odd of. The soft plush of your body and how your thighs moulded into the couch cushions, or rounded perfectly in your shorts.

Never had he been one to appreciate art— though he stood in front of your canvases and stared at your paint patterns. Swirls of green and blotches of warmth. Illustrations of nature: jungles and wild flowers.

It called to something within him. He assumed his hybrid traits. A tiger yearned for jungle, that was his home.

Home.

Sukuna didn't have a home.

He had a house. He had you. Had pink body wash on his counters and books he'd learnt the names of on his shelves. Had a warm meal every morning and a warmer bed you still insisted on making.

He had movie nights. A running partner. Someone who finally rooted her heels to the floorboards and blossomed in his walls. Stubborn as she was shy.

But not a home.

It was only a matter of time. Until he said something that finally was the thing. Until he'd wake up to your paintings missing, and your shampoo gone. He'd come home to no protein, but a sheet of paper:

I've signed you off. Good riddance.

You told him that you wouldn't, after he insisted it that night in the kitchen.

You padded to doorway of his room, picking at your sleeves with a petal-soft voice.

"All we have to do is clear you for rehabilitation," you said.

Not once did your eyes meet his.

"Then what? I can finally be alone?" He asked, incredulous.

You nodded.

It's what he wanted. What he claimed to want. So why was your agreement a sharp pang between his ribs?

That was then. He assumed your plans hadn't changed much. A silent agreement that if he behaved, you'd leave him be by the end of it all.

That's why he was gentler, he told himself.

Just trying to ensure his goals, he insisted.

For now, he would take care of you as you did him. Whether conscious or not. If it meant that when it was through, he'd get what was best for him.

Solitude.

But if solitude was what he wanted, why did he hate seeing you in others' company?

It was late. Emergency work call. He missed his afternoon cat nap and only scuffed down half of his breakfast.

The sun peeped at him from its sprawl across the horizon. Glaring into the back of his head as he stalked home. Burning him hotter. Hot.

He felt so. Fucking. Hot.

It wasn't even summer yet. Spring had only perked its preppy head. The blossoms bloomed. Their nectar tickled his nose. Couples gifted their flowers.

Sukuna hated spring.

He hoped you hadn't cooked dinner yet. That was his job. His responsibility.

But no, you were outside. Prattling to a neighbour.

All smiles and soft. Cupping your hands in front of you as you listened to the man's stories. The irritable snow leopard that lived next door. With his baby blue eyes and boyish grin.

What were you even doing outside in the first place? Didn't he tell you it was dangerous once the street lights started switching on?

Sukuna did what he did best. He watched. Looming by the telephone wire. Feeling the sun stab into his head. His spine. Feeling the heat gurgle from his gut. Splutter up his lungs. Against the back of his teeth.

That spotted fucker touched your arm.

Sukuna scathed.

Blurred colours. A muffled yelp. His claw caught on your woolly sweater as he snatched your arm.

"Sukuna—!"

Your gasp drowned in the rumble of his growl. Grated from the back of his throat. The leopard backed off. Your muscles tensed under his calloused fingers.

"Inside. Now."

He didn't wait for you to agree nor disagree. Dragging you inside and rattling the walls as the door clattered! shut.

"Su—" he lodged your voice in your throat once more. Shoved your back into the nearest thing— the same splintering door.

Was it hotter inside? Or was that the anger?

A sweat drop sweltered between his brows.

"What the hell were you doing?" As if he had any right to ask. You weren't his mate.

Mate? Of course you weren't his mate.

Then why did his teeth crave to sink into your flesh? Mark you?

His stare hazed. Blinking rapidly. Heaving. The heat blistered into his nerves. Clenched his muscles. Suffocating. It was suffocating.

"Why were you. With him. Why—" he zeroed in. Mistake. Big mistake.

Your scent.

You weren't his mate. Why the hell did you smell like it, then?

Did you always smell this good?

Your gaped at him. Hands stiff on your sides and pressed flat into the wood. Your neck craned to account for the height difference. Were you watching him this time? Was he too much?

His eyes squeezed shut.

"Sukuna," you spoke. His name didn't deserve that gentleness. It ached him deeper today.

"I think you're. . ."

Snapping open his stare, he sucked in breath. Considered your words. The phrase your lips wrapped around.

Rut.

Shit.

He shoved himself away from the door. Away from you. The fire crawled up his throat. Thunked his heart. Thrummed a deep, dark chord in his gut.

The sweat slipping down his spine in the middle of spring confirmed it. He was in rut. With a poor, persistent, pretty human in claw's reach.

"Hey— hey it's okay," you attempted, stepping forward where he stumbled back.

"Don't."

He hissed.

You preserved.

Stubborn. Stubborn, sweet thing.

"Let me help." You offered.

"No."

He tried. Tried to stumble off. Lock himself in his room. He could hump the mattress for all he cared but he wasn't so much as touching—

You took him by the wrist. Might as well have taken his soul while you were at it.

Splintered his restraint.

The door rattled again. Creaked awfully with the weight of him. On you. The thickness of the air. The heat. Your wrists fit well in his big hands. Looked like they belonged there.

You looked like you belonged here. Pinned under him.

His chest heaved. Voice jagged, throaty.

"You don't know what you're getting into." He said.

You gulped. He paid too much attention to your throat. "I did when I signed up for this."

"Do you even know what a rut is?"

"I know you can't be alone right now."

Sukuna's breath hitched.

You relaxed your hips. Let them mould into his. Their plush softness drove him wild.

Lashes hung over deep maroons. The quiet thrummed with your heart beats. His, thundering and wanting. Yours, tender yet eager.

He craned closer. Tuffs of his pink hair tickled your forehead.

"I can do awful things to you." He whispered.

Still no flinches. You never did.

Your eyes batted at him.

"Is that so bad?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Even the kiss, burned.

Your lips really were petal-soft. Softer than he had imagined. He hated himself for imagining this in the first place.

The knot in his gut wound tight. Urging him to flush you further into the wood. Flush further into you. Patience slipped into the simmer between your mouths. Sukuna kissed you with violence. Nothing contained. Nothing hidden.

He told you that he wouldn't placate himself for you.

Abandoning your wrists, his grip sought your plush. Squeezing your thighs between his fingers gaps. Lifting you into his arms so that your heels pressed into his back. So that he could consume you. Tongues tangling and teeth tackling.

Your hands smacked at his shoulder. Breaths huffed through your nose. A desperate sound that plunged him deeper into heat.

He let you breathe. Barely.

"I can be good for you." Was what you used the privilege to gasp.

His chest rumbled. "Yeah?"

The slope of your throat was so pretty when you gulped.

Sukuna slipped a hand to your cheek. Rough. He couldn't be gentle. Not with you. Not now.

"Gonna be good for me, pretty girl?"

Eyes blown out. Jaw tight. If you said anything other than your whined little yes as his hips ground into yours, he might have lost his mind entirely.

His mouth attacked yours again. Sucking on whatever was left of your lychee lipgloss. Surely bruising your lips in the process. He didn't care. Let him mark you. Everywhere. So that stupid snow leopards didn't get the wrong idea. So that everyone knew what you were.

His.

The home blurred into vertigo colours. The floors creaked under the weight of his footsteps. Sukuna hoisted you with him. Haphazardly avoiding furniture in the stagger to his bedroom. Hands palming at whatever part of your flesh he could reach.

He almost stumbled in the hallway. Caught you against the doorway, one of your hands gripped at it while the other clutched the back of his neck. Fisted his hair between your fingers.

"Sukuna, careful." You whined.

He didn't listen. Too busy humping on your thighs that squished perfectly between his hard body and the cold door. Nurturing his bulge. Tucking its hot curve into the smooth crux of your skin.

"Said you'd be good for me." His growl rumbled on your pulse. Teeth mapping out his new territory: your velvet flesh. "So shut up and take it. Like a good girl, yeah?"

The door swung open. You must have palmed the handle. Feet fumbled in a clumsy waltz. Hands clinging for dear life. He caught you. Kept you pressed against his blazing body as he mouthed down your throat. Latched onto a tender spot. Marked you.

Sukuna handled his ruts the way he handled everything else: alone. His hand, a pillow, and a grotesque amount of tissue boxes. When last had he felt the soft touch of a partner? Held their warmth beneath him while his mind drove him wild with fire?

He was always too much. Too much to handle. Too aggressive. Too big.

But you.

You seemed to want everything.

In the way your nails curled on his shirt. In the pitiful way your neck arched to give him more access. Offering yourself up to him. A pretty deer who craved a tiger's claws in her. His maw latched to your throat.

"You're so eager," he groaned.

You whimpered, "I'm yours."

Fuck.

The mattress sunk. Creaking in retort to the callousness of his shove. Your body moulded into his sheets. Into him, as he staggered over you. Knees digging into the bed. Teeth clamped on the base of your throat.

You jerked. A gasped cry vibrating against his teeth. Palms knocking into his shoulders. To push him off?

No— to grip. Cling. To him. To your mate.

After all, you were his now, weren't you?

Bites bloomed across your neck. Over your collarbone. Down your shoulders. Your clothes threading like ribbons under Sukuna's claws. The sound of fabric tearing accentuated the rough pants and pitched whines in the humid air.

He wanted to speak. Wanted to tell you what a good girl you were being for him. Wanted to grunt into your skin about how perfect you were. Tell you that you were everything he'd been waiting for.

The words lodged in his throat. Sticky on the back of his tongue that could only muster out wet pants and deep growls as he feasted on your flesh.

Every inch of your skin revealed to him was another blessing. Your curves. The dips. The soft slopes of your body. Salivated him all the more.

Your bra never stood a chance. Clawed away. Probably ruined at the wire. He didn't care. He'd buy you a new one. Buy you whatever you wanted if you were gonna carry his cubs.

Cubs.

The word slipped into his mind with ease, and ruined it.

Pupils blown out. Lungs clenching. He made the mistake of eyeing your tummy.

Perfect, round, soft. You'd be the perfect mate. The perfect mother for his young.

The thought spurred his hands rougher. Tearing away offensive fabrics until you were laid completely bare before him. With big, doe eyes batting up at him. So pretty. So his.

From the corner of his eye he spotted your hands slipping. To cover up. Cover what was his. Your wrists were snatched in his hard grip.

"Don't," he warned. Lips assaulting yours. Stealing your breath and tonguing on your whimpers.

"Don't hide what's mine."

Your tits were softer under his tastebuds. Delicate to the harsh swirls of his tongue. So small when compared to his mouth that sought to consume, to claim.

Sweet sounds sighed from your kiss-bitten lips. Your spine curved so that you pressed back into him. Squishing your plush breasts into his face. His groan rumbled into the flesh.

So tender it was maddening. So perfect it was addicting.

Kisses, sucks, bites. He littered your tits in more claims. Feasting on your silk flesh. Fantasising about the image of them larger. Fat and swollen with milk— just as you were round with his cubs.

His cock strained thick in his pants. Flushed hot on your inner thigh. He ground into your warmth. Rutting wildly. Like the animal he always was.

Your hands delving into his hair almost broke him. Almost. He withdrew from your chest. Eyes glowing through the dark as he found your face.

"Taste so good. So sweet." A hand roughed down your side. Cupped your thigh and strung it round his waist.

"Up."

Raw strength scooped you into his palms. Flesh spilling between the gaps of his fingers as he squeezed for good measure.

Your little squeaks were so cute.

Teeth dragged on your flesh. Callous over bites sunk into your gentle flesh. He lapped on the indents of his own canines as he wrest you over him. Shoved your thighs higher. Urging you. Demanding.

"Face. Now. Fucking sit on my face."

Senseless. Each word was a growl. It's a miracle you understood him at all. Maybe you always would. That's how mates were, right?

The cotton of your panties dragged on his collarbone. Frantic eyes darted to your face as your hips locked. Unmoving.

Stubborn little human.

"What?" He husked. Scuffling to shove you over his awaiting face. "I said sit."

Your lips pressed together. Hands scrambling for the headboard. "Wait are you— are you sure? I'm—"

"—driving me mad." He hissed through clenched teeth. The throbbing in his groin pulsed the sickening heat hotter. Seared into the back of his skull. To his hands that groped your ass. To his eyes that narrowed.

"Said I wanna taste you. So get. On."

Was that too much?

Was he too much for you?

No, course not. You wanted to be his good girl. He saw it in your doe eyes batting at him. In the quiver of your lip and the tremors of your thighs. You shuffled over him. Pressing the cusp of your panties against his chin.

"Like this?" You meeked.

"Like this."

Sukuna tugged you over him. Knocking your thighs. You stumbled. Caught yourself with shaky fingers in his hair and an adorable yelp.

The musked cotton scrunched into his nose, his mouth, the rest of his hard face. Stuffing his nostrils with the sweet, intoxicating aroma. His eyes threatened to roll back.

A muffled curse rumbled into your heat. First came his tongue. Abrasive like everything else about him. Lapping on your folds. Drenching the fabric. Trying to suck in your taste through it.

Then came his teeth. Impatient. Tearing into your panties. His head wrest, violent. Claws ripping away the cloth in a feral affair.

Your sweet heat was his reward. Slicking up his face with your clit pressed into his nose.

"Fuck," his groan thrummed. Straight into your velvet. Leaking your pussy into his agitated mouth. "Knew you'd taste s'fucking sweet."

Hands slipped up your thighs. Cupped your ass. Sukuna sought to press kisses to your quivering slit— but you dangled above him. Not pressed, not sat. Hovered.

"Said. Fucking sit."

He hauled you into him. Cramped your thighs into his head. Smothered your pussy into his face. Even with his ears muffled by your plush, he heard your stunned gasp.

The weight was perfect on his head. Your hands were perfect in his hair. Pussy pretty, pulsing, perfect, on his tongue that stroked over your slit. Lathered you in saliva. All the way to your clit.

He darted the muscle. Circled on your bud. Trying to commit to a rhythm. A pattern. It scathed into the heat of his rut. The heat to take, to claim. To make you his. Finally.

Even if you hated him after this.

Even if you signed him off and he finally got what he wanted. Solitude.

Right now, all he wanted was your pussy.

Filthy squirts and sloshes squelched through the room. Brimming the hazed air together with your whines. Moans. Gasps of his name.

He always hated how gently you said it. Like it meant something. Like it ever could mean something. Hearing it broken sounded better. Shaky and whimpered as he fucked you on his tongue.

"S-Suk— kuna, ah."

Sweet. So sweet. Sweeter than he ever deserved. But Sukuna was a greedy man. So he gripped on your thighs, bit his nails into your flesh, and feasted to his heart's content.

"There ya go. C'mon, pretty girl, ride my face."

Spank! went his hand. Clamouring your ass and fisting the jiggles. Pulling you down, harder, closer— till he was suffocating. Suckling on your clit. Guiding your hips into a sinful sway.

Your hips fell into rhythm. Atta girl. Always so sweet for him. Always so obedient. Yeah, if you stayed, you'd make the perfect mate.

He hoped you stayed.

He could make you stay.

Keep you in his bed. Make a den for you. Hold you down and fuck you into his sheets day-in-and-day-out. Fill you up until your tummy grew even rounder. Softer. Until you were swollen. Until you were his.

No. Fuck. That's the rut talking.

The rut talking.

It's the rut that had him palming your ass and squeezing you into his face. The rut that had his mouth kissing, sucking, licking and laving through your creamy mess. The rut that had him fucking you on his tongue and bucking his hip into the air just as yours ground down into his face. Smearing mess all over him.

Yeah. That's the rut. But fuck, if he wasn't drunk on your pathetic moans. Your messy pussy.

Your clit spasmed under the flat of his harassing tongue. Your thighs clamped around his head. Fingers dug into his skull. Even your pain was sweet.

"Shit— kuna." Your voice croaked. Called to him as a mate should. "I'm gonna, fuck. Think 'm gonna. . . gonna—"

His eyes fluttered. Throat rasped.

"Gonna cum? Yeah? Gonna cum, hah, all over my face?"

From between the small gap of your thigh, Sukuna witnessed your face. Eyes rolled back. Jaw slack. Tits bouncing as you rode his face as if he was yours.

He was.

In this moment. In these blurred lines of his rut. Where he pictured you as his mate. Entertained the thought of wanting. Of being wanted. Of not being alone.

He was yours. Even if for a moment.

You sung his name through the haze. Tender even when he ripped you apart at the seams. Delicate even in his claws that threatened to tear into you. Mark you with scars and blood.

Your hips clumsily rocked. Once—twice—locked up in feverish tremors. Your hands bunching his hair. Clinging. Your body hunched over his. Shattering.

Sukuna rode you through an orgasm with his lips latched around your clit. Sucking harsh on its throbs. Teething on its twitches.

You splattered his face in warmth. Sweet, sickening warmth that doused him deeper into his rut's clutches.

"That's it. There you go. Fuck. Prettiest fucking pussy," he slurred into your wetness. Tongue delving between your puffy folds. Lapping up your cum. Greedy.

You toppled over him. Breaths ragged. One hand clutched in his hair and the other on the headboard.

"Wanna— wanna help. Wanna." To his surprise you pulled on his hair. Interrupting his creamy kisses on your slit.

Stares met. His hot. Yours warm. Wanting.

"Wanna make you feel good too."

How pretty you were when you quivered. Lips glossed by drool and lashes soaked with tears. It ached a deep chamber in his heart.

"Wanna be good for me?" He panted.

Your nod was doeish. As everything else about you was. His delicate girl. So fragile in his hands.

He couldn't wait to break you.

The bed creaked again. You squeaked as he hauled you down into the wrinkled sheets. On your back with his hulking weight pressing down on you. His mouth fixed to yours. Magnetic. Addicted. Letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

"That mean you gonna let me breed you too, baby?" Catching your lip between his teeth, he grunted. Pressing the swell of his cock between your legs. Staining his crotch in your slick. "Gonna let me breed this sweet pussy?"

Your response was sweet, shy, but oh so eager. A tepid nod, as your fingers slipped to his shoulders. So small. Smaller than him in every way. He took the moment to appreciate it.

You, spread and waiting for him. Your pussy, swollen and twitching. His bulge pressed on your glistening folds dwarfed you entirely.

Oh, how you'd squirm on his cock.

At last he shrugged his shirt off. Shivered when your touch feathered over his chest. He made the mistake of watching your eyes. How they mapped out scars that your fingers traced.

You didn't have to say anything. Your gaze spelt affection he wasn't ready to receive.

"Don't stare at me like that." He gruffed, kicking off his pants.

"Why not?" You asked.

"Makes me think you want me."

"I do want you, kuna."

Damn you.

Damn you and your tenderness. Damn you and that sweet nickname your sugar lips latched onto. Damn you and the way you made his cock throb hard in the strained fabric of his boxers.

He palmed your throat. Focused on your pulse. The control he held over you in the moment.

"Shut up." His hiss muffled with a kiss. Hot and open-mouthed on yours. As if he could suck the words from your tongue and swallow them into his gut that knew better.

Knew that he was better off alone. That this was only for the sake of his rut.

Bulging and angry, his tip nudged between your thighs. Soaking up your arousal. The slippery sensation of your pussy sent shivers down his spine. So wet. For him. Only him.

He let you pull away. Watching as your gaze lowered to his thick cock sandwiched between your folds. Sliding against your slit and dragging on your clit. Your wide eyes eased a chuckle from him.

"What?" He drawled. "Too big?"

"Well. . . yes."

"And every inch's gonna fucking breed you."

He pinned you back into the mattress. Flat on your back with your knees scooped into his big hands. Dwarfed you there too. He pressed them back into you so that they kissed your tits. Folding you in half and completely exposing you entirely to his hungry eyes.

Salivating. He was salivating. Your eyes were too kind for how lewd your pussy spread out for him. Leaking a string of mess. Calling for him. Wanting him.

"Keep your eyes on me, you got that?" Maroon burned into yours. Searching for hesitance. For fear. For something that could cut into this feverish rut and remind him that he didn't deserve you. But no.

You obeyed him.

You wanted him.

His cockhead slotted against your slit. Dipping in to feel the silky sin of your pussy. A deep groan rumbled from the depths of his chest. His brows furrowed. Fuck. When last had he had this?

Blunt nails dug into the backs of your thighs as he sunk in. One inch. Two inch. Three inch. Four— popping through the first tight ring of resistance. Eyes devouring yours the entire time.

He watched your face. How it scrunched up and your mouth parted. How tears clouded your eyes as he pushed past the halfway point.

He stopped.

"You good?" He huffed. Barely gentle.

Very. Gentle.

"Yeah it's— just. . . just a lot." You croaked.

"Too much?"

His face didn't falter, but his heart sure did. His grip loosening on your limbs. Ready to let you go. Free you from him.

But you shook your head. Teary eyed. Twitching smile.

"Not enough."

Hips possessed. Mind a mess. He slammed forward at those two, pretty little words. Till his tip smooched your cervix and his balls squished into your folds. Bottomed out. Filling you to the brim.

The sound you made was sin itself. A blessing. Heaven, hell, and everything in between.

"Oh fuck." You cried, head tossed back. Unable to see him gasping out the same exclaim.

Your syrupy cunt hugged around him. Tight, snug. Nursing on an underside vein and milking him around the tip. Every pulse was your heartbeat, and it devastated him.

Cussing, he pushed down onto you. His heart tugging itself towards yours. To press into your skin as his hips started rutting. Slow, eager.

"Fuck. Look at you take this cock. Like you were born for it," his words husked above you.

Your lashes fluttered. Brows knitting at the centre. He watched your tears threaten to slip as he humped on the sensitive ring that was your cervix.

His tongue clicked. Swapping out a hand on your thigh, he snatched you beneath the jaw instead. Wrenching your face to his hot one.

"Didn't I say keep your eyes on me?"

"M sorry."

"Don't apologise, just take it."

He withdrew. Halfway at first— then shoved back in. The second time was further. And further. Until his thrusts pulled to the tip and plunged back to your womb. Languid, but hard. Sure to make you feel every inch of him pressing into your pussy nerves.

You soaked up his thighs. Splashing his balls and leaking a puddle into the sheets already. The scent was intoxicating. Flared his nostrils and dizzied his head.

The mattress shook beneath the power of his thrusts. Your body bounced with it. He made sure to coil his tail tight around your waist. Held you down like a predator did prey as he fucked you open on his cock.

Pleasure built a knot in his gut. Hot, heavy. Urging his hips to snap harder and chase bruises on your jiggling ass.

Every sound was sin. Sweet. Cries, moans, a whimper than surged into a whine of his name when he removed his other hand from your thigh to instead hold them back with a steeled forearm. So that his palm could press on the bulge swelling up the base of your tummy.

"Fuuckkk," he growled. Ears pinned back to his hair. Jaw hung and canines glinting. "Look at that. See that, pretty girl? What's here?"

You hiccuped, "your— ah. Your cock!"

"Yeah? What's it doing?"

"It's—"

You couldn't answer. Slurred by moans and the delicious drive of his dick stretching you out. He watched your eyes go static.

Spank! his palm landed hot on your clit. Bulging your eyes and jerking your hips up into his frantic thrusts. He laid another. Two. Three— encouraging your pitiful whimpers.

"Asked you a fucking question. What's it doing?"

"It's— hah. B. . . Breeed—"

"Breeding you? Yeah?"

"Uhuh! Breeding. Breeding me s-so . . . s'goood."

Drool bubbled on your lips. Your hands that had tried to scramble on his shoulders and dig your mark into his flesh now fell flat on the pillow. Beside your head. Limp like the rest of your body that surrendered itself to him.

Heat surged down his spine as you clamped around him. Sucking the air from his scathing lungs. Staining his base in a thick, filthy ring of cream.

His hips rammed all the more faster. Harder. Imprinting you into his bed. Your slick. Your sweat. Your scent.

One of your weak hands slipped down. Meeking over to his larger one fixed on your stomach. Wrapping around two of his massive fingers. Or at least trying to.

It strung a deep chord in him. Thin and vulnerable. One he has thought he cut out long ago.

His half slipped over yours. Fingers laced. Pressing you against the bulge he plunged into your tummy. Holding your hand. Holding it tight.

"Sweet pussy's milking me," his grunt fanned your pulse as he swooped down. Mouthing on your neck. Searching for your pulse to feel it race beneath his lips. "Fuck. Wants my cum so bad. Wants my cubs."

"Please!" You slurred.

He swore he could do this for life.

Shoving all the way, Sukuna paused on your cervix. Sweat dripping from his hair. Cock drumming heavy. He clamped you down through your protesting whines.

"Yeah, yeah, shut it." It didn't sound harsh. Especially not with his firm squeeze on your hand.

Slipping out just enough, he watched your juices spray all over him. Mesmerising him. He worked on autopilot. Bundling you into his arms and manhandling you into a different position.

Tossing you to your side, Sukuna slotted behind you. Hips spooning your ass. One strong arm hooked around your neck, choking you on his bicep. While the other strung around your thigh. Wrenching you open for him and his massive cock, that bullied back into your cunt. Squelching your cum and sick in messy streams.

Your angelic cries resonated into his bicep. Making him squeeze it harder against your throat. Headlocking you into his greedy mouth that sucked hickies across your neck.

The angle was deeper. Filthier. Letting him feel so much more of you.

How much smaller you were than him. How you squeezed him just right. How perfect you were in his arms.

Like you belonged.

Shit. Don't go there.

Sukuna tried to drown it out. The returning thought of you. A permanent fixture in his life. Your pink body wash on his counter, that was now his. Your books on his shelves that he could read to you. You, in his living room, painting.

Painting the jungle. Painting home. Being his home.

His cock pulsed hard at the base and sweltered at the tip. The knot in his stomach wound tight. But that thought— that thought gutted him.

That you were here. That you had been here. Warm, and sweet, and soft and for the last few weeks. His.

You could be his.

"No," he wanted it to sound like a grunt. But he whimpered. Panting, heaving, mind dizzy and thrusts frantic—

Sukuna was whimpering.

Your face was pressed into his bicep. Head limp and hand still trying to hold his that clutched your thigh. Still calling his name so sweetly.

"N-No?" You breathed.

Still attuned to him even when he was fucking your brains out.

"Don't want you to leave."

Oh.

Oh.

He hadn't realised that it slipped from his lips. Hadn't realised that through his brutal thrusts— he was breaking. Lost in the burning bliss, the heat, and the warmth of what could be.

Sukuna lost his fucking mind.

"Don't wanna— fuck. Don't wanna be alone." His face fell into your neck. Arms squeezing your body into his. Trying to melt your skin into his. Tuck himself into your warm flesh and the selfish wish you gave him.

Hazed, and hot, and so heavenly yours.

Slick hair pressed into your cheek. His body collapsed onto yours. Pounding his cock up into your creamy cunt. Chasing his blazing nerves as his mouth rambled.

"Don't want you to leave. Don't. Shit. Don't leave me, please, please don't fucking leave me."

His thrusts lost rhythm. As frantic as his rushed whispers. Plunging into your cervix. Bruising your thighs. Clutching you closer. As close as he could muster. As close as it would take to keep you here forever.

"Say you won't— say you," he slurred. Eyes squeezed shut. Words melting into a clumsy splutter of curses. "Say. Say you won't. Say—"

"Won't. Won't. 'kuna I won't— hngahh. Promise!"

That single word. So raw. So true. Choked in a gasp as you tried to nudge your face closer to him.

It shattered whatever pride he had left.

"You promise?"

He croaked. Dangerously hopeful.

You nodded. Cried.

"Promise. I promise S'kuna. Breed me— please."

He should have known you'd be trouble from the moment you first smiled at him.

Heat trapped him. Seeped into every nerve and spasming muscle. Ears drooped. Tail clinging around your waist, as his arms did every inch of you.

He held your hand.

The ache in his hips nulled to the sound of your sweet voice. Tucking promises away in his heart and sealing them with attempted kisses, even when he was choking you.

He felt your orgasm shake through you. Your body locking up as you babbled his name into the humidity. And with that Sukuna finally— finally let go.

Ramming his cock up one, final time. He stilled. Deep and thrumming within you. Heat bursting from his gut and washing over him in a devastating wave of blissful carnage.

Loud and wrecked, his moan vibrated into your back. Hips rocking in small stutters as spluttering, white ropes creamed your cervix. Pouring his thick cum into every inch of your twitching cunt. Brimming you with him and his promise.

"Fucking. . . fuck. . . hah. Take it. Take all this cum in your pretty pussy." Slurs dragged up your throat, to your ear as you face limped into his arm. His voice husked, a vow.

"Just feel me breeding you full. Filling you with my cubs."

You whined, meekly rocking back into him. But he snatched your hips and pressed it down into the mattress with a soft hush.

The throbbing at his base thrummed into swelling. His knot bloomed until it lodged stiff in your cunt. Pulsing with your pathetic little twitches.

He watched your eyes widen and brows furrow. Your body locked up and a whimper strained from your swollen lips. "Mmm. That's your—"

"Mhhm. Just stay still."

Laving his tongue over one of the bites, Sukuna held you near. Savouring your warmth.

The silence finally didn't feel like a void. Even if it was heavy.

He held onto the moment. Clung to its peace as the warmth simmered into cooling sweat on your flesh.

You broke the quiet first.

"Did you mean that?"

He didn't answer you. But his hand cupped your tummy. Fingers still laced in yours as his face tucked against the back of your shoulder.

". . . Was it too much?"

He never thought his voice could ache.

You tried to shift again, and despite the lump in his throat, he clicked his tongue. Squeezed your thigh in warning. "I said stay still, didn't I?"

"You're never too much. Not for me, Sukuna."

There you went, saying his name like it meant something.

Nudging your face to his, Sukuna licked at the tears on your face. A tender act he never thought himself capable of. "Don't say shit like that."

"That I want you? Or that I love you?"

His breath hitched.

Once the knot settled, he pulled out. Hesitantly— especially with your heat still clinging to him.

"You love me?" He muttered, laying a kiss on your cheek. Then to your jaw. To your shoulder. Down your body until you were on your back.

Calloused thumbs swept your folds back. Eyeing the lewd streak of cum leaking out of you.

His eyes found yours as you spoke, tender.

"Do you want me to say it again?" One of your hands raked into his hair.

His face nudged between your thighs. His hummed approval followed the flat of his tongue. Laving up your slit. Licking away the mess and holding your thighs open amidst their intense shivers.

Even as you whined. With your eyes on the brink of tears. They were still soft for him.

"I love you."

You shouldn't.

He shouldn't.

But he still said it back.

"My mate."

Low, and grumbled, not those three words but something that spelt a deeper bond. One he finally had.

After licking you clean, Sukuna bundled you up into the sheets. Pushing himself from the bed and returning with a warm towel and a water bottle.

He cradled the back of your head as he gave you the water.

Worshipped your flesh as he wiped you down. Tracing over bruises and bites. His mark.

And when you were finally tucked into his arms. Dozing off with your head nestled on his heart that now beat for you. His tail curled around your leg and his claws soft on your curves. Sukuna understood.

That his too much was just enough for you.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/pixopix | art cred: @/cakkezzz ( twt )

꒰ 🍓 ⸰  ✦ enjoyed this piece?   ꒱ consider joining my patreon or commissioning me <3 I appreciate all the support!

[lololullaby]

[jojorice]

mafia boss x daycare teacher pt. 2~😘💋

sneakin a lil secret kiss hehe ><

pt.1

[tojicide]

rumor has it / gojo satoru

pairing: rich boy/nerd!gojo x fem!reader

summary: a fortune, the student council presidency, and a future already negotiated for you—complete with a ryomen engagement ring after you graduate from university. you’ve got it all… but is that really what you want? an unexpected friendship with gojo satoru makes the answer far less certain.

warnings: (18+) smut, porn with plot, fluff, light angst, college au, academic rivals/annoyances to lovers, oral (fem. receiving), p in v, criminally down bad!gojo, mentions of frat parties, alcohol consumption, marriages of convenience, family troubles, and overall rich people problems ™️, the university they go to is heavily implied to be aristocratic, brief sukuna x reader but she doesn’t fw him, anatomy & physiology facts that are probably incorrect but we shall ignore that for the sake of the plot

word count: 16.9k

art by bimyo_n!

Rumor has it that everything began the moment winter break ended.

You extended the handle of your suitcase and walked toward the foyer, where you were sure your mother was already waiting. By the time you rounded the corner, she was already unlocking the front door and pulling it open.

As if it couldn’t be any more obvious that she was eager for you to leave the house and return to university.

If you had to guess, the end of each break between semesters was her favorite time of year. 

Well, that and her birthday—because your father had made a habit of buying her a new handbag each season, and if there was anything she loved more than a mansion to herself, it was a mansion to herself full of designer purses.

“The car is waiting for you,” she said simply, her tone lacking the warmth of a mother wishing her daughter farewell. 

You hardly noticed its absence. You hadn’t felt it in years, anyway. You’d be lucky—or unlucky, you weren’t quite sure—if she hugged you goodbye.

Just as you opened your mouth to reply, you noticed the furrow in her brow. Wordlessly, she pressed her hand between your shoulder blades to correct your posture. “How is it that you’ve somehow managed to develop a slouch? Your father and I didn’t pay for you to go to charm school for nothing to come of it.”

Your jaw tightened, the familiar urge to shrug her hand away flared, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “And where is he? He couldn’t take an early lunch to come home and see me off?”

She released a breath that sounded more like a laugh than a scoff. “Why would he? You’re going to be back in two months for dinner with the Ryomen family. He’ll see you then.”

This time, your bitterness did reach your voice. “Oh. Right. That.”

Your suitcase was plucked from your side by the family driver and you watched as he loaded it into the trunk.

“Yes. That.” Your mother tugged at your skirt, as if that would make it any longer. 

She looked at you sharply. Her message was clear, even though it remained wordless: don’t show up wearing something like this the next time we see you.

After all, appearances were important. You had learned that from an early age.

By the time you were ten, your eyebrows were already being plucked biweekly. Sometimes, thrice in one month, should your mother notice a hair out of place. At eleven, you learned what pore strips were, why they were used, and what people would say about you if you didn’t. Once you were fourteen, styling your hair came as easily as walking on two feet.

But the Ryomen family didn’t care about that as much as your mother did. 

What they truly cared about was securing a fortune that would create generational wealth. They cared about fostering a bond with your parents that would lead to a prosperous business relationship. They only cared about you because you were the business—an investment that they expected to mature on schedule. Well, you and Sukuna, their son, whom you have practically been betrothed to since you were six years old.

Graduation was approaching, and you would bet your life that this dinner was a gimmick—one for both sets of parents to nudge you two closer together. Not that they cared whether you truly got along. Aligning the Ryomen fortune with your family name would make your combined estate as good as gold. They likely just wanted to ensure that the eventual marriage (business deal) would be lifelong.

Which is to say, they wanted to drill it into your head that filing for divorce was not an option once everything was said and done. How sweet of them.

You couldn’t worry about that now, though. You were already running late, and you needed to get back to campus and unpack. Classes start tomorrow morning, and you would hate to be seen with bags under your eyes—and your mother would certainly hate to hear about it from the monumental amount of staff at Mikage Academy, who seemed intent on notifying her of nearly every step you took over the past few years.

“Well, I should be going,” you muttered—more to yourself than to her—because you weren’t even confident she was listening anymore.

Your suspicions were confirmed when she muttered a final ‘don’t forget about the dinner’ before shutting the door behind you. She didn’t follow you out. Didn’t hug you goodbye either.

Once you were inside the vehicle—headphones on, with music blaring loud enough to drown out any chance at forming a coherent thought—you relaxed your shoulders and slouched, because there was no one here to pester you about it.

At least that was something you could be thankful for.

☆

The student council election was rapidly approaching, and that was just about all you were allowed to think about.

You knelt on the ground with a paintbrush in your hand, carefully mapping out the words Vote Y/N for Student Council President! :) on the posterboard.

The headphones in your ears were turned up a bit too high, because you hadn’t even noticed that your best friend, Utahime, had entered the empty workroom until she accidentally kicked over the can of red paint you had been using. You gasped as it splattered all over the poster, leaning back on the heels of your feet to ensure, at the very least, that it didn’t get on your clothes.

“Utahime!”

“I’m sorry!” she said quickly, tilting the can upright again. 

The damage had already been done, though. She knelt beside you and carefully folded up the poster, tossing it into a nearby bin. Wiping her hands against each other, her eyes landed on you. 

“Let the record show that I didn’t mean to do that and am guilty of all crimes regardless,” she paused, then smiled at you. “You know, you don’t really need to campaign. No one has run against you in, what— three years?”

You frowned as you wiped your thumb over the dot of paint on your skirt. It was small enough that an untrained eye wouldn’t notice. “I know that, but you can never be too sure.”

“Actually, you can be,” she retorted, but retrieved a fresh posterboard for you anyway. “The only way you lose this election is if a meteor penetrates Earth’s orbit and targets Mikage specifically, and in that case, we would all be dead anyway.”

You raised a brow as you dipped a fresh paintbrush into the can. “In that case, I should campaign to make sure that everyone died with an intent to vote for me.”

Utahime laughed with a shake of her head but didn’t push it any further. “I should run a smear campaign against you in the school’s newspaper. Maybe then, your effort won’t be for naught.” She paused. “Speaking of— have you read the newspaper lately?”

You were stopped dead in your tracks. If Utahime had managed to read the entirety of the university’s boring-to-death newspaper and felt it was important enough to bring up to you, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. “Yeah? Not this week’s issue, though. Why?”

“Of course you read it regularly,” she mumbled with a smile before fishing her phone out of her backpack. “There’s a new column for blind items. About the students. Can you believe that this shit actually made the final cut? It’s awesome.”

You invaded her personal space to look at her phone screen. “No way. What are they saying?”

Utahime laughed. “Just read it for yourself. I had to change my outfit because I read them this morning while brushing my teeth and laughed so hard, I toothpaste-bombed my own shirt.”

Reading the blind items to yourself, you can’t help but stifle your laugh that comes before the unease settles in. Someone had written these based on what they had observed, and despite how harmless they seemed now, the concept of that person walking among you was something that left a pit in your stomach.

A certain basketball player was seen coming back to his dorm room around 4 a.m. with multiple shades of lipstick on his neck.

A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has been shitting in the showers for two weeks straight.

A sorority girl tossed the entirety of her roommate’s makeup collection out the window and blamed it on someone else, resulting in their expulsion from the sorority.

A notorious rich boy blew his semester’s allowance on a new sports car.

You skimmed the rest and ensured that none of them could be about you before you handed Utahime her phone back. “I’m sure we all know who number four is about.”

She shrugged but nodded anyway. “Right? I mean, Gojo revs his engine like it’s nobody’s business all the time.” She looked down at her phone. “I wonder who’s shitting in the showers, though.”

“Maybe that one’s about Gojo, too,” you quipped, too quickly to hide the bite in your voice.

You regretted how much you sounded like your mother then, and how easily it had come out. 

Your family’s disdain for the Gojo family stemmed long before you were born. Hell, before your parents were even born. The details of it all were up for interpretation at this point—nobody talked about it, and you never dared to ask—but to your understanding, Gojo’s great-great-great-grandfather had screwed over yours—somehow, some way—and this was what had come of it. You would be reluctant to believe it. After all, there were quite a few tools in your own family, and you liked to believe you were nothing like them.

But the asshat that was Satoru Gojo lived up to his reputation, as far as you’d learned. That was enough for you to write him off. 

Not to mention, he was the only student here at Mikage who posed a threat to you. He was academically gifted and never let you forget it; most things came easier to him than they did you, and you hated him for it. 

Well, that and the time he spilled beer all over your shoes at a frat party freshman year. He probably didn’t even remember it had happened, but you did, because some other dipshit had been recording the entire ordeal and posted it online.

The earful you’d gotten from your parents that day was enough for you to stay away from him entirely.

All the while, Utahime raised her eyebrow with a grin. “Oh, wow. You’d better hope he didn’t hear that, or else you just lost a vote.”

☆

All things considered, you were having a good day.

Even though your hair is still slightly damp from the rain and the perfume you put on only two hours ago has nearly worn off, you’re pretty confident that you’ve just aced your first Anatomy & Physiology test. 

Every other person in the lecture hall is already relaxed, scrolling on their phones while they wait for your professor to hand back the graded exams—because all things considered, it’s only worth three percent of your total grade after all calculations. And yes, you have done the calculations (twice!), because heaven forbid you be uninformed about anything relating to your academics.

You glance at your watch nervously. You hope this class is released on time, because attending it was only the second thing you’ve checked off your mile-long to-do list for the day. 

You have a student council meeting at 2 p.m., a meeting with Professor Yaga at 3:15 p.m. about an upcoming scholarship opportunity, and a study date with Sukuna at 4 p.m.—where he doesn’t do much of anything at all aside from scrolling through red pill looksmaxxer Instagram reels for two hours.

A test is lazily tossed back onto your desk, and you pick it up immediately.

It’s a 98%. An A.

You smile to yourself, but it doesn’t last very long. It falters the moment you feel a presence looming over your shoulder—one that carries the scent of expensive cologne. It’s light and masculine, and reminds you of summer, for whatever reason. You may have complimented it if the presence hadn’t beaten you to speaking.

“Only a ninety-eight? Poor thing. Didn’t sleep well or something?”

Suddenly, your compliment dries up, because you’d know that voice anywhere. Satoru fucking Gojo.

You snap your head around so fast it nearly spins off your spine. “Stay away from me and get a life,” you say through gritted teeth, but snatch his test from his hands despite yourself.

And there, in the top corner, written in pen, is a 100%. From what you can tell from all the talking he’s doing right now—which you aren’t listening to a lick—he’s pretty intent on rubbing it in your face.

He clicks his tongue and places his hand on the back of your seat, using it for leverage as he leans over you a bit more. “See? You got number thirteen wrong. You said the fluid inside body cells is extracellular fluid. Ouch.” He pats the back of your seat, as if it’s any consolation. “You know, I’m free Thursday afternoons. I could tutor you, and once the exam comes around, that frown will be turned right-side up—”

You stand abruptly and hand his test back to him, your wrist so rigid it may as well cut through ice. “Oh, I’m so good off that. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with an ice pick.”

Satoru tilts his head, his grin so smug it makes you sick. “Well, suit yourself. Speaking of—pretty sure ice picks are usually on clearance this time of year. Y’know, with it being spring and all.”

A single glance around the room tells you nearly everyone else has already left, and that it’s painfully obvious you and Satoru are the only ones who stayed behind to talk. You’d rather not be spotted with him again. You don’t bother hiding your eye roll as you zip up your backpack and walk away, crumpled test in tow.

“Hey, where are you going? What about our riveting conversation?” he calls after you, and you can practically hear his grin when he speaks. “It was a funny joke!”

The door slams shut behind you.

☆

You can’t stand Sukuna—no matter how hard you try.

“Can you at least turn that down?”

Sukuna grumbled under his breath before slumping even lower into the seat he dwarfed in size, but he lowered the volume of his Instagram reels just enough to pacify you. “What’s it matter, anyway? There’s nobody here.”

You huffed and tried not to take it personally, as the single person currently sitting beside him. “It matters to me because, unlike some people, I actually care about my grades. Very shocking, I know.”

It might be shocking to most—which you’d understand, because it even shocks you on most days—but Sukuna is one of the few people in your life who understands you.

Not when it comes to the things that make you who you are as an independent person. He couldn’t recite your full name if he tried, nor could he remember your birthday, favorite color, or go-to drink order at your favorite café.

Because at the end of the day, Sukuna doesn’t see you. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to. But after everything, he knows you better than most. He knows about the things you don’t say out loud. He knows how much you hate going home, because he hates it just as much. He knows that none of this truly matters, because your parents have had your futures lined up for over a decade, and none of your hard work plays a factor in that.

Where the two of you differ is this: you still seem to be under the assumption that hard work might relieve you of your fate, but Sukuna has long since adopted a different worldview. He thinks that if everything is going to work out in the end—a nice house, a somewhat decent spouse, a few kids in the far future—then what’s the point in trying in the meantime?

“Jeez, woman. I was just asking. It that time of the month or somethin’?”

You scoffed, but didn’t dignify him with a reply.

You don’t know what this is exactly—whatever you and Sukuna are. You aren’t dating. You have kissed a few times—experimental and primarily drunk kisses shared at parties that never amounted to anything, because, well… you just don’t like each other. You aren’t sure if you’re even friends, or if you’d want to be.

At most, you’re familial acquaintances, which is the polite way of saying that he is supposed to be your husband one day, if your parents have anything to say about it.

“I just need to focus. Yaga said I have a good chance at landing the internship, but that doesn’t mean I should start slacking off now.”

“What internship?”

You blinked.

“The internship I applied for three months ago?”

Sukuna blinked.

“The one I passed three rounds of interviews for?”

You scoffed. “For fuck’s sake, Sukuna, it’s just about the only thing I’ve been talking about for months!”

He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, okay. Jeez. The only thing I’m noticing right now is that I’m not the only one being loud in the library anymore.”

A swarm of harsh replies flooded your mind, but you tamped them down—because you were 99% percent sure Sukuna was far too dim-witted to grasp whatever insult you could chuck his way anyway.

“Whatever. I need to get going.” You packed up your belongings and stood, taking a step in the opposite direction before he caught your arm. You glared back at him. “What?”

“Are you mad at me or somethin’? What’d I say?”

Once again, you didn’t give him a reply and walked away.

Sukuna leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest with a shake of his head. “Women.”

Once in the hallway, you approached the vending machine. You could use a pick-me-up, even if it were in the form of junk food. Just as you were within a few feet of it, an infuriating man with white hair slid in front of you. Satoru was quick to slide a dollar into the machine and punch in whatever he wanted.

“Oh—sorry, did you want something?” he asked over his shoulder, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips.

You were fed up with men today. No, scratch that. You were more than fed up with men today. You rolled your eyes and began to walk away, and maybe Satoru had a change of heart, or maybe he realized that your fallen expression didn’t just have to do with running into him.

“Hey, no— come back, I’m serious,” he called after you. He reached into his pocket and slid another dollar into the machine. “What do you want?”

You turned around, eyeing him closely. “I don’t need your dollar, Gojo.”

Unfazed by your tone, he laughed. It was boyish and carefree in a way that surprised you. “I know you don’t,” he said simply. “Way to make me feel nice about my good deed, though. I didn’t know a single dollar could move you so much.” You narrowed your eyes at him, and he tilted his head toward the machine in response. “C’mon. Pick something.”

And because you just couldn’t catch a break today, your stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly. You placed a hand over your abdomen immediately, your face nearly losing its color.

“…Gummy bears,” you finally managed to choke out. “Please.”

Satoru smiled and punched in the corresponding code for a bag of Haribo Gummy Bears. “Decent choice for a starving woman. Not sweet enough for my taste, but decent.”

You huffed out a breath, watching him retrieve both of your chosen snacks. “Sour Patch Kids? Really?”

He handed you the gummy bears before nodding once. “Yup. Really.” He paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “I thought you’d like them. I mean, you’d definitely fit in with them.”

“Fit in with who?”

Satoru tore the bag open and popped one into his mouth. “The Sour Patch Kids. Y’know—with this whole mean-girl-who-hates-me getup you’ve got going on. Really sour of you.”

Your eyebrows pinched together. “That’s so stupid.”

“Yeah, but you almost smiled. Saw it with my own eyes,” he chirped back, chewing on the candy. You smoothed your expression, and he shook his head. “No, no, no— don’t hide it now. That’s just unfair. I paid a dollar for that smile.”

Your face tightened, because now you really were fighting the urge to smile, damn it. “Whatever,” you snapped as you started to walk away—then stopped, your expression tightening even more. “I mean… thank you. For the gummy bears.” You said one last thing before turning your back on him. “And don’t think this means I like you now, because I don’t.”

Satoru just smiled. “Yeah, of course, wouldn’t dream of it.”

☆

Your phone vibrated late into the night.

If it were any other day, you would’ve been fast asleep by now. You’d been strict about your sleep schedule ever since you accidentally discovered—at twelve years old, six hours into a late-night 3 a.m. deep dive—that not sleeping enough can result in the brain eating itself. 

But even the fear of having a peanut-sized brain by the time you were forty hadn’t been enough to lull you to sleep tonight, which was how you found yourself watching ASMR cat spa day videos at 1 a.m.

You groaned when you glanced at the top of your screen and saw who dared to interrupt your doomscrolling.

sukuna: hey

sukuna: i can see u reading my texts.

sukuna: stop being mad at me and listen

sukuna: theres a party tomorrow night and i think you should come

sukuna: and before u get all “i need to focus and stay in and be boring all the time” on me just listen

sukuna: u should take time away from your hw and relax

You nearly smiled. This might’ve been the nicest thing Sukuna had ever said to you.

sukuna: plus i wanna go and it looks bad if we arent there together. people talk.

Never mind.

you: i’ll think about it

sukuna: cool. be ready by 9

you: i never said i was going???

☆

Spoiler alert: you wound up coming to the party.

The air is stale and smells of vape smoke and alcohol. The frat house is far too crowded, and from where you’re standing in the kitchen, everyone looks like a pack of sardines wiggling around to a 2010s pop song that no one has quite caught the rhythm for yet. And yet, for all of your complaining, you’re still here—looking your best, at that.

You weren’t as much of a bore as Sukuna made you out to be, but you could admit that you didn’t party nearly as much as you had when you first started at Mikage. The passing of time makes you more responsible, or whatever the poets say—you can’t remember, and you’re honestly a little tipsy already, truth be told.

Suddenly, Shoko nudges your side with her elbow. “Hey, party girl. You gonna stand in here all night, or do you plan on joining us at some point?”

“I didn’t even see you there,” you say through a laugh, waving a hand through the air to dissipate some of the vape smoke Toji blows only a few feet away. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

You follow her through the crowd, only managing to bump into a few people along the way while clutching your Solo cup tight to your chest. It’s warmer now that you’re enveloped in this sea of bodies; your cheeks feel hot, but you pay no mind to it. You’re not sure how long it takes before you and Shoko reunite with Utahime and Nobara, the four of you forming a little circle for yourselves—something that looks conspiratorial from the outside, but feels like a haven on the inside.

“Took you long enough,” Nobara says by way of greeting. She glances down at your cup. “What’d you find in the kitchen?”

“I don’t even know what the hell this is. I just grabbed whatever was unopened and poured it into a cup with ice. I’m hoping it’ll water down,” you reply with a shrug.

Nobara scoffs. “Toji never stocks shit for these parties—deadass, this is the worst frat. I don’t even know why we come here.”

Shoko laughs, though you can barely hear it over the music. “We come here because girls get in free at the door. I mean, if I’m gonna get shitfaced and regret my decisions tomorrow morning, I sure as hell don’t wanna pay for it.”

Utahime taps Shoko’s cup. “Yeah, speaking of getting shitfaced—you’re drinking water once you finish that. I can’t carry you back to your dorm. The last time I tried, I basically dragged you there.”

Shoko groans but doesn’t fight it. All of a sudden, the three of them lock eyes on something directly behind you, and their expressions fall.

Utahime’s face goes white as she places her hands on your shoulders. “Girl, don’t turn around. I’m so serious.”

“What are you talking about?” Your brows knit together, even as you’re already turning.

And when you see it, your eyes widen.

Sukuna is making out with some girl in the center of the room, and while the sight doesn’t make you sick, it does make you nervous. In the span of three seconds, a million thoughts rush through your mind.

You’re granted a glimpse into your future: a future where you marry a man who invites you to a party just to make out with another girl right in front of you. A future where you never feel secure enough to let your guard down, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. A future where you die even more miserable than you feel right now.

Not because you’re jealous. No, you couldn’t care less what the hell he does. It’s the principle that bothers you.

If you were expected to keep up appearances and make time to “bond” with him out of your already packed schedule, why was he allowed to do whatever he pleased?

You hope no one else is paying as much attention to him as you are, because the last thing you need is both of your parents finding out and breathing down your neck, trying to put Sukuna on a leash.

“Just classless,” Shoko hums.

You turn back around, laughing. “He’s a mess. I don’t know what the hell my parents are thinking.”

Nobara sighs. “You should run away and join the circus or something. They’ll never find you.”

“Super helpful, Nobara. Thank you,” Utahime says flatly.

You laugh to yourself, knowing they’re only trying to make you feel better. But the impending doom of your upcoming graduation feels worse than ever now. You feel suffocated—like the air is too warm to breathe—so you mumble out a half-assed excuse before slipping through the crowd and out onto the balcony.

It’s cold outside. Refreshing against your skin.

The party has spilled out onto the front lawn, and the sight is so ridiculous it brings you an odd sense of comfort. Choso wobbles on two unsteady legs with Nanami perched on his shoulders, currently trying—and failing—to fish toilet paper out of a tree. Two seconds later, they go tumbling over together, face-planting into the grass.

“That’s gotta hurt.”

You gasp, wrenching away from the edge of the balcony to look behind you.

And there he stood.

Satoru fucking Gojo.

Only now, he looks different. More casual. Relaxed, right down to the smoothed wrinkle between his eyebrows and the clothes he’s wearing now. You’ve never seen him in anything but collared dress shirts and black slacks, courtesy of Mikage Academy’s suffocating dress code.

He takes a step closer. Then another. Soon he’s beside you, forearms resting on the railing. His shirt stretches across his frame, and your eyes traitorously trace the curve of his bicep. The sharp line of his jaw. The slope of his nose.

You tear your gaze away before it gets embarrassing. Has he always looked like that?

Clearing your throat, you mirror his posture. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he replies easily. He glances at you, then back out at the lawn. “Nice party. Solid DJ choice.”

You huff. “Small talk? Really?”

Satoru shrugs. “I figured I should ease into it. You don’t exactly look like you’re in the mood for my usual charm.”

“You mean being insufferable?”

“Wow,” he says. “I was more so going for memorable.”

Your eyes meet. You’re the first to look away.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I don’t really know how to talk to you when I’m not irritated with you and your stupid gloating.” You pause, then lift a finger. “And before you say anything—I aced the quiz yesterday. So if you came out here to rub it in, save it.”

“Oh no,” Satoru deadpans. “My entire plan— ruined right before my eyes.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling, but it’s softer than usual. 

“No,” he continues, dropping his head slightly. “That’s not why I came out here.”

Your brows pinch together. “No?”

“Nope. I needed air. And maybe a tetanus shot after sitting on that couch, ‘cause that thing’s disgusting.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“And,” he adds casually, “I saw you come out here.”

You turn toward him. Somehow, his eyes look brighter at night. “Is that your official reason?”

“Mostly,” he says. “What can I say? I’m curious.”

“About?”

“About why you look like you’d rather be anywhere else than at a party like this.”

You hesitate. “It’s… complicated, I guess.”

“Ah,” Satoru nods. 

You scoff, easily reading between the lines. “It has nothing to do with Sukuna. Well— okay, maybe a little. But not like that.”

He tilts his head. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looked like your boyfriend might have a lot to do with it.”

“Ew. No,” you say quickly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Something shifts in Satoru’s expression. “Good to know.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Just is.”

You roll your eyes, but continue anyway, words spilling easier now. “If my parents have their way, he’ll probably be more than my boyfriend someday.” You grimace. “Which is terrifying, because he’s about as smart as a box of rocks, and I can’t be around him for more than ten minutes without wanting to bang my head against the wall.”

Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Here I thought I was harsh.”

Panic flickers through you when he doesn’t say anything else right away.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you rush on. “There are people who’d kill to have something lined up like that, and here I am complaining. My mom married my dad for business reasons and they’re… fine. I think.” You run a hand over your hair. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want to be married right after graduation. I don’t even know if I want to get married at all.”

Satoru doesn’t interrupt, but when he does speak, his voice is quieter. “That doesn’t sound stupid. In a place like this,” he gestures toward campus, “everything’s a transaction. Degrees, connections, last names.” He scoffs lightly. “My parents won’t shut up about networking. Meanwhile, the best relationship I’ve built here is with the lady who gives me extra french toast in the dining hall.”

You laugh, clearly surprised. Not only because the french toast sucks, but because you wouldn’t expect something like that from him. It should make you feel less impressed with him, but for some reason, it doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he adds. “Peace isn’t exactly encouraged around here. If anything, you’re expected to trade for it.”

“And you?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “You don’t seem all that worried about it, for someone who comes from a family like yours.”

Satoru shrugs again, but this time it’s different. Less flippant. “Guess I just decided a while ago that I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.”

The quiet that follows is heavier than the music inside. You can hear the hollers and shuffling feet just inside, but it fades away just as quickly as it came.

“You make it sound easy,” you say.

He smiles. “Hey, I never said it was. It’s just easier than the alternative, is all.”

You nod because it feels appropriate, and you aren’t sure what else you should do. Talking with him is surprisingly easy, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to be doing it. That you should be doing it. Even now, you wish you could resonate with Satoru’s ideology, because all you can think about is how much your parents would hate this.

“My parents would hate this,” you blurt out, accidentally saying your thoughts aloud.

You look at him, embarrassed and doing your best to hide it. It feels strange, knowing just how much you’re supposed to hate talking to him yourself, but don’t.

He rubs the back of his neck. “This conversation?”

You try not to stare at his bicep, flexing right in your face.

“Yeah,” you admit. “My parents hate your family. Always have.”

“Mine aren’t exactly fans of yours either.” Satoru laughs, tilting his head slightly. The feeling was mutual—he couldn’t take much offense at it. Still, he asks, “Do you feel that way too?”

“What do you mean?”

He turns to look at you, his expression almost serious. “Do you hate me?”

You huff. “I don’t even understand the reasoning all that much. I just know that the animosity exists, and that I’m expected to respect it— and I guess I have, for the most part.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” he replies simply. “Do you hate me? On your own terms?” He pauses then, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he looked a tad nervous. “I’m sure I’ve given you enough of a reason to. More than one, I’d bet.” He glances away. “The first time we ever spoke, I spilled beer all over your shoes. I shouldn’t have been holding it anyway— I hate beer.”

“I knew you remembered!” you yell, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve been holding that grudge against you for years now.”

“What? Of course I remember. I apologized immediately,” he says quickly. “Pretty sure I almost got on my knees and everything.”

You click your tongue and shake your head. “The damage was already done.”

The conversation stills for a moment, and you choke over your words before managing a more serious reply. 

“For as obnoxious as you are, I don’t hate you. No. I don’t even know you well enough to hate you if I wanted to.”

“Alright, I’ll take it.” Satoru smiles to himself. “I think you’d form a better opinion of me if you let me get to know you. You’re a tough nut to crack, you know— been tryin’ for years.”

You stare at him, and he doesn’t cower in response. Not that he typically would, but you half-expected him to.

“I’m serious,” he says instead. “We should be friends.”

Your laugh comes out sharp. “Absolutely not. My parents would be livid. Beyond livid, actually—they’d probably murder me. And I mean, a true crime podcaster’s wet dream type of murder. No joke.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I think we should definitely be friends,” he says through his laughter. “I’ve always wanted to be in a documentary. Confessionals and all. A face like this is made for the cameras.”

“You’re such a jerk,” you scoff, nudging his side, barely able to fight off your smile.

“Mm-hmm. A big jerk that you’re still talking to,” he replies. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted to be my friend too.”

You don’t reply, which might have just been an answer in and of itself.

For the first time throughout this entire conversation, Satoru turns his body to face you properly. His head tilts down enough to accommodate the height difference between you.

“I think this might be the first argument you’ve ever let me win,” he grins.

You narrow your eyes. “This isn’t a win. It’s more like… a draw. A tie.”

“Sure. A draw, a tie. Potato, potahto. Whatever.” He extends his hand toward you. “So. Friends?”

You take it and shake it. “Yes. Friends.”

He smiles. “See? Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

When your hands fall apart, Satoru’s hand stills at his side—fingers flexing—before he grasps the railing. You straighten, stepping back from it yourself. The night air suddenly feels too thin, as if there isn’t enough of it for the two of you to breathe anymore. More anxiety than anything else.

“I should probably go,” you murmur. “It’s late.”

And you’ve been talking for quite some time now, which only means it’s a matter of time before someone notices and writes a blind item in that stupid newspaper column.

“Right,” he replies. “Need someone to walk you home?”

You shake your head. “I think I’ll manage.”

Satoru nods, his smile slow as it turns up at the corners. “Alright. Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Night,” you reply weakly before reemerging into the party.

You reunite with your friends, who seem even more over the night than you are. The four of you walk back to your dormitory together.

☆

You royally fucked up this time.

To no surprise, you won the student council election with flying colors. No one had the balls—or…clit? You don’t discriminate—to run against you throughout the election cycle.

With some surprise, however, you decided to celebrate your victory with the other board members, taking way too many shots from a bottle that was emptied far too quickly.

On a fucking Tuesday.

You mentally kicked yourself—and you would’ve done the same physically if you weren’t on the verge of blacking out.

Vision splotchy, you glanced around the dorm, only to find that everyone was already passed out cold. You couldn’t stay here—you had a meeting bright and early!

And so, with some difficulty, you finally managed to find your purse—the one you had hidden while sober, back when your only concern was someone stealing the $60 in cash from your wallet.

Widening your eyes, the bright screen was a blur of letters and colors, but you managed to open your contacts app. Typing in an ‘S,’ you clicked Shoko’s contact, praying she was awake and able to come pick you up from the off-campus housing.

The line rang twice before someone answered.

You sigh in relief. “Girl, red alert! Get your sexy ass up and come pick me up!…please.”

“Woah, Prez. I had no idea you thought about me this way. Tell me more.”

Your heart dropped straight to your ass.

“Satoru…?” you whine, more than ask.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m startin’ to think you meant to call someone else. Bit of a blow to my ego, but I can handle it.”

Slumping against the couch, you huff. “Meant to call Shoko. Need a ride.”

Silence filled the line for a moment, then an insufferably attractive laugh broke it. “Are you drunk right now?”

You sniffled. “A little. I mean—a lottle. I-I mean, a lot. Very drunk. Drunk and stranded.”

You heard rustling on the other end, the faint jangle of keys. Your eyes fell shut. You were so damn tired.

“Okay, I just left my apartment. Where are you?”

In any other situation, you would’ve refused Satoru Gojo’s help. You were a strong, independent woman. You didn’t need a man to come to your rescue.

But the longer you sat on this couch, the more you wanted to ditch your mandatory meeting in the A.M. and pass out right here.

Even in this state, you were smart enough to know staying wasn’t an option.

“I’m at off-campus housing down the street. Please hurry. And bring water. And snacks. And a blanket. And—”

“Yes, boss, I’ve already got all of that—along with a partridge in a pear tree. Jeez, you’re needy.” He laughed, and it made you pout. “I’m only a few minutes away. Hang tight.”

⭑

“Watch your head, watch your head!”

Thunk.

“Oww,” you whine, rubbing the top of your head while Satoru busied himself fastening your seatbelt.

Rounding the front of his sports car, he slips into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life a few seconds later, but the car stayed in park. Instead, he reaches for the ice-cold water bottle in the cup holder, twisting off the cap before handing it to you.

“How much did you have to drink?” he asks, sounding almost agonized. “Don’t know if you know this, but it’s Tuesday night.”

It took you about ten seconds, a long drink of water, and a deep sigh of relief before you answered. 

“I won the presidency,” you finally say, as if that answered everything.

“Ah.” He reaches for a nearby pack of gummy bears. “This good? That’s all I could find on the way.”

“Yes,” you barely cared, tearing the package open. “Y’know, Gojo…you’re kinda nice.”

He huffs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really? What gave you that idea?”

Chewing thoughtfully, you started listing things your sober self would’ve never admitted.

“You came to get me even though I’m such a bitch to you. And you brought me water, and my favorite candy, and—hic!”

Satoru hums, clearly entertained. “Uh-huh. Keep going.”

“And you tease me all the time, but you aren’t that mean when it comes down to it…” You sniffle. “I honestly wish you were. It’d be easier to hate you.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he finally shifts the car into drive. “Aw, sorry about that. I can be mean to you if you want?”

The drive was quiet, mostly because it was so short—the streets were empty at this ungodly hour. When Satoru parked and killed the engine, he turned to look at you and froze.

You were chewing on gummy bears with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Are you a sad drunk?” he asks, even though he already knew. “Aw, you are, aren’t you?”

You sniffle. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He shifts toward you, more careful now, lifting the water bottle back to your lips. “‘Cause we’re friends now. I’m nice to my friends. C’mere.”

To his surprise, you let him tip the bottle, drinking without protest.

Swallowing, you frowned. “No, you aren’t.” Sniffle. “You’re mean to Suguru. And Nanami. And Toji…”

Satoru’s smile is lopsided. “You have a point. Guess I’m just nice to you then.”

“But why?” you press, not even realizing it. “You have no reason to be.”

Satoru was the type of man who had never needed to wish on stars to get what he wanted.

All it took was a swipe of one of his many credit cards or the mention of his family name. It worked without fail.

For everything except one thing, and she was sitting right beside him.

Oblivious to the fact that since freshman year, she’d made his heart race every time she was near. From the moment he met her in biology—cut down by her sharp tongue—he’d felt motivated instead of defeated.

He’d gone home that night thinking about her. Stayed up, even, planning ways to talk to you the next day. Ways to make you look at him. Talk to him. Give him the time of day.

You had no idea what you did to him, and right now, he had no place to tell you.

He leans back with a quiet hum. “For someone so smart, you can be a little dense sometimes.”

Your sniffle cut him off. His head snaps toward you, and his chest nearly caved in at the sight of fresh tears welling up.

“No, no, no, no— hey, I was joking! I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

Satoru cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. His eyes searched yours, softening despite himself. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You’re kinda cute when you’re drunk,” he says.

What the fuck?

Why would he say that out loud? Right now? Of all times?

“You’re kinda cute all the time,” you replied easily, fingers fumbling with the pendant on his necklace. “You smell really nice, too.”

Satoru’s heartbeat doubled, but he forced himself not to read into it. Not now. Not when you’re in this state.

He cleared his throat, pulling his hands away. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”

He stepped out first, then opened your door. Your eyes met his as he reached in to unbuckle you. “Easy,” he murmured.

Getting you out of the car was about ninety-five percent Satoru’s effort; you leaned into him the majority of the way, the two of you making your way toward the side entrance. It felt like it took hours to climb the stairs—but in reality, Satoru carried most of your weight without breaking a sweat.

By the time you reached your room, he helped you onto your bed, carefully slipping off your heels. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing over the faint mark the strap had left behind. He leaned over you slightly, hand smoothing over your hair.

“Get some sleep, okay?”

You didn’t notice when he set a bottle of aspirin and fresh water on your nightstand. You just curled under your blankets on instinct, heavy with exhaustion. Your eyes cracked open just enough to catch your on-call-Uber-driver-slash-friend retreating toward the door.

“Satoru?” you called.

He paused, one foot already out. “Mm?”

“I like it when you’re nice to me.” You shook your head. “No—I mean… I like being your friend.”

Satoru smiled faintly. “Me too.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

☆

You despise how much you enjoy being friends with Satoru Gojo.

You despise how attentive he is. How he silently hands you a pencil a beat after you realize you’ve come without one. How he holds the seat down for you so you can sit more easily in the lecture hall. How he gives you one of his AirPods whenever you’re in the library together, looking for your own books respectively, yet highly aware of how far you are from him when the music begins to chop up.

You despise how much he’s gotten you to let your guard down. How he makes you laugh whenever one of your student council meetings goes awry, because the high of being reelected as council president only lasts until the first meeting. How he assures you that you can get through whatever issue you’re working through with your boardmates, because, according to him, if you were able to snag his vote, then you can just about do anything. How he references Digimon or whatever video game he’s played last into just about every other conversation, to the point where it borders on endearing and annoying—but the expression he wears when he talks about it makes you easily decide on the former.

You despise how he makes you feel. How a simple nudge to your side whenever you reply with a smartass comment makes your face feel warm. How the scent of his cologne lingers after he leaves, and how you feel disappointed when it finally dissipates. How you’ve now become acutely aware of the length of his eyelashes, the vibrance of his eyes, the smile lines that look more handsome on him than you’d ever like to admit.

But more than anything, you despise that you just can’t find anything to hate about him—no matter how hard you try.

It had only been a little over a month, and yet it’s difficult to remember what it was like when the two of you weren’t friends, or what faulty reason you had to hate him in the first place.

You doodle a bit rougher in your notebook as you wait for instruction to begin, trying to get your mind off it. Off him.

Like clockwork, he plops down into the seat beside you, lazily extending his legs before placing a small white box on your desk.

“What’s this?” you ask, setting your pen down. When you open it, you find your favorite pastry sitting inside, untouched. Your brows knit together. “How’d you know this was my favorite?”

When you look at him, he’s already chewing a bite of the muffin he bought for himself.

“We’ve been to the café twice together and you got the same thing both times. How could I not know by now?”

You take a bite of your own, chewing thoughtfully. You’ve been to the café with Sukuna more times than you can count on both hands, and not once has he remembered what your go-to order is. It shouldn’t mean so much—in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a four dollar pastry—but it does. It feels good to be known, even in the simplest way.

“Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no prob,” he replies, setting his muffin down. “Your stomach growls when you don’t eat in the morning—I could hear it from three aisles back.”

You shove his shoulder, eyes wide. “Shut up. No, you couldn’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he relents with a grin, glancing your way. “It was four aisles back.”

You roll your eyes, face warm. You glance down at his muffin, and he clutches it closer to himself.

“No looksies,” Satoru says firmly. “Daddy doesn’t like to share.”

You grimace. “Ew. Gross. Don’t call yourself that.”

“Mommy doesn’t like to share?” 

“Even worse.”

Satoru sighs in playful defeat, and just in time—before he can try again—your professor addresses the class and starts the lecture.

And no more than five minutes later, he doesn’t even complain when you ask for a bite of his muffin.

☆

You’re nervous about your upcoming Anatomy & Physiology exam.

The air outside is brisk, the cold biting at your cheeks as you speedwalk toward your dormitory. Even though this is nowhere near your first rodeo with the freezing-to-pleasant transition between winter and spring, it never gets easier to manage. Especially not now, with your arms full of flash cards, two folders, an oversupply of fresh scratch paper, and blank scantrons that are just about begging to be practiced on—which means you don’t have a free hand to grab a hot chocolate from the on-campus café. What a great start to your study session this is.

Your steps are quick, and from afar, you probably look like you’re lightly jogging, which isn’t the best look considering you’re wearing a thick, furry winter coat and a pair of fuzzy pajama pants. It isn’t ideal, but you planned for this venture outside your dorm room to be quick.

That is, until you trip on a shift in the sidewalk and tumble forward.

You catch yourself on your hands, which only makes you realize that your supplies are now blowing away. You manage to pick up a few things on your own and reach for a folder—only to realize someone else has already picked it up.

“Nearly gone with the wind,” Satoru sighs. “Good thing I was here to save the day. No need for thanks— it’s all in a day’s work.”

You straighten once you’ve gathered the rest of your things. “You and your gloating. Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head, then glances down. “Cute slippers.”

Your eyes follow his gaze to the fuzzy slippers you only ever dare to wear out when your feet are freezing. You shift your feet and nudge his chest. “Shut up. They’re warm!”

“And fashionable,” he lilts, and gestures to the armful in your hands. “What’s all this for?”

“Studying,” you answer, because it’s obvious. “I’m gonna make flashcards for the A&P exam and probably take a few practice tests.” You reach for the folder still in his grasp. “So, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down a sec.” Satoru lifts the folder out of reach. “Let me help you out, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes. “Why? Don’t you want to score better than me anyway?”

“Oh no,” Satoru says flatly, face blank. “You’ve exposed my master plan once again. Whatever will I do?” Then he grins. “How could you think so little of me? I’ll score better than you without sabotage, you know that.”

“As if,” you retort, averting his gaze.

Satoru raises an eyebrow. “If you’re so confident, prove me wrong.”

You tuck your lips into your mouth, weighing his offer. On one hand, you’re hesitant to let him into your room—afraid that you might not dislike it. That you might even like being alone with him. On the other, you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge like this.

Your pride settles it for you.

“Fine,” you say. “I will. Follow me.”

☆

Rumor has it that this was where it all truly began.

Your bedroom.

It was all rather easy at first. You’d spent about an hour making flashcards, a time primarily spent in silence—save for his voice making noise pollution every so often. Mostly moans and groans about how bored and hungry he is, which fall on deaf ears.

By the time you finish the deck, Satoru’s jacket is hanging on the back of your desk chair, and he’s lazily sprawled across your bed. He’d offered to take the chair, but you insisted that sitting made you focus better. Which it does, but you’re also too nervous to sit beside him on the bed right now.

He tosses a stress ball toward the ceiling, catching it with one hand. “Done yet? I’m dying here. The fun part is supposed to be me quizzing you.”

You straighten the cards before tossing them his way, the deck landing on his stomach. “Yes, now hurry up. I don’t have all day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chirps, propping himself up against your pillows as he gathers the cards. He clears his throat, glances once at you, then back down. “What are the two primary functions of the skeletal system?”

It doesn’t take you more than a second. “Support the body and protect softer body parts.”

He hums and flicks to the next card. “What three things does the muscular system allow the body to do?”

You hum, rubbing your chin. “Movement, support, and… heat production.”

Another flick. “What about the nervous system?”

“It controls immediate responses to stimuli,” you answer easily.

Satoru huffs, flipping through card after card as you breeze through half the deck. Soon you’re naming the primary functions of individual muscles—temporalis, masseter, sternocleidomastoid, extensor digitorum—you’ve lost count of how many you’ve answered correctly. You’re zoned in, until he looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“These are too easy for you,” he declares. “You need something more challenging.”

You squint and lean back in your chair. “What? These are plenty challenging.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced. “Nope. You need more independent practice. Stuff you can’t predict.”

“Like what?” you ask. “Since you’re so smart, I’m assuming you have an alternative method. Put up or shut up.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, meeting your gaze without missing a beat. He’s long since learned your tone, your bite. He grins and sits up straighter, lifting an arm and pointing to his own. “What does the tricep do?”

You blink. “Straightens the arm at the elbow? Duh. I thought this was supposed to be hard.”

“Shh, be patient. A master is at work.” He pauses, then asks, “What about the orbicularis oris?”

Your posture straightens against your will, gaze dropping to his mouth. Your eyes trace the curve of his lips—where that muscle would be—and you watch as the corners of his mouth tug upward. Five seconds pass—longer than any question has taken you so far.

“It allows for movement in the lips,” you finally say.

“Mm,” he sighs. “Only half credit. That’s a little vague. Name three specific functions and I might reconsider.”

The room feels warmer. You clear your throat. “Speech, whistling, and… kissing.” Your eyes flick away to your desk as you fuss with loose papers, trying to come off as busy or distracted. You add quickly, “It’s informally known as the kissing muscle. Everyone knows that.”

A low whistle leaves him as he rises from the bed, stretching his arms over his head before stalking toward your desk. He stops behind your chair, flashcards still in hand.

“What’re you doing?” you ask, still facing forward.

He sets the cards down in front of you and places one hand on the desk, leaning just slightly over you. He isn’t touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back, and certainly close enough to make your thoughts scatter.

“Told you,” he murmurs. “I’m helping you study.”

You swallow. “How, exactly?”

He exhales, breath brushing your neck. “Have you practiced for the muscle identification portion yet?”

Shit. You’d nearly forgotten about that. From what you remembered your professor saying, there would be anatomy models stationed around the classroom, highlighted with nothing more than a single muscle on each one. It would be your responsibility to name the muscle and its function on the spot.

“Not really,” you admit, shrugging. Your back brushes his chest, and you clear your throat quickly. “How do you plan on helping with that?”

Satoru brushes your hair off your shoulder, knuckles barely grazing the back of your neck before his thumb presses gently into a muscle along your upper back. “For starters: what muscle just helped you shrug your shoulders?”

You swallow thickly. Your breath leaves you shaky, and you hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps rising on your skin when his thumb traces again, slow and deliberate. Meant to tease you, you’d imagine.

“Upper trapezius,” you say, breathy despite yourself.

“Good.” You can hear the smile in his voice. His hand moves, thumb sliding to the back of your neck. “Your neck’s tense.”

“Well,” you say, forcing a shaky exhale, “it’s not every day I become a study tool. First day on the job.”

He laughs, and there’s something charged beneath it. “You saying you don’t like my method?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all,” you blurt. You glance up and freeze at how close his face is. “...I’ve liked others less. That’s all.”

A lopsided smile. “So you want to continue?”

Your answer is immediate. “Yes.”

His thumb presses more firmly at your neck. “What muscle is tensed up here?”

“Trick question,” you mutter, “still the upper trapezius.”

“Good.” His hand flattens, gliding down your back, following the natural arch of your spine as your breath catches in your throat. “Now tell me—”

Your heart is pounding.

“—what muscle is making your back arch like that?”

You scoff, trying to straighten. “You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s not an answer,” he tuts. “Don’t know it, huh?”

“Of course I do,” you stammer.

“Then tell me, smart girl.”

Your stomach twists with nerves and something far more dangerous. He shouldn’t excite you. He should make you pull away, push him out, undo whatever this is. And yet, your mind wanders to what it would be like if you didn’t. If you invited him to stay instead.

You shake your head, grounding yourself. “Erector spinae.”

He hums. “See? Not so hard.”

“It was plenty hard,” you murmur, stealing a glance up at him.

He tilts his head, just enough to meet your eyes. Your lashes flutter as you switch between each of his eyes. His nose is nearly brushing yours, and it terrifies you just as much as it intrigues you. No, actually—what you’re feeling now goes beyond simple intrigue. It’s excitement. Bordering on longing.

“What are you doing?” you ask, words tumbling out of your mouth.

“Just lookin’ at you,” he replies easily. “You’re pretty.”

“Wha–? Sh-Shut up.”

He grins. “You’re cute when you’re shy, too.” 

From the beginning, Satoru was supposed to be nothing more than a thorn in your side. Someone sharp and irritating. Something to endure. But when given the chance to poke where you were weakest, he’d held you instead. 

His hand slides to your waist, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He still hasn’t pulled away, and you pray that he doesn’t. You don’t want him to. 

You lick your bottom lip without thinking. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the movement—and he doesn’t bother hiding it, even after he’s sure you’ve noticed.

And when he’s least expecting it, at least as far as you can tell, you rock up onto your toes, hands fisted into his shirt, and press your lips to his.

Your lips slot into his like two puzzle pieces fitting together. His hands tighten their hold on your waist, and when you force yourself to pull away, to face the music of your decision made on a whim, you find a blushing Satoru staring back at you.

A soft, nervous laugh leaves his lips, breath warm against yours.

“Well, if you thought studying was hard…”

…Oh? 

Your gaze dips.

Oh.

He’s hard.

From a single peck.

His sweatpants hang low on his hips, giving you a slight glimpse of the light trail of hair that leads toward the prominent bulge in the fabric. The sight alone makes your mouth water, enough for you to, within the span of a second, wonder what it’d be like to feel it. From sight alone, it looks big. Heavy.

Every warning system inside your head blares all at once, telling you that this is a bad, bad, bad, horrible, horrible, horrible decision. And yet, you lean into him again.

You kiss him once more, hands clutching onto his shirt as you tug him down to meet your mouth, which he does with no hesitation. His lips are softer than you imagined, gentle on yours.

“And which muscle is responsible for that?” you ask against his mouth.

He smiles, you can feel it. “Ischiocavernosus.”

Satoru’s large hands smooth over the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing at all. You’re lying on your bed before you realize it, and he is hovering atop in between your parted legs.

His lips tear away from yours, kisses mapping out a trail of heat along your jaw. Your hand slips into his hair, tugging when his mouth finds the sweet spot just beneath your ear.

Your back arches off the bed as a signifier.

“Found it,” he rumbles against your skin, smiling against it.

His mouth is searing, kissing down your clothed chest until he pushes your shirt up just enough to expose your belly. Open-mouthed kisses mark his exploration of your skin, hot and wet as he traces the curve of your side.

Your stomach flutters when his mouth kisses down your belly, strong hands holding your waist in place while his tongue darts out to get a taste of your skin.

Satoru’s movements, you realize, seem automatic. Like he’s thought about this before, planned for it, even—he was just waiting for you to give him the chance.

Hands suddenly paw at his shoulders, your hips squirming slightly. “Stop teasing me, Satoru.”

Satoru laughs, fingers tugging your fuzzy pajama pants down just enough to kiss your hip bone. “Fine, fine. Under one condition.”

Your heart pounds. “What is it?”

His hands smooth over your thighs as he shifts a bit lower. “Let me taste you.”

You blink a few times, clearly surprised. You’ve never been with a guy whose first move is to go down on you. “Okay… I mean, if you want to—ah!”

His hands are skilled in the way that they pull the hem of your pants down, leaning back just enough to peel them down your legs and toss them aimlessly onto the floor. 

Satoru’s eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen, focused on the apex of your thighs as he flattens to his stomach. His hands move your legs to rest on his shoulders, his lips already on your inner thigh.

“Fuck, thank you,” he whispers against your skin, wet kisses inching closer to your core. 

And when his mouth finds the wet patch on the gusset of your panties, Satoru knows he’s a goner.

His grip tightens on your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut, he flattens his tongue over the fabric. That only lasts a few seconds before his fingers tug the flimsy material down your legs, and his lips are latching onto the true source.

A groan escapes him the moment his tongue laps at your essence. “Tastes so sweet.”

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at the root when his lips close around your clit. Your hips would’ve bucked into his mouth if his iron grip wasn’t keeping you in place.

Even with his face buried in your pussy, he manages to speak. 

“Mmh— tastes like candy, baby. Thought about this s’many times.”

The confirmation only makes you twitch, which he seems to notice if the firm press of his tongue to your clit is any confirmation.

“Ah— shit, Satoru. Right there.”

Satoru thinks that he could do this forever. Could live and die a happy man, cheeks warmed by your thighs pressing in on them and the taste of you on his tongue.

His nose bumps against your clit, tongue slipping lower to gather more of you on his taste buds. His hips begin to rut into the mattress like a dog in heat, a whimper leaving his throat when you tug particularly hard on his hair. 

“S-Sorry,” you manage, fingers releasing the strands of his white hair.

Blue eyes meet yours, and he forces himself to pull his tongue off you just long enough to speak. “Baby, I don’t care. Tug on it even harder if you wanna. Your pleasure feels good to me.”

“Masochist,” you say through a breathy laugh.

His mouth is back on you. “Only for you.”

You’re like sugar on his tongue, the type of ambrosia that men should go to war for. Satoru knows he would in a heartbeat.

The feeling of his tongue kitten licking your clit has your hands shooting down, one sliding back into his hair and the other scratching at the back of his hand on your thigh.

Satoru gives it to you without a second thought, your fingers lacing with his as you press his hand down on your stomach. 

His eyes crack open to watch your face, twisted in a pleasure that he’s proud to have given you. He sucks your clit into his mouth before releasing it with a slick pop.

Only, your hand in his hair presses his face back into your pussy, and Satoru is nothing if not willing to please you. 

The groan that leaves him travels up your spine, and your hips begin to twitch, thighs closing in on his head. A mewl leaves your lips, clutching his hand before you cry out, the first wave of your orgasm wracking through you.

Satoru flattens his tongue, licking up every drop of your syrupy release, hellbent on committing the taste of you to memory. 

His voice is deep and scratchy when he speaks. “You’re beautiful when you cum.”

Your eyes snap open, a newfound heat finding your cheeks. “Shut up.”

He’s crawling up to meet your lips with a smile, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh. Just telling the truth.” He kisses your lips, and you taste yourself on them. “Sweetest pussy. I’d go for seconds if you let me.”

You’re tempted by the offer.

Only, something else tempts you more than it should.

Satoru hisses the moment your palm presses against the bulge in his sweatpants, forehead knocking into yours. His hips twitch against your hand, and when he closes his eyes, you can tell he’s doing his best not to grind into your hand.

A quiet laugh leaves your mouth. “I think I’d rather do something else.”

His hands fist into the bedsheets in an act of restraint. “Like what?” he asks, voice strained.

You huff, free hand taking hold of his chin, forcing him to look at you. “I think you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

“I don’t wanna assume. It’s ungentlemanly, y’know?” His lips press against yours, pulling back before you have the chance to deepen the kiss. “Ah-ah-ah, can’t do anything more ‘til the lady asks.”

He’s so fucking annoying. 

The pout on your lips is too cute to handle. Satoru debates kissing it away. Only, your next words stop him in his tracks.

They come out more demanding than you intended, trying to hide how needy you really are. “Stop wasting my time. I want you to fuck me, Satoru.”

His cock twitches against your hand. Maybe bossiness works best with him.

“That’s so hot,” he says, panting. 

Satoru immediately reaches for the hem of his sweatpants and boxers, pushing them down his legs in a hurried, uncoordinated manner. He nearly topples over once or twice in his haste.

Soon, though, his erection springs free, slapping against his stomach. It’s somehow even bigger than you initially imagined…lengthy, and flushed a pretty shade of pink at the tip.

This time, Satoru doesn’t tease you like you were expecting him to. Doesn’t gloat. 

Instead, he kisses your cheek, then your forehead, until his mouth finally finds yours, a broken sound escaping him the moment he rubs his tip through your folds.

Then, his eyes find yours, and it feels like the world stops on its axis.

Forehead to forehead. Chest to chest. Your hand in his hair, his on your cheek. With Satoru Gojo of all people. The one person in this world whom you should stay away from. 

And here he is, looking at you like you’re worth more than your family name and the money bags that come with it, like he wants you for you. Nothing else.

“We don’t have to, baby,” he whispers, sweet and gentle, as if sensing the mental games you’re playing with yourself. “I’m happy to just be here with you. I mean it.”

There it is. An out.

You should stop this before it starts. You should do your best to save the peace between you and your parents—what’s left of it, anyway. You should forget about the way your chest warms up when his thumb strokes over your cheek.

But then, wise words ring out in your mind.

I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.

And in this moment, you realize that losing Satoru would far surpass mere disappointment. It isn’t something you can bear, nor do you ever want to.

You shake your head, leaning up to kiss him, nice and soft. “I want this. So… stop making me wait.”

Satoru laughs, lips on your cheek as he notches himself on your entrance. “Yes, ma’am.”

Inch by inch, his length stretches you open, making your hands grasp at his shoulders for purchase, nails sinking into his skin. You whine at the intrusion, not used to his size by any means.

“You’re okay, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, one hand holding your cheek while the other strokes your hip. “Doing so good for me. Just a liiittle more.”

You huff, risking a glance downward, only to see he was only half inside. You throw your head back on the pillow. “Liar.” 

He smiles against your lips, kissing you. “Figured a little white lie never hurt anyone.”

A moment later, Satoru pushes his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. You both release breathy moans at the same time, grips tightening on each other.

He pulls out, just the tip remaining, before sliding back inside your warmth, creating a slow, languid pace—giving you the chance to adjust to him.

You kiss him then, all teeth and tongue and want, panting hot against his mouth while your hands slip into his hair. “Fuck— faster, Toru. Please.”

The sound of his name on your tongue, so wanton while he’s inside you, spurs him on in a way he’s never felt before. His hands take hold of your hips, angling them up slightly so that he can fuck you deeper, the pace of his hips growing needier with each passing second.

“Mmh, wanted you for so long,” he says, words muffled against your skin while he kisses down your neck. “This—hah—can’t be real, baby. Feels so good.”

You drag his mouth back up to your lips, tongues sliding against each other in a fit of passion that you can hardly comprehend right now with how good he feels. 

“So good,” you whimper into his mouth. “Want more, Satoru, please—”

“Shh, I got you,” he says.

And then his hands press down on the back of your thighs, folding them up against your chest. He pounds into you without sense, the new angle opening you up to him in a way that makes you see stars.

The sound of his balls slapping against your ass fills the room, the sounds of your pleasure only adding to the conversation. 

Satoru pushes your shirt up, a sound between a whimper and a gasp, leaving him the moment his gaze sets on your breasts. His mouth latches onto your nipple before he can think twice about it.

“You weren’t—mmh—wearing a bra the whole time?” 

You whine, trying to drag his mouth back to yours by your grip on his hair, but he doesn’t let up. “Y-You ask stupid questions.”

He flattens his tongue, laving over the underside of your breast, his hips never faltering. He groans against your skin. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t give me that attitude. Haven’t I been good? Yeah?”

A pout forms on your kiss-bruised lips. “Mm— I’m not giving attitude.”

Satoru laughs, the sound raspy and deep. “You are, pretty girl, but it’s okay. Toru’ll make it all better.”

His lips are back on yours, to your satisfaction, and his hand slips between the two of you, thumbing at your clit. You gasp, stealing the air from his lungs, clinging onto his shoulders and back like a koala bear.

A warmth coils in your stomach, making you squirm against his thrusts. Your nails claw into his back, raking down his skin, surely leaving marks that Satoru will admire for days. A memento of the moment he’s been waiting for.

His cock twitches inside you when you moan again, your pussy clenching around him like a vice, tight and warm. 

You whine. “Satoru—”

“Mm-hmm, I know, baby, don’t you worry,” he says, voice slightly smug as he continues to draw circles over your clit, feeling the way it pulses against his thumb. “Give it to me, sweets, know you can do it.”

Your hips buck up against his, your orgasm crashing into you. Your body tenses around him, squeezing him impossibly tighter.

If the way his pace stutters is any clue, you know he’s close. When you pulse against him, he drops his head onto your shoulder.

Satoru whimpers, so lost in his pleasure that he can no longer function. He fucks you shallowly now, and lost in your own mind, you turn your head to whisper in his ear.

“Inside,” you request, voice breathy. “Please, Toru.”

That makes Satoru cum before he can realize it. 

Hot spurts shoot inside you, his sounds muffled against your skin while his own climax wracks through him. It seems like it goes on forever, but the moment he kisses the underside of your jaw, you realize that he’s finished, finally slipping out of the post-orgasm delirium you put him in.

When your eyes meet his, both of your eyes widen, expressions almost sheepish.

As if it were finally occurring to you that you just had sex with Satoru fucking Gojo, you feel a bit shy, blinking up at him and absolutely unsure what to say.

“…Hi,” you whisper.

Satoru seems to share your thoughts. He brings his hand to your cheek, knuckles brushing over your flushed skin. “Hey, baby.”

Unsure of what to do, you decide to lean back into your old reliable method. The only way you know how to talk to him is without allowing a hint of affection to seep into your voice. Be mean to him.

“Get off me,” you say, pawing at his chest halfheartedly, “you’re heavy.”

It seems that Satoru has learned you well enough to know exactly what you’re doing. Trying to push him away the moment it all feels like too much to handle, reverting to what you know best.

He lowers his head, brushing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. “Mm, no can do, pretty. I like to cuddle after sex, guess you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

You squirm as he begins to pepper your face with kisses, wet and dry, trying to get a proper reaction from you. 

“Okay, okay!” you exclaim, laughing without realizing it. “Fine. We can cuddle…but we have to clean up first.”

Satoru beams at that. He kisses your forehead before practically leaping off your bed, searching for a towel. You aren’t sure why the sight of him prancing around your room in his birthday suit makes you feel so…warm and tingly inside.

God, what has he done to you?

You yawn, rubbing your eyes. “On the left side of the closet. Third drawer down.”

A second later, he’s back and wiping away the mess between your legs, careful with his movements. Once finished, he pokes around in your clothing drawers, managing to find a pair of fresh underwear and a pretty blue shirt that you should've known he’d pick out. 

“Matches my eyes,” he preens, doing most of the work as he pulls the panties up your legs and the shirt over your head.

“Of course you’d notice that,” you scoff, trying to ignore how warm this all makes you feel.

With his boxers back on, he climbs back into bed with you, lying on his back. A surprised sound leaves him when you rest your head on his chest, hand draped over his middle.

Satoru wears a smile as he wraps an arm around you, free hand lacing with yours. “Thought you didn’t wanna cuddle.”

“I never said that,” you grumble.

He laughs to himself, the kind that signifies he’s up to no good. “Aww. Just a cute little cuddle muffin you are.”

“I’ll get off you right now if you don’t—”

He immediately stops laughing and tightens his hold on you. “Sorry, sorry. You run a tight ship.”

☆

In your experience, the morning after could go one of two ways.

You could either cringe at yourself and your decisions, make awkward small talk with the person you had shared not only your body but also a bed with, and then tiptoe out of your hookup’s room, or not-so-discreetly kick them out of yours. 

Or, you could still make equally awkward small talk upon waking up, limbs still entangled and clothes mostly scattered across the floor, but not feel the gnawing feeling to run away and never speak to this person again.

And so far, you’re in no rush to make him go. 

Satoru shifts in his sleep behind you, one arm draped lazily over your middle while the other pillows your head. You blink blearily as you run your fingertips along his forearm, tracing the veins in his hand until you cover it with your own. His fingers slightly twitch until they fill the spaces between yours.

His nose brushes the back of your neck, inhaling indulgently. His arm beneath your head bends and curls inward, his nails gently scratching your scalp. “Morning.”

You feel your heartbeat quicken in your chest. His voice is deep and groggy from sleep, his lips just barely grazing your skin as he speaks. It only gets worse (or better?) when he presses a kiss to the crook of your shoulder and neck, firmer now yet unhurried. 

The strap of the camisole you’d thrown on last night after your shower was now pinched between his thumb and forefinger, slowly slipping it down the curve of your shoulder as his lips explored further.

“Good morning,” you manage out, voice slightly weak but not entirely from just waking up. “How’d you sleep?”

You can feel his lips twitch against your skin, probably turning into a smug grin if you had to guess. His hand stopped on your bicep, his chin now resting on your shoulder as he pulls you closer. 

“Better than usual,” he says, voice rumbling in his throat. “Even with you stealing the covers from me all night, it’d be worth it every time to wake up to this.” He picks his head up just enough to look down at you. “You?”

Your cheeks are warm, and you bury half of your face into the pillow. “Better than usual. I actually feel rested.”

Reaching an arm out, you turn the clock on your nightstand toward the bed. 2:38 p.m.

“We slept the whole day away!”

Satoru hums behind you, chest rumbling against your back. “Mm, good sex tends to do that to people.”

You smile, looking back at him over your shoulder. “Oh? So that’s why you were snoring into my ear all night?”

“Precisely why,” he replies easily, before pecking your lips. “Pussy put me right to sleep.”

This time, you lean in to kiss him. When you pull away, you freeze. 

Oh fuck.

Then you shoot up out of bed, eyes wide and panicked. It’d just dawned on you that, for all the days you could have had sex with your annoying-rival-to-friend, it had to be the day of the Ryomen dinner. And, of course, you had to oversleep with said annoying-rival-to-friend-and-now-hookup still in your bed. 

The drive alone would take two and a half hours.

“Holy shit, I need to go,” you say, scatterbrained as you rush into your closet.

Satoru props himself up on his elbow, sounding more panicked than he likely intended. “What? Why?”

You return to his line of sight, already half-clothed in a pristinely ironed dress, bouncing on one leg as you tug your stockings up. “I have to go to dinner with my family and the Ryomens. My mom is going to kill me.”

And he’s left to watch, helpless, as you check yourself in the mirror—putting your earrings on, looking beautiful as ever…to go have dinner with another guy and his family.

Satoru knows he should be relaxed about this. He needs to chill out. You had sex, yes, but it’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.

(Even though he’d thought about how great that would be as he admired you while you slept.)

“Oh, cool,” he says, forcing a cheery tone into his voice. “What for?”

You press your lips together, hastily applying your makeup lest you show up late with none on. “I’m not really sure. Probably to talk about their plans for us post-graduation. That’s all they talk about these days.”

He bites the inside of his cheek.

Doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Sex between friends can be…casual. Don’t read into it so much.

“Right,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck, doing his best to seem relaxed. “Sounds boring.”

You nod at him through the mirror before turning to face him. “Yeah, it will be.”

A silence settles the moment your eyes meet.

Slowly, you walk over to him—still lying in your bed, clad in nothing but his boxers. “I’m sorry I’m leaving like this.”

He waves a hand through the air, making an exaggerated pshhh sound. “Don’t worry about it. I get it.”

You give him a lopsided smile before leaning down to kiss him. He barely has time to close his eyes—to savor it—before you’re already pulling away.

“I’ll text you, okay?” you say. “You can use my shower again if you want. Make yourself at home while I’m gone. Just don’t use up my body wash—it’s expensive.”

Satoru lets out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, no promises. Have fun.”

And then you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you.

He falls back against the mattress, dragging his hands over his face.

It’s casual, he tries to remind himself. Don’t be a crybaby.

But you kissed him goodbye.

What was casual about that?

☆

The hallways are abnormally crowded today.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, Shoko’s messages flooding in.

shoko 💗: hi

shoko 💗: how was the dinner?

shoko 💗: did your parents finally come to their senses

shoko 💗: and drop the stupid engagement idea????

you: i wish

you: they seem even more into the idea now

you: mind you, sukuna fell asleep at the dining table with his fork hanging out of his mouth

you: like oh okay i’m seeing it now, total HUSBAND MATERIAL right here

shoko 💗: fuck my chungus life

you: fuck mine too

The sound of hushed voices in the distance distracts you, making you glance in that direction.

Only then do you realize that they’re looking right at you.

Actually, it feels like everyone is looking at you.

No, worse. It feels like everyone can see through you. Like they know exactly what you’ve been up to. What you did when no one was around.

But that’s ridiculous. How could anyone know?

Suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, you glance back down at your phone.

you: i feel like everyone is staring at me today

shoko 💗: maybe because you look sexier than usual?

you: one can only hope

You crash into someone, limbs flailing, only to be steadied by a gentle grip.

“Watch where you’re going, iPad kid,” Satoru teases, a wide smile on his face.

You pocket your phone, huffing out a laugh despite yourself. “I was watching where I was going. You just came out of nowhere.”

“Uh-huh, totally,” he says.

Without thinking, you glance over your shoulder toward the group that had been watching you earlier, the itch still unscratched.

Always observant, Satoru tilts his head. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” you answer instinctively.

“Talk to me,” he says, nudging your arm softly, still trying to keep things light.

Then your eyes meet his—his blue irises practically begging you to open up.

“It’s just…” Your voice trails off, growing quieter. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you? About…”

Satoru leans back slightly, like the question physically hit him.

“Uh— no,” he says. “No, I didn’t. Promise.”

You catch the shift in his expression—the way it falters, like something just closed off.

Your eyes squeeze shut. Shit. “No, it’s not that I regret it or anything, it’s just that—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts in, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really. It’s fine. You don’t have to explain.” His eyes meet yours again. “I didn’t tell anyone. Don’t worry.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes quickly. “Good. I’m glad we got that figured out.”

“Me too,” you say, though you don’t sound convinced anymore. “Did— did I say something?”

Satoru shakes his head, that boyish smile slipping back into place. “Nah. You’re good.”

You glance around again. “…Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats. “Are you going to the party this weekend? Choso’s frat is throwing.”

You nod. “Yeah, I’ll be there. I assume I’ll see you there too?”

“Yup,” he says with a nod. “Well, I’ve gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” you say, turning to watch him walk away down the hallway.

Well… that conversation went well.

Right?

☆

After a few days of Satoru avoiding you like the plague, you’re starting to think your conversation didn’t go so well.

He’s only sent you one Instagram reel over the last three days—and it was about tips and tricks for studying anatomy. Was he doing this on purpose? The last time you studied for anatomy, it ended with you in bed with him.

For what feels like the tenth time this hour, you check your messages.

Satoru :D: Good morning

Satoru :D: Sleep well?

you: good morning

you: yes i did, did you?

And there’s been no response since.

You wonder if you should message him again.

Maybe his phone got swept up in a tornado. (It’s 75°F and sunny outside.)

Maybe he’s currently being attacked by alligators and desperately needs you as a lifeline. (Though you know he wouldn’t even accept your help—he’d be convinced he could take an alligator in a fight.)

Maybe he just hasn’t seen your text. (You saw him repost a TikTok about boba milk tea an hour ago.)

You tap on the text bar, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

“There’s no way you’re about to double text a man.”

You jump, quickly locking your phone. “Utahime, I was not. I was just checking our messages.”

Utahime hums, clearly unconvinced, scrolling on her own phone. “You keep telling yourself that, girl.”

Rolling onto your back, you stare at the ceiling, hands folded over your chest.

“Are you seriously sulking right now?”

“I’m not sulking!”

(You were definitely sulking.)

Utahime sighs, nudging your side. “Did you read this week’s blind items?”

You shake your head. “No.”

She tilts her head down at you. “Well, I’m pretty sure one is about you.”

“WHAT?!”

You’ve never sat up this fast in your life—lightheaded and dizzy as you reach for Utahime’s phone.

There is going to be an engagement post-graduation between a male and female from two of the most well-known families on campus.

A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has still been shitting in the showers. (P.S. Can you please stop already?)

A notorious rich student was spotted talking to a girl who comes from a family that begins with the last letter of the alphabet. Are sparks flying?

A male has been making piss-poor SoundCloud music at 4 AM for the past week. (Please stop. You are better off sticking to your career path in accounting.)

A pit forms in your stomach.

Had Sukuna told someone about your situation? You want to say no—but once he’s had enough to drink, anything is possible.

But the one that concerns you more is the third item.

Could Satoru have already moved on? To a girl from the Zenin family?

Utahime presses her thumb between your eyebrows, smoothing out the crease. “Hey. What happened to taking these with a grain of salt? They’re probably not real. Aside from the shower shitter—that one seems pretty legit.”

You let out a weak laugh. “Yeah… you’re probably right.”

Even still, the pit in your stomach doesn’t go away.

☆

Music thrums against the walls, people packed in like sardines, moving with no particular rhyme or rhythm. Smoke fills the air, a thick fog that has no chance of dissipating. 

Sukuna’s arm is snug around your shoulder, something that you would have never thought twice about before. Now, though, you notice it like a thorn in your side. 

You try to scan the room, in search of your friends who you knew would be here tonight. Only, a hand on your face draws your attention elsewhere, and Sukuna is kissing your cheek in farewell before you can even realize he’s leaving you to fend for yourself.

“Later, girl,” he says, so casually, as if he had the right.

Fucking typical.

You huff and wave your arm through the air, coughing quietly. Once the smoke cleared just enough, your gaze locked in on something in the distance.

Satoru. Standing beside a girl from the Zenin family.

But even as he stands beside her, his glowing eyes are already on you.

Suddenly, it hurts to breathe. The walls are caving in on you. The music fades into a silence that becomes even more overbearing than the bass. 

Anger rises in your throat. Anger you have no right to feel. 

After all, Satoru wasn’t yours. You weren’t his. He can do what he wants, as can you. How could you forget that? And why did you want to?

If you were a braver person, one who could be honest with herself, you would walk across this room. You’d tell him how you feel. You would say it now, out loud and to his face. At least then, he’d know how you felt.

The problem, though, was that you weren’t any of these things. You were terrified and hesitant—so all you could do was this. Look at him and hope he can put the puzzle pieces together on his own. You can only hope he likes how it looks once it is completed. 

Your feet are moving before you can realize it. A moment later, you find yourself in the bathroom, pressing your back against the door to slam it shut. 

You release a sharp breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your hands cover your face as you approach the sink, palms pressing against the countertop.

Then, you catch your reflection in the mirror. 

You know better than this.

You know better than to wish for something that you have no right to.

You know better than to want Satoru. You know better than to envision a simple life with him. To want him in a way that is uncalculated and real.

Dropping your head, you close your eyes. Squeeze them shut, and hope that you were anywhere else but here, in this dingy bathroom with a flickering lightbulb above your head.

The door opens and shuts behind you.

You pick your head up, and there he is. 

Satoru.

His chest presses to your back, his hands bracketing yours on the counter as he dips his chin into the crook of your neck. “Were you not going to come say hi?”

You roll your eyes despite yourself, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. “No. Seems like you were a little preoccupied.”

Silence stretched thin between you. 

Then his hands find your waist, spinning you around to face him.

“Don’t do that,” he says, voice soft and almost pleading.

You swallow. “Don’t do what?”

“You know what,” he replies, “act like… you don’t care. Like you don’t feel anything for me, just because you’re upset.”

You avoid his gaze. “I’m not upset. It’s not like we’re dating. You can do what you want with…whoever you want.”

Satoru huffs, forehead knocking into yours before he pulls back. “How long are we going to keep doing this, baby?” he asks, hands finally coming to settle on your waist. “I don’t want anyone else. Not like how I want you.”

Finally, you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his.

It almost made you want to cry, realizing how easy things with Satoru were. How he opened himself up to you without fear, because he didn’t want an ounce of doubt to live in your head.

Maybe it was your turn to return the message.

“Me neither,” you finally admit. 

His expression softens in relief.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing your hair away from your face. 

Your lips press together. “But why’d the blog say you were with a girl from the Zenin family?”

“The same reason that the stupid blog says you and Sukuna are together,” he says with a shrug. “It’s a rumor. People see you standing next to someone—at a very healthy distance, by the way, a very platonic and normal distance—and run with it.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t go around letting my rumored girlfriends kiss me on the cheek, though.”

You tilt your head, knowing full well that Satoru was capable of knowing that there were no feelings between you and Sukuna. “Careful, you almost sound upset.”

He shrugs his broad shoulders, tilting his head in the same direction you did. “Depends. Is he a good kisser?” 

Your fingers are still gripping the edge of the counter. “He is.”

Satoru glances over your face, the corner of his mouth twitching once he notices the slight pout on your lips. “Better than me?”

You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you’re not a liar. “No.”

A small smirk. “Good.”

“Maybe you should get back to your friend,” you retort, shaking your head.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” Satoru coos, hand cupping your cheek, thumbing over your bottom lip.

You splutter. “What? I’m not.”

“No?”

“No.”

Satoru’s hand starts to pull away. Panic sparks in you, and your hand shoots up, wrapping around his wrist to keep his palm against your face. He smiles softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“...Only a little,” you finally admit.

Satoru’s fingers thread into your hair, guiding your forehead to his lips. “That’s okay. I was jealous too.”

“Jealous? You?”

“Jealous. Me.”

You clear your throat, and for the first time in your life, you decide to prod for further reassurance. 

“Do you like her?” you ask, voice small.

He seems distracted, his lips on your cheek now in a chaste kiss. “Hm?”

“Do you like her?” you repeat, hands prodding at his chest to make him meet your eyes. “That girl you were talking to.”

Satoru scoffs, like the answer was obvious. “No. I’m a one-lady type of guy.” 

That answer shouldn’t make your face feel warm, but it does. He’s turned you into mush, putty in his hands. 

His thumb brushes over your hip bone. “Did you let Sukuna kiss you because you like him?”

You shake your head. “Maybe I just like kissing people. It’s fun, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, nose brushing yours. “But do me a favor, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, heart rate doubling in your chest.

“The next time you wanna kiss someone, come to me instead,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your sides. “I’m better at it, anyway. Said it yourself.”

You can’t bite back your smile now, nor do you try to. “Okay.”

“Okay, baby.”

You hoped no one noticed how long you’d both been gone from the party, but when you exited the bathroom together—lip gloss smeared on Satoru’s mouth and your hair messier than before—it likely told the entire story for you.

☆

You wake up wrapped in a Digimon throw blanket.

A small, sleepy groan leaves you as you try to move—to stretch your limbs after a night of sleep.

Only, the heavily weighted blanket on top of you, known as Satoru Gojo, doesn’t make it very easy.

His arms are wrapped so tightly around you that you’d think he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night—so he set up precautions beforehand. His cheek is pressed against your bare chest, using your breasts as pillows.

The best pillows on the market, he says.

Blinking blearily, you scan his bedroom. Now, after only two months of dating, it looks like a shrine to you.

A framed photo of you hangs on his wall, another propped up on his bedside table. There’s one on his desk too—taken on the first day of your internship—set beside his computer.

Because, as he says, “seeing you smiling in that pretty little dress motivates me to study, ‘cause I need to pay for your tastes somehow.”

You’re smiling now, glancing down at him, his cheek squished against your skin. Your fingers glide through his hair before smoothing down his back, soothing the faint sting of the scratches you’d left the night before.

A quiet whine leaves him, and he fumbles blindly for your hand, guiding it back to his hair so you’ll keep playing with it.

“Good morning to you, too,” you murmur, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Morning, baby,” he mumbles, voice rumbling against your skin.

Without opening his eyes, he presses a kiss to the underside of your breast, his mouth already trailing down the column of your stomach.

“What’re you doing?” you ask, smiling.

“Eating breakfast,” he replies simply, mouthing at your hip bone.

Just as he reaches for the hem of your panties, his phone begins to buzz on the bedside table. Undeterred, he tugs them down an inch.

“Ignore it.”

Then his phone buzzes again. And again.

A moment later, yours buzzes too.

Slightly concerned now, you reach for it, unlocking the screen to a message from Shoko.

shoko 💗: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP

shoko 💗: [article link]

You tap the link, your eyes widening as you read the headline.

“What?” he asks, already pouting slightly at the interruption. “What is it?”

Wordlessly, you turn the phone toward him.

Satoru Gojo and Y/N L/N were spotted on the Gojo family’s personal yacht, indulging in promiscuous activities.

And to make matters worse, front and center is a picture of you sitting in his lap—his hand squeezing a handful of your ass like he’s afraid it might run away from him.

You press your palm to your forehead. “I told you we shouldn’t have taken the yacht out that day.”

Satoru hums, clearly distracted. “How do I save this picture? You look really sexy in this.”

“Satoru, focus!” you say, lightly swatting his shoulder. “What should we do?”

He shrugs, fingers resuming their slow work of tugging your underwear down your legs. “Right now, I’m thinkin’ I’ll finish my breakfast. We’ll figure the other stuff out later.”

You think you should protest—but the moment his mouth finds you, every argument dies on your tongue.

Because you know that he’ll make good on his promise. This will be figured out, one way or another.

And as long as you have Satoru by your side, you think you’ll be just fine.

Rumor has it you brought him home the next weekend to meet your parents.

Rumor also has it that from that moment on, the arranged engagement with Sukuna was off.

a/n: heyyyy yallll!!! how are you?

me?? posting 2 fics in one month?? #imonaroll #unstoppable

no, but seriously, if you read this all the way through thank you so much!! it’s the longest fic i’ve ever written so it’s a lil experimental for me. this is also my first time writing for gojo in about two years and it’s my second time writing him ever sooo i’m still figuring out how i want to characterize him lol

anyway i hope you enjoyed, as always please let me know your thoughts <3

[nyxiedreams]

𓆩♡𓆪 Pairing: Priest! Higuruma x Succubus! Reader

𓆩♡𓆪 Synopsis: When you start running low on mana one evening, you are in desperate need of the one and only thing that will help replenish your energy. The source? Your husband of course.

Though this time around, instead of coming home immediately after an evening mass, he lingers behind longer at the one place that you haven’t stepped foot into since meeting him, but you have no choice if you want to keep your secret from being disclosed.

Though, everyone has secrets and the funny thing is, they always tend to have a way of unravelling themselves.

𓆩♡𓆪 Word count: 7.2k

𓆩♡𓆪 Content warnings: 18+ MDNI ⋆ supernatural AU ⋆ FEM!/AFAB! Reader ⋆ reader has a succubus/demon transformation (for the plot of course) ⋆ implied Christian ideologies ⋆ SMUT SMUT SMUT ⋆ porn with a side of plot (first time writing a fic of this nature) ⋆ husband! Higuruma ⋆ pussy drunk! Higuruma ⋆ yearning ⋆ praise ⋆ nipple play ⋆ oral (f! and m! receiving) ⋆ improper intentions/use of the “Hail Mary” prayer (the entire prayer is recited) ⋆ improper use of an altar (altar sex) ⋆ improper use of a rosary ⋆ fingering ⋆ unprotected p in v sex ⋆ reader gets creampied ⋆ mating press position ⋆ multiple orgasms (reader) ⋆

☆ Author's note: As per the poll's result, here's the Higuruma fic! I really hope that you lovelies enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this! <333

He was supposed to be another one of the victims that you seduced to be able to continue living your life in the mortal realm. He was supposed to be a mere mana source, but even fate has a way of throwing a demon off balance.

You only saw him as a human who spent his time at churches and cathedrals, who preached sermons like ancient litanies and initially, you feared what that meant for you. You didn’t usually prey on humans who spent their time in places of worship, but you couldn’t help but be drawn to him.

Hiromi Higuruma, the priest you thought you’d be able to toy with when you first met him, the man you thought would only be of use if only to satiate your hunger and be a stable source of energy, turned out to be different—more so than most humans.

You’d sensed it the very first time that you managed to see into the deepest, darkest parts of him, the parts of him that one would never expect from a priest. You saw the parts of his soul where his desires danced like a flame; there’d been a pull, the essence of an unbreakable soul, one that always shines bright.

You’d been so ecstatic at the time, and you remember the feeling vividly. An unbreakable soul meant an endless supply of mana and an endless supply of mana only meant that you’d grow stronger and stronger.

And you have.

You used him, divulged his wildest dreams and secrets, shaped yourself into whatever he wanted you to be, you fed on his desires and emotions, and you used him as a bonfire for his passion.

Your kind thrived on those things after all.

He was nothing but a source of mana to you, nothing but a means for you to explore the mortal realm and live amongst humans peacefully, but you had soon learned that strong emotions, passion, often led to connection.

Connection led to attachment and you’d grown attached. So much that you fell in love with the one man you had thought wouldn’t mean much to you.

It wasn’t just the strength of his soul, it was the way his desires felt like gentle caresses when you explored them, the way his imagination captivated you and it was the way he looked at and spoke to you that had you weak in the knees.

It was the closest you’ve ever come to being cherished.

Yes, you, a succubus, fell in love with a human and those strong emotions were enough for you to capitulate and give in to human traditions by marrying him. You started building a life with Higuruma and he had such significance in your life that you couldn’t even bring yourself to feed off him as often as you used to.

Seeing him tired and drained simply so that you could be greedy? It made you feel guilty, so, to ensure that you don’t run low on mana and to ensure that he doesn’t ever grow lethargic, you only take what you need once a week.

Only once, never more.

So, when you find yourself slotted between your husband’s legs with his heavy cock in your mouth, it doesn’t come as a surprise. What does come as a surprise, however, is the fact that you even considered stepping foot into the cathedral where he’d lingered behind after a mass that ended an hour ago.

You used the excuse of a needy wife who wasn’t quite sure she had the right to demand that her husband come home immediately once the mass was over and your ever loving, ever doting husband couldn’t resist you.

The real reason as to why you couldn’t wait is because you’d already been running low on mana long before Higuruma left the house and when you found the courage to make your way to the cathedral, ignoring warnings that you’ve heard from other demons, you’d been surprised to find out that it wasn’t as scary as it was made out to be.

There was no pain, no blood that boiled to the point it felt like you were being cooked alive, the cathedral simply drained your mana a little faster than usual.

That meant that you had no time to waste. The last thing you wanted was for Higuruma to find out what you are. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how that’d unfold. Your life would change if he finds out.

You’d lose everything.

You hollow out your cheeks, taking Higuruma deeper into your mouth, deeper into its warmth until his flushed cockhead kisses the back of your throat. The coarse hairs that decorate the base of his cock tickles your nose and you moan when the heavy scent of it infiltrates your senses, the vibrations prompting your husband to thrust up despite his best efforts to keep still.

You didn’t ever think that he’d be willing to do such a thing; sitting with his cassock pushed up to his stomach, mouth agape while he allows himself to give into you while he remains perched on the very front pew in the cathedral where you’d first found him sitting when you arrived in a rush.

He’d been surprised when he’d seen you and why wouldn’t he be? You avoided the cathedral, hid under the guise of atheism so of course he didn’t understand why you showed up unannounced. Until you revealed the reason that you managed to come up with that is.

“Hmm—you needed me this much, darling?”

Your eyes flutter as you peer up at Higuruma, his features highlighted by the glow of the light that shines from behind you—where the altar rests.

“Mhmm.”

Your tongue swirls around his globular cockhead while your hands squeeze the base, massaging his shaft in the way you know he likes.

“Couldn’t wait, could you?” Higuruma groans when he feels his release build and he curses under his breath. “Look at you, my beautiful wife who has reduced me to a sinner.”

Drool collects at the corners of your mouth, and the salty-sweet taste of your husband has your pussy dripping with need. Your panties are completely ruined, completely soaked and your need makes itself known with near painful throbs.

Feeling this aroused doesn’t usually come with your body needing mana, though Higuruma had conditioned your body to react this way. Unbeknownst to him of course.

“Such a pretty girl, aren’t you darling?” Higuruma coos when he notices you squirm, voice smooth and so sinfully deep, though you hear the breathlessness, you hear the way he’s fighting with himself.

You feel the way his cock twitches—a little tell-tale that you’re about to get what you need.

“You want your—hmn—husband’s cum?” Higuruma pants, exhaling a heavy breath. “Then take it.”

With a desperate thrust of his hips, Higuruma’s cock sinks deeper into your mouth and with a groan, he spills his creamy release all the over the back of your throat.

You squirm some more, thighs clenching together to relieve the tension that has settled between them. Your pussy throbs and pulses and the taste of Higuruma on your tongue isn’t helping. He tastes so good, too good and all you do is swallow every single drop that he has to offer while your body begs for more.

Your body hums, like every inch of you is pulled from sleep as some of your mana replenishes. You don’t use that as an excuse to stop—you continue to clean Higuruma up, sucking on his sensitive tip which earns you a strangled groan.

“Oh, you really needed it, huh? My pretty succubus that desperate for mana?”

The world stops spinning, your heart skips one too many beats and your jaw goes slack. You heard him wrong, surely you did. You pull away from Higuruma, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand while your eyes go wide, breaths coming out in heavy exhales.

You stare up at him, half expecting him to laugh and say that it was merely a joke, but the words never come.

“What?”

“You heard me, darling,” Higuruma shifts on the bench, adjusting himself and tucking his cock back into his boxer briefs. “You are my pretty succubus, aren’t you?”

Your heart feels like it lodged itself in your throat. You don’t know what to think, you don’t know what to say. He has to be bluffing. Perhaps it’s an expression, an analogy that some humans use when they’re trying to be sexy.

“I couldn’t imagine that you’d feed off someone else.”

You feel so much that you’re sure your body goes numb. He’s completely serious.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You don’t know what it is that you’re attempting to do or what it is that you’re going to gain by lying, but the words tumble out before you can even think. He seems to know what he’s talking about and that terrifies you.

It’s what you’ve been trying to avoid.

“Come now, sweetheart, there’s no need to lie,” Higuruma’s reaches out and his thumb smooths over your bottom lip, his eyes never leaving yours. “Not anymore that is.”

You swallow the lodge in your throat, guilt and nerves eating at you like you’re some fragile disciple that committed the greatest of sins. You thought that you’d done an incredible job at hiding your secret, but your husband is more perceptive than you gave him credit for.

“So you—you knew? This entire time?” Your voice comes out quieter than you’d intended it to, but it doesn’t even bother you.

Higuruma remains quiet for a heartbeat and another and another.

“Not at first,” he admits, a small, tired smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “But I’ve had my suspicions after we had gotten married.”

You drop your gaze. You want to ask him how he’d found out, but it the answer is obvious—you’ve probably been careless, allowed yourself to get too comfortable with the fact that your secret would remain buried.

You feel stupid for allowing yourself to think that you’d keep your secret from someone who has spent majority of his life learning about faith and demons and everything in between.

If he knows what you are, there’s no doubt that he knows what you’ve done and somehow, that makes you feel worse.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you finally manage to find your voice.

You consider the fact that maybe, just maybe had you told him the truth before, you wouldn’t feel as terrible as you do now. You left him to figure things out on his own and he must have felt so betrayed.

“What for, darling?”

You blink, brows knitting together. He sounds so unbothered, sounds like he’s already come to terms with what you are, but he can’t possibly be entirely okay with it. What you do is life threatening to the human you feed on.

Surely he knows that.

“Using you—lying to you.” You eye Higuruma with a narrowed gaze. “Aren’t you mad? You don’t hate me?”

Higuruma chuckles as he shakes his head, the sound deep and clearly amused.

“I’m not mad and I could never hate you, darling. You’re my light, my love, the one I’ve devoted my life to. You’ve devoted your life to me, no?”

Higuruma gestures to the cathedral.

“Despite your intentions, you were still willing to step foot in one of the few places that I can only imagine would be taxing for you.” Higuruma leans forward, lifting you before swapping your positions, allowing you to sit on the bench while he kneels in front of you.

“All I ask is that you show me all of you so that I can worship my wife in all her glory.”

You sputter. This isn’t how you’d imagined this interaction to go, but you’re relieved. You can’t deny that. Though, as much as the sight of Higuruma on his knees in front of you awakens something from deep within, it feels wrong.

And you know why. That position is reserved for followers and worshippers of gods and celestial beings.

“No, I can’t—worshipping a demon is wrong, I can’t just—”

“You,” Higuruma cuts you off. “Are more than just a demon, you’re my shrine, my altar of sin.”

His hands find the hem of your dress before he begins to lift it slowly. His intentions hit you like a freight train in that very moment.

“Despite what you may think, demon or not, you are the answer to my prayers, the one thing that keeps this—”

He places a hand right above the organ that pumps his blood while still looking up at you like you’re his salvation, like you’re his saviour and seeing that alone makes something tug deep in your chest.

You’ve never been looked at like that by anyone else before. Which makes sense—not many look at a demon and immediately think that they deserve to be worshipped.

“—Beating over and over again. So let me worship you, let me give you my life because it’s yours.”

His words are as sweet as ever, but still, you haven’t ever been on the receiving end of someone’s prayer and devotion. You’re not sure if it’s even allowed.

“Giving your life to the one you worship…” You start, eyes darting over Higuruma’s features where shadows dance due to the flickering light. It suits him somehow, brings out the charm in his features.

“Is that not… what churches and religions are for? Serving a god is what humans have been doing for the longest time.”

Higuruma is silent for a long moment and when he looks up at you with those sinful pair of half-lidded eyes as he peers up at you and you can feel your resolve crumbling.

Slowly. Painstakingly so.

“That may be true, yes,” Higuruma’s thumb traces mindless circles over your knee before he places a lingering kiss there. “But you’re forgetting something, darling.”

You blink, nibbling on your bottom lip before you allow yourself to speak.

“What is that?”

Higuruma pushes the skirt of your dress, the one you'd slipped on in a rush before leaving home, a little higher along your legs before placing a gentle kiss on your other knee. He presses his nose to it, breathing in the natural aroma of your skin.

“There are many people, including myself, who don’t need a church or religion to find something worth worshipping,” he pants, gaze heavy and pupils blown wide. “And I’ve got a wife—my wife who I will worship wherever and whenever I so please.”

You suck in a breath as Higuruma spreads your legs a little further, making room for himself right between them. Right now, he looks so sinful while dressed in that cleric attire, slotting himself between your thighs like an apostle ready to devote his life to the deity he serves.

“So please… let me.”

There it is, the last of your resolve crumbling into dust. After a short stretch of silence, you lift the rest of your skirt for Higuruma, exposing your drenched panties to him.

His cock aches at the sight of the way the thin material clings to the shape of your pussy and for the life of him, Higuruma can’t do anything other than inhale deep—an attempt to breathe in the scent of your need.

He kisses your inner thigh, a small little thank you for allowing him to do what he’s so desperate to, but he wastes no time in slipping your panties down the smooth planes of your thighs before they reach your ankles and he immediately discards the useless piece of material to the side.

“Before I worship you,” Higuruma pushes your thighs farther apart, allowing his greedy eyes to take in the way your need glistens under the warm glow of the light that pools from behind him.

You swallow hard when he leans in, his warm breath fanning the apex of your thighs, right where you’re dripping with need.

His nose slots between your drenched pussy lips and he inhales like the lewd man that you didn’t truly know him to be. He has been so dexterous at hiding even his deepest darkest desires from you that it’s almost scary.

Almost.

“Let me pray to her first.” Higuruma speaks directly into your sex before he pulls back enough, only after a short stretch of silence, to meet your gaze.

“Want to know what the purpose of the prayer that I’m going to use is?”

Before you can even think about it, you nod. You’re far too desperate, far too needy to deny this man.

“It shows praise,” Higuruma spreads your folds so that he can get a good look at your drenched cunt. “It allows for an opportunity to implore.”

Without glancing away from your pussy, Higuruma leans forward, tongue darting out before he drags it along your slit, an action that pulls a gasp from you while he collects the honeyed slick that just driiips there before swallowing it all.

“And most of all,” Higuruma’s eyes snap up to your half-lidded gaze while your breaths come out in soft, gentle pants. “It shows gratitude and only the lord knows—”

Higuruma peers at where you’re weeping for attention before he flattens his tongue, trailing the warm muscle higher and higher until it reaches your clit and that earns him a desperate whimper from you.

“—How grateful I am for this—hck—this sweet pussy.”

Then, with a sloppy SCHLIK! Higuruma’s tongue plunges deep into your velvety canal, massaging the crevices while his thumbs keep you nice and spread for him.

“Oh god, Hiro!” Your legs spread on their own accord, like your body knows what it wants and what it needs.

Higuruma makes a sound, one that has the vibrations shooting straight through you.

“No, darling,” he pants. “We’re not praying to god, not right now.”

Higuruma shifts as he adjusts his grip, allowing his hands to find the plush undersides of your thighs, keeping them apart as he devours your cunt. He fucks you slow with his tongue, taking the time to savour your taste.

Then, he murmurs something under his breath, something that you don’t quite catch, but you surely do catch the words that tumble from his mouth next.

“Hail Mary… full of grace,” Higuruma mouths into your pussy, pausing for a moment to slurp all of your need that gushes from you as the arched bridge of his nose presses against your clit.

You squeal, grinding yourself on his nose that earns you a feral groan from the man that has his face buried between your thighs.

“The lord is with thee.”

Higuruma laps at your pussy like a starved man, drinking from you like he isn’t murmuring a prayer right into your cunt. It’s sinful, so much so that you don’t even know what to do with yourself.

Your hands are braced on either side of you, hips bucking as Higuruma’s nose grazes your sweet bundle of nerves. It feels so good, but you know that the prayer is doing more harm than good.

Your energy feels like it’s being extracted from you—like an evil spirit that no longer has the power to possess its host.

Still, your need coats Higuruma’s face, pouring down the corners of his mouth while he blinks languidly, like he himself can’t think clearly. Not even too long in and he’s struggling to fight the effect that both the scent and taste of you have on him.

“Blessed art thou… a-among… women.”

You shudder, fingers raking through his dark hair as your head tilts forward, lips parting as breathless pleas roll off your tongue.

“Hiromi… that feels so—so good.”

He doesn’t respond and you’re not sure if it’s on purpose or not. He doesn’t even look away from where your arousal bubbles out of your needy orifice before he’s slurping that up too.

He truly is dedicated to praying to your pussy and he’s so focused.

“And blessed is the—hah—fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

He all but smothers himself half to death, coating his lower half of his face with your sap.

“Holy Mary,” Higuruma’s tongue plunges so deep into you that even your need splatters out and he groans—in both satisfaction and the pain of dealing with a raging erection that presses up against his slacks.

The prayer itself is powerful enough to have goosebumps littering your skin, enough to have you panting as you break into a light sweat. It’s not hurting you, not burning your insides the way many other demons have warned you about this specific prayer.

No.

The prayer simply feels like a leech—one that latches on to your soul—and all it does is suck and suck and suck the energy from you. The little bit of cum that you’d gotten from Higuruma before isn’t enough.

“Mother of—hck—god,” Higuruma moans into you, eyes rolling back as you arch your back, using his face for your pleasure, using it to chase the feeling that you want.

“H-Hiromi, please.”

The pressure builds and builds and builds.

“Pray for… us sinners.”

He’s too far gone; too far gone to hear the way you call out so desperately for him. He’s drunk, completely intoxicated and it’s your lacquer that’s the cause.

“Now,” Higuruma’s tongue finds your clit again and he hollows out his cheeks before abusing the little bundle of nerves with his tongue.

He nips at your clit, humming to himself when you curse under your breath, brows knitting together as you tug on the roots of his hair.

“And at the hour of our—hmm—death.”

“Hiromi, please, I’m gonna… gonna—”

Your grip turns to iron, but Higuruma doesn’t care, doesn’t showcase anything that gives away the fact that he’s bothered by the way you tug on his messy strands of hair as you press his face deeper into your pussy.

And, as if hearing Higuruma’s prayer, your greedy orifice clenches around nothing just as a cry tears from your chest the moment your orgasm crashes over you, hitting hard. You all but bless him with your release, drenching his face in your candied slick that he gobbles up without hesitation.

His cock twitches painfully in its confines this time and Higuruma fights literal demons in order to keep from palming himself.

Your body responds so beautifully to his mouth and even just watching you buck and twitch as you use his nose to ride out your high has him nearly creaming his pants.

He has to fight it. He knows that he must.

“Amen.” Is the last thing he mutters before he slurps the dulcet answer to his prayer, tongue still bullying its way past your slick folds and grazing you where you’re most sensitive.

“Hiro—mmn—too much… please.”

Higuruma’s eyes dart up when he hears the desperation in your voice and his eyes narrow while a smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth when his eyes settle on your forehead.

Two pretty horns adorn it, shaped in a way that’s uniquely you.

“I was hoping that the prayer would help drain your energy more than what it has just so that I can see all of you, but as it seems,” Higuruma licks his lips and his eyes glint with something dark, something that you’ve never seen before.

“My wife is stronger than she looks, hmm? My strong little devil, yeah?”

Your brows furrow. You’re still coming down from the effects of your orgasm, and you’re struggling to think clearly.

“What—what are you talking about?”

Higuruma slowly pulls his hands from where they’d been resting on your thighs before pointing to his own head—right where horns protrude from yours.

“Pretty additions I must say, sweetheart. I guess even horns make a fitting crown.”

Your hands shoot up, fingers grazing the base of the part of you that you hadn’t seen, let alone felt in the longest time.

You hadn’t been aware of them, and your horns are a testament to the fact that the battle that you’re having with yourself is one that you can’t—one that you won’t win because even if it’s piece by piece, you’re breaking down.

Slowly, but surely and your mana can only do so much for you.

Heat pricks at your cheeks. You know that the longer you stay in this cathedral, the longer your husband keeps you here, the harder it is going to be to keep your disguise up.

“Now,” Higuruma places a lingering kiss to your puffy clit before he pulls away and rises to his full height. “I’m going to worship my wife.”

Higuruma pulls you off from the pew, lifting you with ease as he carries you over to the altar where the only source of light shines in the otherwise dark cathedral.

He places you on the edge of the altar, allowing your legs to dangle in the air before he works on pulling your dress right off from your body, leaving you exposed under his heated gaze.

Your nipples are hard and perky, chest heaving while slick still clings to the flesh between your thighs. The only difference about you right now and any other time Higuruma has taken the time to admire you, are those very prominent horns on your head.

He knows that you’re growing tired, that you’re too weak to even bother hiding them again. He doesn’t want you to. You’ve been hiding for years.

“So beautiful…” Higuruma murmurs as he leans down, arms bracketing your form as he litters kisses along your neck. “Every inch of you is just perfect.”

You make a small sound, heart clenching in your chest at Higuruma’s words.

Gently, he pushes you back until your spine hits the flat, cool surface of the altar, but even that sensation doesn’t bother you. The heat that radiates off you blocks it out entirely.

Higuruma settles directly between your thighs and you feel every single hard inch of his need press up against your pussy and you whine at the contact.

“Hiromi… I want—”

“My cock?” Higuruma murmurs as he presses his lips to your collar bone. “I know, but you’ll have to wait, darling. Your husband isn’t finished worshipping you yet.”

His hands glide over your body, from your waist to your sides before they reach your tits and with a gentle graze of each thumb, he rolls your hardened nipples under the rough pads of his fingers, pressing down with just the right amount of pressure.

You whine, the sensation urging your back off the altar and your hands find Higuruma’s shoulders for support. Feeling him grounds you, offers you a safe haven that you never knew was possible.

“That feels good.”

“I bet it does, huh?” Higuruma angles his head down, suckling on the plush mound of one of your breasts, leaving a little bruise behind before he takes his time marking you, relishing the taste of your flesh.

Your pussy clenches around nothing when Higuruma sucks on your nipple next, tongue lapping at the sensitive bud while his fingers play with the other. He divides his attention between both nipples, giving the other the same attention and your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to where you’re still drenched with need.

You’re searching for relief. You still ache despite having had an orgasm mere moments ago.

Higuruma groans when you pull him closer, grinding his hips against yours and the two of you gasp in unison.

“Wanna feel you,” you utter while tugging on Higuruma’s cassock and he hums, lips finding the valley between your breasts before he finally pushes himself up again.

You want his skin on yours; you want to soak up the warmth of his flesh. It’s what you crave aside from anything and everything else.

“Your skin on mine… please?”

“Who am I to deny my prettiest sinner, hmm?” He whispers, hands undoing the buttons of his cassock before the black material falls to the floor and the simple button-down shirt that he’d worn beneath soon follows suit.

He's left in the dark slacks that hang low on his waist, his belt still unbuckled and a rosary that drapes around his neck. The sight is as divine as it is sinful. Higuruma’s figure only glows under the dim light above the altar, sculpted muscles rippling as he leans forward again and the rosary dangles over you, a little too close for comfort.

You inhale a sharp breath, flinching despite yourself. You’ve never touched one before, never had one so close.

Higuruma follows your gaze and he exhales a chuckle as his hand envelopes the crucifix attached to the string of black beads, gentle gaze darting back to yours.

“This won’t hurt you. I’d never allow it to.”

Your brows furrow.

“But what if—”

“Let me show you.”

Higuruma pulls the rosary off from around his neck and you gasp when he holds it up for your gaze, closer than before. For a moment, he doesn’t do anything, only allows it to hover over your flesh and when it doesn’t burn your skin like you’d anticipated, you release a heavy breath.

You’re not sure what’s going on. It seems that the warnings you’ve heard from the rest of your kind were but mere lies.

Not once have you been harmed, not once have you endured excruciating pain.

“You’re fine. I’d never let harm befall you, darling.”

Then, Higuruma lowers the rosary and holds the edge of the crucifix to your slick pussy, and you whine at the sensation as he drags it along your puffy folds.

“See? All good yes?”

You nod and Higuruma pulls the cross back only to replace it with his thumb. He gathers your slick before he moves to push back the hood of your clit so that he can expose it in all of its glistening and puffy glory.

“H-Hiro.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know. A little sensitive, aren’t you?”

Higuruma presses the smooth surface of the crucifix right up against your clit this time, pushing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves just right.

A gasp slips from your lips at that, your hips buck as you push them off the altar, thighs clamping together and squeezing Higuruma’s wrist, but he shakes his head at that, using the hand that he used to bare your rosebud to spread your legs again.

He wraps the beads of the rosary around his index and middle fingers.

“Come on, darling, we can’t have you doing that now.”

“But Hiromi—”

Without warning, he slips his fingers into the heat of your cunt, silencing you before you can even think about it. The pretty black beads graze your velvety walls as Higuruma thrusts his fingers in and out of your leaky orifice.

You whine all while he keeps the crucifix pressed to your clit and the combined sensations have you panting for breath. You forget how to breathe.

Just for a moment.

“Be a good girl and grind that perfect little clit on the crucifix, my love. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

You whimper, but nod nonetheless and before long, you buck your hips, choking on a mewl as your clit grazes the textured cross that Higuruma keeps pressed up against you—not too hard, but with just enough pressure to keep you hooked.

“There you go, that’s it. Look at you, my gorgeous, gorgeous wife.”

You’re far too gone, still fighting to keep yourself from transforming back into your true form, into your true self and it’s consuming a lot more energy. Sucking Higuruma off isn’t nearly enough to replenish the amount of energy that you need while being in the cathedral.

“Hiro,” you pant. “Feels so good, please, I wanna—ahn.”

“Want to what, darling?” Higuruma curls his fingers when you thrust your hips up and the beads around them presses on that hidden sweet spot deep inside of you.

“Fuck, Hiromi, I w-wanna—cumngh again.”

You jerk your hips, whining as your clit presses against the crucifix in the most delicious way possible and your slick gushes from your cunt, drooling all over Higuruma’s hand.

“Again? So greedy.”

Higuruma keeps his gaze on your drenched pussy—incapable of looking away from the pretty sight, of the way your arousal oozes from your desperate little orifice, of the way your need pours from you.

He licks his lips, feeding you the bead-wrapped inches of his fingers with every thrust and buck of your hips.

“Hiro,” his name rolls from your tongue like a mantra, a desperate little plea while your thighs quiver as you feel another orgasm build. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Then cum for me, darling. Cum so that I can give my greedy wife what she needs.”

And you do. Your walls flutter, muscles clenching around Higuruma’s fingers as he presses the crucifix harder against your clit. You roll your hips, grinding on it, riding out your high with the sweetest most dulcet sounds.

Slick oozes from you, dripping from you like nectar.

When you come down from your high, panting as your body buzzes with stimulation, Higuruma slides the crucifix lower, smearing your syrupy slick all over it, coating it with your release.

You make a little sound as he pulls his fingers from you before bringing the crucifix to his mouth before Higuruma’s tongue glides over the flat surface of it, licking up your sap that he just can’t seem to get enough of.

He cleans his fingers next, cock weeping with desperation at the taste of you. He doesn’t look away while he does so and it has heat coiling low in your gut.

You’re still needy, still desperate, but you’re desperate for your husband more than what you’re desperate for energy.

“Hiromi… please.”

Higuruma’s lips twitch at the corners as he slurps the last of your release off from his fingers and the beads and places a soft kiss on directly on the crucifix, murmuring something about being grateful about his newly blessed gift.

Then, he places the rosary back around his neck before he frees his raging erection. His cock twitches in his grasp, and you drool at the sight.

Higuruma taps his leaking tip to your sensitive clit before he smears your wetness along the tip of his cock and you squirm, oversensitivity pulling a whine from you.

“Guess I’ve kept you waiting long enough, hmm?”

Higuruma lines himself up with your leaking entrance, hissing when his flushed tip pushes past your puffy folds. You hold on to him for dear life as sheathes himself fully inside you, reawakening your sensitive crevices.

You swallow hard as he stretches you, stuffs you with his vein decorated girth.

“You feel like heaven on earth, darling.”

Higuruma pulls out before pushing back into you with a SQUELCH! and the sound is so obscene, so lewd that you can’t even fathom that it’s coming from you.

“So tight, so wet—always so wet.”

Higuruma kisses the corner of your mouth as you gasp and his arms cradle you, holding you close as he presses his chest to yours. He keeps the slow, rhythmic pace until you’re pleading for him to go harder.

You beg so sweetly, so beautiful that he can’t help but obey.

He gives you what you want with a grunt, cock plunging deep and hitting your most sensitive parts repeatedly. You can’t think straight, no thoughts linger in your fuzzy brain and you’re incapable of focusing on anything other than the feel of Higuruma’s cock stretching you out.

“Hah—feels so… mngh… you feel so good, Hiro.”

He drags his cock out, only to push back into your velvety innards with toe curling precision. He fucks you with hard, worshipful strokes, pulling the sweetest sounds from your drenched pussy and in the sounds echo like sinful whispers in the night.

“You feel so good, my love.” Higuruma buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in as he drags out your pleasure.

“And if it’s cock that you want, if it’s cock that you need, I’ll gladly feed it to you over and over again.”

“You’re so filthy, I don’t think that you—ah!”

The cusp of Higuruma’s cock smacks your cervix and you choke on a wail. Every thrust breaks down your ability to stay intact, breaks down your ability to hold on to your sanity.

“And you can’t hold on for much longer, can you, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl?”

You shake your head just as a whimper slips free.

“I can’t—"

It’s not just your lack of mana that’s impacting you, it’s the sensation, the connection you feel that has you feeling vulnerable, too weak to even put up a fight with your own body.

“Then transform back.”

He’s still so insistent to see you for who you truly are. He hasn’t given up.

“Show me all of what you—hah—are because,” Higuruma’s cock reaches deeper and deeper and it becomes increasingly difficult for you to think clearly. “It doesn’t matter what form you take, I will always—”

He groans as he delivers a single thrust that has the tip of his leaking cock pressing riiight on your sweet spot and you cry out, feeling your strength crumble, feeling the way your body fights so desperately to hold on, but you’re weak.

Too weak.

“—love you the same.”

Higuruma’s hands find the underside of your knees as he presses forward, and he keeps you spread while pushing your knees back until they’re pressed to your chest.

His cock reaches deeper than ever before with the change in position and it’s that sensation that is your undoing.

You’re unable to hold on any longer, unable to find the strength that it takes for you to maintain your last semblance of humanity and before long, your skin colour slowly fades, tinting a pretty, pretty hue that isn’t at all natural for a human along every single inch of your body.

Your wings struggle behind you, flapping uselessly and your tail rests between your bodies while you hold onto Higuruma like only he can save you from the sensations that you’re feeling.

“Would you just look at that…”

Higuruma’s eyes rove over your features and if possible, he falls all the more in love with you.

He delivers another thrust before he rolls his hips, stretching you good and you cry out.

“You truly are perfect, huh? My perfect, perfect wife.”

His hips stutter and his cock twitches, pre-cum leaking from the tip and when he thrusts in again, you’re creaming on his cock with a choked cry, eyes rolling back as you claw at Higuruma’s back.

Your orgasm steals your breath, constricts your lungs and has your legs shaking while you moans fall from your lips like sweet hymns that soothe Higuruma’s soul. His orgasm is quick to follow suit and Higuruma groans as he empties himself inside of you, your amalgamation of sap oozing out and back onto the base of his cock.

He helps you ride out your high, cock pistoning into your cunt with repetitive squelches as he fucks his cum back into you, prolonging your pleasure in a way that has you seeing heaven.

You see it, you taste it and it’s magnificent.

When the pleasure ebbs, the two of you stay like that—breathless, panting messes. You feel much better, no longer a victim to the need to stay hidden, but you’ve yet to get out of the cathedral.

You’re still weak despite the new flow of energy.

“I don’t understand why you hid this version of yourself from me.” Higuruma murmurs, unmoving as he nuzzles your neck. “Perhaps I should keep you here so that you can embrace the worship that you deserve.”

You shake your head.

“I can’t stay in the cathedral, Hiro.”

Higuruma hums before he sighs, breath fanning the heated flesh of your neck before he pulls away. He seems torn by whatever is warring in his mind.

“This cathedral, my love, is not real.”

Your brows furrow, eyes darting around the interior and Higuruma’s eyes light up with mirth.

“Structurally, yes, it is—but it wasn’t built for the purpose of worshipping a god.”

You’re confused and Higuruma sees that. As bright as day.

“Maybe this will help you understand.”

Higuruma stills for a moment, and you want to ask him what on earth he’s doing, but you feel it before you see it. Higuruma’s hips jerk while he braces his hands on either side of your head.

Your vision goes blurry for a moment, and you gasp, back arching as Higuruma’s cock swells while he keeps himself buried deep inside your warm confines. He stretches you, and your breathing grows ragged while he hisses.

He's growing bigger somehow and it has you whining because the stretch feels obscene. It’s too much.

“What are—Hiromi—ugh.”

He grows bigger, every single inch of him. His limbs morph into a different shape, his flesh stains darker, unnatural, though the shade differs to yours. Large horns adorn his head while a long tail, one that matches yours flicks behind him and when he finally finishes his own transformation, your eyes go wide.

Not just from surprise, but because your pussy chokes on his girth.

Your eyes rove his new features, the features that he too kept hidden from you. This is the last thing that you’d expected to happen tonight, but it somehow makes sense.

Everything makes sense; the strength of his soul, his ability to ensure that no harm has been able to come to you, the reason why he wasn’t mad when he revealed that he knew what you were and everything else in between.

He's been a demon all along. A different species to yours, but a demon all the same.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but your ability to speak betrays you.

Higuruma notices your speechlessness and his chuckle rumbles deep and, despite the immense change that happened right before your eyes, his gaze is no different from before—it’s still gentle, still full of adoration, still worshipful.

You find your voice before he can say anything.

“You built the cathedral.”

That is the only reason you can think of when it comes to why being in here has done absolutely nothing to harm you.

“Yes, darling. I did—many, many years ago.”

“You made me believe that it was real by absorbing my mana.”

“I did, yes—nothing that’d harm you.”

Higuruma places a kiss on your cheek before he lifts a hand to cradle your smaller one so that he can bring it up to cup his face. Your thumb moves mindlessly, drawing light circles on his cheek as Higuruma keeps your hand there.

“I’ve given you some of mine too, so I hope that you can forgive me.”

“I think I can manage to do that.”

A beat of comfortable silence passes and not because you’re angry or struggling to come to terms with what you’ve just discovered. You’re simply allowing yourself to get a grip on the fact that you’d been right about what’d happen when your secret is revealed.

Your life is going to change, though, just not in the way you anticipated.

“Hiromi.”

Your eyes snap to where your bodies are still connected. You’re too reluctant to move.

“Yes, my love?”

“You don’t think that you could have pulled out before transforming?”

© nyxiedreams 2026 ⋆ All rights reserved ⋆

A/N: Amen. Aman. A man—A deman.

[sukundere-deactivated20260422]

ARE WE EVER REALLY ALONE ?

pale visitor!sukuna x survivor!reader 'no, i'm not a human' AU

part 1 ⇢ part 2 ⇢ part 3

SYNOPSIS: Stay inside. Lock your doors. Close your blinds. Only let humans in and eliminate all visitors. When the apocalypse happened, the rules seemed simple- but as the nights tick by, you find yourself scrambling to survive. And every time you turn him away, you're left questioning how much you really know about yourself and this new world.

WARNINGS: dead dove- post-apocalyptic au, dual pov, descriptions of death & violence, blood, guns, unreliable narrator, somewhat follows the gameplay/dialogue of no, i'm not a human, strong language, extreme guilt/shame, emotional conflict, emotional manipulation, depression, anxiety & paranoia, strangers/enemies to lovers, eventual smut -> dub-con, true-form sukuna; more tags to be added

A/N: art creds @/decay_int on insta & x, other images from NINAH gameplay.

There was no light wherever he was. But fuck, it was so hot.

Sukuna didn't even know if the sun had risen or not. In fact, he wasn't even sure how much time had passed since he'd passed out in the dirt.

For all he knew, he could've been dead.

Though if he had actually died, then why was he hurting so much?

There was a sheen of sweat spread across Sukuna's feverish body, partially due to the temperature around him, but also because of the searing aches in his ribs. It was a blinding, white pain that spread out from each side of his torso and he didn't dare touch the area.

His eyes were useless in his state, shrouded in darkness, and yet he willed himself to move. His legs were weak, in fact, his entire being was exhausted as his palms pressed into the ground. Straining slightly, Sukuna lifted himself and he rose cautiously to his feet.

It took a bit of exploring, time spent wandering through the darkness, to orient himself. Sukuna didn't think he was inside a building or a home, but he couldn't see the sky so he was definitely not somewhere out in the open. The ground was dirt, packed firm but dusted with a dry top layer that coated his skin. And the walls felt like rock, jagged and cool to the touch, a contrast to the rest of the space.

A cave?

It seemed like the most likely option. The issue was, even if that was true, he still had no idea how he got there. Perhaps that thing he'd seen had brought him there? But if so, why? Obviously he was still alive, so he figured it was possible someone else brought him there. But again— why?

And why didn't that thing kill him?

A million questions raced through Sukuna's mind, the chaos bringing with it a dull ache that left his head pounding. There were too many unknowns.

Sucking in a breath, Sukuna's hands flew to his pockets. His phone. Patting frantically, he searched for his belongings but came up empty, pulling a low groan from the man. His situation just kept getting worse.

But he needed to move— to leave. He needed to get outside if he was going to have any chance at finding out where he might be.

And that felt like it took another hour at least. Another hour or more of stumbling around aimlessly, using his hands on the walls to guide him as his eyes fruitlessly tried to adjust to the darkness. And then he saw it.

One small area that looked just a tad lighter than everything else he'd seen. One space where he could make out the ridges of the rocks around him and the outlines of his hands.

So Sukuna followed his sight. He took whatever direction allowed him to see more than before, until stars finally began to speckle in the black expanse of the sky above him. A crescent moon hung high, casting a soft glow across the landscape before him.

It shouldn't have been that bright. So far from being full, the moon was a tiny sliver of silver that illuminated more than Sukuna believed possible. And yet, he could see. He could see enough to follow a small footpath, one weary step after another.

Really, Sukuna didn't know where it lead.

Sukuna didn't know where he was going to end up before the sun rose once more, but for some reason he felt certain it would be the right place. Call it a gut feeling.

His mind strayed from thoughts of his journey, drifting back to reflect again on recent events. Were they even that recent? There was no way to know how much time had passed before he woke up again. In all honesty, he didn't quite remember the events from before. Sukuna tried to focus, to recall images in his mind but each one looked as though it was recorded on an old film camera. Too grainy, the picture appeared smudged, the lighting too bright or too dark to make out much more than his own feet.

"Fuck—" Sukuna cursed under his breath, a hand coming up to clutch his head. A sharp sting seared through his temple before settling between his eyes.

But it wasn't nearly as painful as his ribs. The sudden movement of his arm felt as though he split open a wound, tearing through nonexistent stitches along his sides. He couldn't explain it. Unless there were bones broken beneath his skin that he was unaware of, Sukuna couldn't understand where the sensation was coming from. He'd have to take a look at the area whenever he found a place to stay.

No more than an hour later, he saw a small home. It was set aside from a few others, nestled near the edge of the forest, a burnt field lying between the residence and its neighbors. That's where he needed to go.

Sukuna could see the shimmer of the lights that were on inside shining through the thin fabric curtains covering the windows. He figured it must've been hot in there, but still, it was better than being burned alive.

As he got closer, muffled voices found their ways into his ears. There were at least two people in the home, hushed whispers and comforting words being offered to one another. Each guest unaware that one more was eavesdropping, preparing to join their group.

It didn't even occur to Sukuna that it was odd— the fact that he could make out the contents of the conversations happening inside. Even as he listened through the solid wood of the front door, he could tell that there was a familiar voice. One he hadn't heard since before the cataclysm, one he'd been hoping to hear again.

Before he could question it, he was knocking, knuckles rapping against the door five times. And then he waited.

"Hello?"

Hello.

Not 'what do you want'. Not 'what are you doing here'. A simple greeting, and for some reason it felt rare.

"Hi," Sukuna cleared his throat, "Was lookin' for somewhere to stay for a bit. Stumbled across your home, here."

"I see." It sounded like a man on the other side of the door. His voice deep, gruff, but there was a gentle air to it, understanding laced into his words. "Where were you before?"

The question gave Sukuna pause. He weighed his options as he thought about how to respond, debating what he should reveal or not. Ultimately, he decided to keep his answer as simple as possible.

"The city. But FEMA kicked us outta our homes."

"Ah, I've been hearin' about that. You been traveling with anyone else?"

Sukuna could feel his eye twitch. Hadn't he answered enough questions? He was fucking tired— tired from walking, tired from going through whatever it was he went through, tired of hurting. Inhaling deeply, he fought to fend off his irritation, trying to remind himself that the man was just taking precautions.

"I've been alone."

Silence.

And then he heard the sound of metal sliding against metal as the homeowner released lock after lock on the door. He must have installed more after the news about the visitors. Sukuna supposed that it wasn't a bad idea, though if that was the case then why did it bother him?

The door swung open to reveal a shorter man, dressed in a denim jacket with bags under his eyes.

"Come in, you can pick any room you'd like to hole up in. I hope you don't mind, but I'll have to test you eventually."

Sukuna stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the home in one long stride. His eyes scanned the interior. It was quaint. Not so old that the floorboards creaked beneath his feet, but old enough that the paint on the walls was dull in color, worn down over the years. There were a couple pictures hanging up, evidence of a life before the apocalypse.

Finally, Sukuna's eyes settled again on the man in front of him. His expression was neutral, revealing little more than the fact that he was seemingly unimpressed by Sukuna's appearance.

"Test me?"

"For signs of being a visitor," the man clarified.

And how was he supposed to pass that? What kinds of signs would they even be looking for? Sukuna supposed that if he knew, he might be able to try and prepare a bit, perhaps even seek out one of the other guests to try and get some information.

No, it was okay. Sukuna shook his head lightly, trying to ignore the throbbing that returned to his forehead, likely a result of his endless train of thought and the ridiculously bright overhead light. He was going to pass the tests, because it wouldn't make sense that he'd show signs of being a visitor.

"That's fine," Sukuna answered curtly, ready to be done with the conversation.

Pushing past the man, he walked slowly, ears tuned in to try and listen through each door he passed by. Sukuna wanted to make sure that whatever room he chose to stay in, there was another person there.

Too quiet.

Too quiet.

There.

He could hear the sound of someone shuffling around on the other side of the wooden barrier. His hand wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob, twisting it slowly until he was able to push open the door with a soft creak.

The sight waiting for Sukuna made him freeze, standing in the middle of the doorway with baited breath as he met a set of piercing blue eyes.

"Holy shit," Satoru breathed, a hand pushing his hair back as he stood up from his place on the couch. "Holy shit."

Sukuna didn't move, just stayed stock-still with his mouth hanging agape as Satoru rushed towards him. He was embraced tightly, his friend wrapping two arms around his torso with a force he hadn't quite known Satoru possessed. It left a burning sensation spreading out from his sides, sharp enough that it took everything in Sukuna not to shove the man off of him.

"Where have you been?" Satoru asked, his voice breathless with disbelief. "And how did you get here? What happened to Choso and Yuji? Have you seen them?"

It was too much at once. Too many questions being hurled at Sukuna and he wasn't even sure how well he could answer them. The pitch of Satoru's voice left him cringing, reclining slightly to create a small space between them. Whatever sense of relief, excitement, comfort that Sukuna received from this reunion was fading quickly, being replaced with a piercing ache between his eyes and a ringing in his ears.

Everything was just so loud. So light.

"You good man?"

Satoru's eyebrows were drawn together in concern, his eyes sweeping over Sukuna's figure which was hunched over ever so slightly, curling in on itself.

"Yeah," Sukuna grunted, a hand coming up to swipe at his forehead which had begun to bead with sweat. "Just tired. Been walkin' all night."

"Ah okay, that makes sense. We can chill here at least." Satoru's gaze wandered over Sukuna once more, brows pinching even further together. Sukuna's stomach twisted, irritation seeping in at the look Satoru was giving him— Worry? Condescension? Disgust? "You're not looking too good, you wanna take a shower or something? I bet the old man would let you."

What was Satoru expecting him to look like after going through what he did? Went to fucking hell and back for all he knows and he had the gall to say that, to look at Sukuna like that.

The expression on Sukuna's face gave Satoru pause, a chill running down his spine as he was filled with a sense of unease that he quickly tried to brush away. The tattooed man had yet to say a word, his eyes narrowed slightly and mouth frozen in a sneer as he stared silently at Satoru.

Clearing his throat, Satoru spoke once more, "if you're too tired we can just go to bed. We'll shower and talk whenever we wake up, might be able to get some food too."

The thought of food made Sukuna feel like his stomach was turning inside out. It wasn't hunger. It should've been, but something inside of him was certain that it wasn't. Rather, something more akin to revulsion. He knew whatever food he may be offered would not be what he needed, craved.

"Can you shut the lights off? Giving me a damn headache, so fuckin' bright," Sukuna grumbled, one shaky arm coming up to shield his eyes despite the throbbing in his side when he did so. He was going to have to check that out when he got a chance.

Satoru didn't comment on the bitterness laced in Sukuna's words as they were tossed carelessly in his direction. He assumed his friend was just exhausted, that maybe something had happened to him or his brothers that he wasn't ready to talk about. So he ignored the anxiety in his gut, he told himself that this was normal because nothing was normal anymore, and he turned off the lamp in the corner of the room— the only light that was on.

Neither of the men slept much that day. Sukuna had spent hours laying on his back, not daring to rest on either of his sides as the pain crawled along his body, refusing to let him go. It spread overnight, upwards and downwards. In its wake it left a searing sensation on the right side of his face, his stomach and, oddly enough, between his thighs.

It was strange.

He understood what was happening to him, and still, confusion riddled his mind. Feverish, sweat glistened across Sukuna's skin as his breathing turned shallow, his brain clouded in a fog.

"Satoru?" Sukuna rasped, his mouth dry and throat raw from his journey.

There was no response save for the soft muffled sound of chatter coming from another part of the house. With a groan, Sukuna forced himself to sit up, doing his best to ignore the aching but he no longer could when he felt it— the way his shirt was clinging to his sides. Damp with something more viscous than sweat, the fabric was stuck to the skin over his ribs.

Fuck. When had he even started bleeding? Sukuna supposed that he really did need a shower then, all things considered.

The closer he got to the door the louder the voices were. He couldn't exactly pinpoint where in the house they were coming from, but he recognized them instantly as Satoru's and the old man's. They appeared to be having a heated discussion about something.

"Did he tell ya where he's been? Where he came from?" The owner of the house was questioning Satoru intensely.

"Well, no, not yet—"

"So ya don't really know anythin' about this 'friend' of yours," the man cut him off.

"He was just tired, I told him we could talk today."

"Is that right?"

The man was skeptical, wary, especially after what Satoru had described to him earlier. He'd heard about how their latest guest was groaning all night, twitching in pain as he drifted in and out of sleep. He'd heard about how when there was finally enough light seeping through the curtains, Satoru was able to make out the dark, crimson stains on his shirt— they were not yet dry.

"First sign and he's gone. You too."

With that, Satoru was left alone. Sukuna could tell by the sound of retreating footsteps followed shortly by a door shutting, a lock clicking back into place.

Sukuna exhaled slowly, fearful of breathing too deeply and making the bleeding worse. The owner of the house wanted Satoru to gather information on him, and then to report back with whatever was found out. He wasn't told any of this. No, Satoru had acted like he was just happy to see an old friend, like he was relieved and only worried about his whereabouts.

Betrayal. The bitter emotion twisted in Sukuna's chest as he pulled his ear away from the door and stepped back because he knew Satoru was returning.

A moment later the knob turned, the door being pushed open enough for Satoru to peek his head around it. His eyes did a once over of Sukuna, no doubt taking in his current state, forming more snap judgments, gathering more intel.

Sukuna's mouth was pulled into a sneer before he could stop it. But he hated the look on his friend's face— if he could even still be called that. Sukuna wasn't quite sure where things stood between them.

Satoru's own lips were down-turned, a frown stretching across his face as his eyes swam with an emotion that Sukuna couldn't quite place. And he hated that too.

"You're bleeding," Satoru pointed out.

Obviously. "I know," Sukuna replied dryly.

Satoru's frown deepened, the expression registering in Sukuna's mind as disapproval rather than concern. "What happened?"

Sukuna just shrugged, wincing as the motion tugged at the skin over his ribs. Like hell he was going to answer any more of Satoru's questions, not since he knew what he was really doing. Helping out that man, trying to share things about Sukuna that he had no business knowing.

"Who cares. I gotta shower," Sukuna grumbled as he pushed past Gojo, muscles tensing as pain radiated out from his side but he tried not to show it on his face. He wasn't sure exactly where the bathroom was but he didn't want to ask. He'd find it on his own, he thought, he didn't need Satoru anymore.

The minute Sukuna flipped on the light in the bathroom, he immediately shut it back off. That old man must've installed a fucking 4,000 watt bulb. The singular overhead light had enough power to douse the bathroom in white, the tiles and mirror seemingly reflecting it all back at Sukuna. But he knew he can't just sit in the dark the entire time.

He needed to take a shower, which he could easily manage with the lights off after his eyes started to adjust. He was able to navigate the bathroom, stripping himself of his soiled clothes and tossing them on the floor before stepping onto cool porcelain.

Goosebumps peppered Sukuna's skin. He'd never imagined that he would feel cold again in this new world. He must've had a pretty bad fever for that to be the case, especially as he stood under the warm cascade of water.

Standing still, he let the water run over him, washing away the sweat and grime of the last few days. Before long, his skin began to sting. It stung in that familiar way when you try to rinse out a fresh wound, the water irritating the tender flesh, bringing with it a new wave of hurt. Jaw clenched tight, he suppressed the sound that threatened to spill out.

Sukuna shut off the water soon after. He had already decided that he'd sit in there for as long as it took to air dry if that meant he wouldn't need to press a rough towel to his skin.

But then he knew it was time.

Time to switch on the light and actually look at whatever was happening to him. It was time to face the truth that there was something very wrong— he knew it, Satoru knew it, anyone who'd seen him knew it.

With a deep breath he flicked on the light, wincing as the light flooded his vision again. Sukuna allowed himself the time needed for his eyes to adjust as much as they could before he moved in front of the mirror.

It was so much worse than anything he could have imagined.

The first thing he was met with was a face staring back at him. Sure, it's his, but it looks nothing like the reflection he'd been used to seeing, the one he'd seen every time he looked in a mirror before. The right side of his face was turning a deep shade of red and purple, the surface of the skin becoming calloused and leathery.

"Shit."

It almost looked like it had been burned, and a part of Sukuna wanted to tell himself that must have been what happened. That after he'd passed out, he was briefly exposed to the sun before getting to safety.

A part of him fought to find a way to support that theory, though the larger part of him knew that's all it was— a theory.

The reality of what was happening to him was much more complicated and irreparable than a burn. And that became impossible to ignore the minute that Sukuna lifted his arms as high as he could, exposing his sides to his hesitant gaze.

Sukuna's stomach twisted at the sight, bile threatening to rise up and out of his throat as he lurched forward with a gag. The putrid smell of what could only be described as raw meat wafted into his nose. It was only faintly masked by the metallic scent of blood.

A gaping wound expanded along either side of his torso, thick streams of red slowly oozing from them. Sukuna had no idea how they had formed nor what had caused them. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Every emotion that was swirling within the man had been washed away and replaced with confusion and revulsion.

And the most inexplicable part was that the contusion was not inward facing, like a deep gash, but rather it protruded outwards. Turning slightly to the side, Sukuna could see the way his skin was stretched beyond its means.

Was it swelling?

It must've been. It was the only logical explanation. But was previously accepted logic even something to be clinging to at that time?

His breathing came shallow, his hands trembling as they reached to prod at the injury. But one graze of his fingertips had Sukuna letting out a sharp hiss, his arm retracting at an inhuman speed in response to the tenderness.

What the fuck was he going to do about that?

Sukuna froze when he took a step, the movement reminding him of yet another uncomfortable issue— the stinging between his legs. He couldn't look. If it was anything like how his ribs looked, he wasn't sure he would be able to handle it mentally.

The mere possibility of his dick being a mangled mess smothered in blood caused him to retch. Heaving, Sukuna gripped the sides of the sink as he vomited into the bowl.

There wasn't much to come up. His appetite had been nonexistent for whatever reason, leaving him with nothing but his own stomach acid swimming around in his gut. His throat burned as he swallowed thickly and a sour taste was left in his mouth that he could barely rinse out.

He needed to pull it together.

It didn't matter what was going on with him, all that mattered was that no one else found out. Not the other guests, not the owner of the home, not even Satoru. Especially not Satoru.

It was really none of their business anyway, but Sukuna was sure they'd try to make it theirs. Fucking nosy, the whole lot of them. Not a single person under that roof knew how to worry about themselves and that thought irritated Sukuna like no other.

Talking about him, all hushed voices and whispers as they uttered his name and came up with outlandish hypotheses. They thought he couldn't hear them but they were all so loud they may as well have been speaking straight into his ear. Honestly, they were dumb as all hell if they thought he didn't know what was going on.

No, he knew. He knew that they wanted to get rid of him. They acted like they didn't trust him, but they were the ones not to be trusted.

A shame, really, considering at one point he truly thought Gojo to be one of his best friends.

Sukuna supposed this was to be expected though— disasters like this change people.

A sudden knock at the door pulled Sukuna from his thoughts, his head whipping to the side as he barked out a gruff, "what?"

It was Gojo. He could tell by the hesitation, the way he cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking. "You alright in there? It's been a while."

And for a brief second, Sukuna's features softened as he felt that Satoru may have genuinely been concerned about him. But he knew better. "I'm fine," Sukuna replied flatly. "Is that all you want?"

"Well, I also brought you a change of clothes because I noticed you forgot them. I grabbed them from your bag, I hope that's cool."

No, it was not cool. Sukuna inhaled deeply, attempting to quell his ire as he imagined Gojo rummaging through his things. The last of his personal belongings, and they were all being touched, no doubt inspected by Gojo.

"Just leave them there." Sukuna's tone made it clear that he was done talking.

With a sigh Satoru did as Sukuna said, dropping the clothes in a small heap at the foot of the door. Conflict swirled in his chest as he turned away, padding softly back to the living room that had become more of a bedroom.

Satoru found himself battling with what to do. His friend was most certainly not okay— but he also had no proof that it had anything to do with the visitors because Sukuna hadn't been tested. For all he knew, Sukuna really could have just been struggling with an injury or an illness he'd picked up during his journey. If that were the case, Satoru would have never forgiven himself if he were to abandon Sukuna, leaving him alone once more. In his current state, Satoru doubted Sukuna would've lasted more than a day.

Getting dressed was a difficult task. Sukuna tried to delicately pull the clean clothes on as best he could with his shaking hands. Sweat had returned to his forehead, his body an uncomfortable mix of hot and cold which told him that his fever was still hanging around.

He didn't bother taking the old clothes back to his room with him. There was no way he planned on keeping them with the way they were soaked through with blood, sweat, and whatever other bodily fluids had leaked from his lacerations. So he just bundled them up and dropped them in the trashcan.

Surely the clothes he had on would be looking the same in a couple hours, but that was a later problem.

Sukuna didn't bother speaking to Gojo when he returned to their room. Still, Gojo tried to engage with him, throwing out another maddening "how're you doing?" He always fucking asked that. If he'd actually meant it then Sukuna would have considered responding. Instead, he turned his back to him and crawled onto the couch in silence.

Gojo took that as his queue to shut off the lamp, leaving the two of them in a heavy darkness.

Sukuna had expected to sleep for maybe an hour, two if he was lucky. He had never imagined he would pass out the minute his eyes closed, his broad form laying so still atop the couch that he could be mistaken for a corpse. He'd remained that way for hours, sleeping all the way until the sun set and the day was over.

He awoke to an empty room. The light was still shut off but Sukuna could see enough despite the dark.

Padding silently to the door, the voices on the other side grew louder with each step. Sukuna couldn't help but take note of how good he felt.

Even with the inexplicable residual anger that he could feel simmering within him, Sukuna was calm, maybe even amused. At what, he wasn't sure. He just knew that he needed to move on someplace else. That house wasn't where he needed to be anymore.

Rolling his neck with a crack, Sukuna opened the door before ducking under the frame. He stalked down the hallway until he found the source of the whispering— two men sitting across from one another at a small table.

They looked up immediately. It took a moment for realization to set in, but it was clear when it did. Confused expressions morphed into fear as two sets of eyes rolled over Sukuna's body, widening with each passing second.

The one with snowy white hair spoke first, a pathetic stutter that was choked out. Just his name. "S-Sukuna?"

The older man snapped at him, "Gojo, get the—"

Gojo. Sukuna knew the name, he felt something tug inside him when he heard it but he couldn't quite place how he knew it.

"What happened to you?" Satoru's voice was broken. Fractured with despair, a result of the overwhelming helplessness that flooded Satoru's system the moment Sukuna had stepped into the kitchen.

Sukuna cocked his head at Satoru, like he wasn't even sure what his question was referring to. "Nothing happened. What makes you say that?"

"Gojo." Sukuna's eyes slid back over to the other pest at the table, irritation seeping into his face as he looked down at him. "The gun."

A gun? What did they honestly think that would do? Slow him down at best, until he had a few days to recover. Sukuna couldn't help but laugh.

Meanwhile, Satoru felt paralyzed. The bitter laughter rung out in his ears as he remained unable to move, unable to even look away from what used to be his close friend. Like a horrible car crash, his gaze was glued to the tragedy before him— the roughly seven foot tall being with half of its face covered in a hardened mask, four arms protruding out from its torso.

And it all happened so fast after that. Not even a small cry of Sukuna's name made it past Satoru's lips before the house was still again. Silence settled over the kitchen as Sukuna rolled out his neck once more, the bones cracking softly.

The old man wasn't much of a sight, slumped forward over the table. Sukuna ignored him, choosing instead to eye the younger man. The same feeling pulled at him again when he studied the body in front of him. That dead expression, complete with dull blue eyes and soft white hair cascading over his forehead as his head hung backwards.

Gojo.

Sukuna already knew that name was going to stick with him, constantly swirling around his muddled thoughts. It brought with it a sense of nostalgia that bothered him. It crept under his skin that no longer seemed to fit right, burrowing deeper until it became a part of him, something he would always carry with him.

But he didn't have time to dwell on it. Not then, at least. He had to keep moving, had to leave the house he was in and make his way to the next one.

There was no explanation as to why he needed to go there, it was just what he was told.

So he went.

Leaving the old wooden home, Sukuna turned his back to it. He set his sights on the next house that stood alone, overlooking the rest of its neighbors in a stillness that seemed impossible to disturb.

Your home.

And that first night where he spotted you through the window, with that irresistible look of fear on your face as you stood there, staring back at him. The feeling that turned over in his gut served as confirmation that he was in the right place. And then you slid the curtains shut, blocking him out like that would be enough to get rid of him. He couldn't stop the smile that split across his face.

There was no getting rid of him. You would see that soon enough.

When you awoke, you were filled with a sense of dread. Not directed toward the current state of the world and your existence, but rather at the thought of what you had to do today. Talking to people, testing them. From your point of view, it was a pain in the ass. But at the end of the day, you know you have no other option.

While the two individuals you decided to let into your home seemed fine, you could never be too sure. And even though you feel as though the tests would be unreliable, it's also all you have.

Still, you decide you want to talk to them first. You want to try and pry out whatever information you can about their lives before the cataclysm, what they did once they got the news, what they were doing walking around looking for shelter.

With a steadying breath you push open the door to the living room. Both of your guests are in there, sitting in silence, avoiding one another.

The first man, a tall individual with honey blonde hair and sunken cheeks, stares at you through tired eyes as you approach. He hardly reacts as you cross the room toward him. He just stays in his spot, expressionless, even when his gaze flits to the shotgun in your grip.

He's not dumb, he knows that there's suspicion. He figures he'd actually question it more if you weren't taking precautions.

"What would you like to know?" he speaks first.

Trust is scarce nowadays, and for good reason. You're not expecting to get much out of your guests, so his question leaves you stunned for a moment. You can feel the weight of another set of eyes on you as your sweaty palms adjust their hold on your gun.

"What were you doing before all this?" you ask, fighting to keep your voice even.

"Before the cataclysm?"

You nod, urging him to continue.

"Sales," he sighs. You don't reply, not yet. You can tell he's gathering the energy to keep talking, no doubt facing his own internal struggle— you all were. "When I was young, there was more to my life. Friends, family, school. But when I got older… I don't know. I let that all fade away, I guess. I lost myself in my work because all I could think about was making enough money to retire."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. You're not sure what to say. 'It's okay'? That feels disingenuous considering he's clearly not okay. 'Well, at least you don't need to work anymore'? That feels even worse, borderline insensitive.

You chew at the inside of your cheek, mulling over your responses before settling on a simple, "everyone loses their way at some point."

A long sigh leaves the man. He doesn't look up at you, keeping his head down even when he keeps talking.

"I ignored everything else, everyone else. I couldn't think about anything but my next paycheck. I just wanted to make something better for myself, you know?" He pauses, a quiet sniff coming from him and you stand awkwardly, unsure of how to comfort him.

When he finally raises his gaze to you again, his eyes are glossed over, the tip of his nose brushed pink. "I must have pretty shit luck. One day I wake up and money doesn't mean anything anymore. Everything I'd worked for, isolated myself for, gone with one news report."

Yeah. That's pretty fucking bad luck, you think. No one is guaranteed tomorrow, you're sure he knew that. But still, even when you're aware of that truth, no one wants to believe that fate may await them.

You avert your gaze, unable to keep looking at him. The desperate expression on his face makes you feel like you need to comfort him, and you hate that. You hate that you even asked him to share information with you in the first place.

You've never been good with people.

"I need to test you."

Thankfully, he understands. He seems to register again that even though he's in your home, you're still complete strangers. He can't expect much from you in the form of consolation.

It feels silly when you ask him to smile wide for you— like you're the fucking dentist. But he listens without protest, hooking a finger into his cheeks and pulling, giving you a clear view of each tooth.

It's not a pretty sight.

Teeth stained yellow, his foul breath wafts into your face making you recoil quickly. In retrospect, that is to be expected. These people haven't been home in who knows how long, traveling with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

Still, the expression on your face is clearly one of disgust as you're unable to stop the instinctual reaction that overcomes you.

You're sure he had good hygiene before the apocalypse. One look at him and you feel like you can picture the man he used to be. Dry cleaned suits, probably ironed each morning. Gelled hair and expensive cologne.

The embarrassment is evident on his face and you almost feel bad again. But then you remember that there's nothing you can do but let him hide out here for the time being.

"Okay, thanks," you mumble, turning from him. You already feel drained.

Just one more, you tell yourself as you cross the room again, stopping in front of the other couch.

He stares at you but he doesn't speak. He waits for you to address him first, and it's clear he's not as willing to offer up information about himself.

"And you?" You do a slow scan of the man before you, from dark circles under his eyes and the tattoo across his nose, all the way down to the worn out boots on his feet. "What's your story?"

He's wearing a baggy hoodie that he tugs tighter around him, arms folding across his chest. Your brows knit together when you notice the shiver that runs through him, the way his teeth chatter lightly when he takes a breath before speaking.

"It's not m-much of a story," he starts, stuttering when he trembles as another chill runs through him. "I lived with my brother, one of them, I have two. Or h-had, I guess."

"What happened to them?" You could take a gamble and have a good chance at being right, either the visitors got to him or the sun did, but you ask him anyways. You can never be too sure and even if he says something you expected, he may offer up more information in the process.

"My younger brother, the o-one I lived with, he was taken. FEMA had come by, saying they needed someone, had to run some tests, you know? I-I tried to tell them to t-take me. They wouldn't listen."

Your heart twists in your chest. You've lived on your own for a long time, but his story still hits hard. The longing in his voice, the sorrow swirling in his irises, it all conveys the depth of his emotion in a way you couldn't ignore even if you tried— and you were trying.

It was fucking bleak.

The whole situation you were all in, not just the shit he was telling you. There was just no other way to look at things. There was no positive lens that you could cast over your new reality. There was no space left in your mind to compartmentalize because it was all taken up, filled with endless thoughts of the cataclysm, your food supply, the sun, the heat, the pale visitor.

"And your other brother?"

The man shrugs and holds himself tighter, hands rubbing up and down his arms in a hopeless attempt to warm himself up. "D-don't know. He's lived on his own for a w-while. I tried to text h-him but it didn't go through."

"And what have you been doing since? Before you got here."

"N-nothing really. I stayed home until FEMA kicked us all out. I stayed with some people f-for a day or so but I don't r-remember much more than that…" He trails off, expression vacant as you assume he tries to recall the last few days. "Just wandered I guess, until n-now."

It's definitely not the most iron-clad story of his whereabouts, but it's not necessarily unbelievable. Trauma will do that to a person, fuck with their head, mess with their memories, leave them feeling confused and uncertain.

You have to tread carefully.

You have to decide when to trust and when to be skeptical, when to back off and when to pull the trigger. You can feel your heartbeat accelerating as the stress begins to settle in. You hate this. All the decision making, the knowledge that real lives are on the line, weighing in the balance as you consider each side.

"Okay," you sigh. You're tired of questioning for today, except for one last inquiry. One last curiosity that you haven't been able to stop thinking about. "Are you cold?"

Something rustles behind you and you imagine it must be the blonde man shuffling in his seat. No doubt he's been eavesdropping, probably wondering the same thing and waiting for you to bring it up.

He hesitates, apprehension written across his face as he weighs his response, trying to decide how much to reveal to you. "Y-yes. I'm always cold now." Sorrow is written into his words, his head hanging low once more as he stares at his feet. "No matter what I do, I c-can't get warm."

"Even with all this heat from the sun?"

He shakes his head lightly. "No, the sun burns me but its heat does nothing."

"Weird," you mutter, more to yourself. Then you remember what you were really there to do and clear your throat, drawing his gaze back up to you. "I need to test you."

"Alright. What do you want to check?"

You suppose you'll keep your tests the same for the two of your guests. "Your teeth, I guess."

Using his fingers, he pulls his cheeks apart to give you a good view of them. They're pearly white, straight and even. This time a chill runs down your spine, goosebumps littering your skin. You think back to the news reports, the pictures of the perfect, white teeth that they said are a sign of visitors.

Your fingers grip the shotgun tighter as a million thoughts race through your head.

Should you shoot him now? Or wait and see if he has any other signs? But what if you leave him be and then he kills you and the other guy? No, you should kill him now. Even if he's a human it's better safe than sorry. Right? Although, weren't you just thinking about how dumb these signs are in the first place? How inaccurate the information seems to be?

Maybe it's a bit too paranoid to shoot someone based off of a nice set of teeth. Maybe he had a spectacular orthodontist.

Your heartbeat drums in your ears as you take a deep breath, willing the poor muscle to slow down before it burns itself out.

"Well?" The man's voice pulls you back to the present. He's staring up at you, waiting for your decision and you finally loosen your grip, letting your shoulders sag as you let out a long sigh.

"You've got some white teeth, that's for sure."

"Thanks," he mumbles, "I think."

He pulls his feet up onto the couch. Hugging his legs and resting his chin on his knees, he curls up in the corner and it's clear he's closed you out now. You know that you'll get nothing more from him today.

That's all you have the energy for. The whole ordeal was surprisingly exhausting, and you decide to head straight to bed. You're still adjusting to this new routine. You only find yourself awake during the day for a few hours at a time, and after that you sleep until the sun sets.

You feel a bit more confident in your decisions when you rise again. The moon is already hanging high, but everyone in your house is alive and well. You can hear them when you press your ear up to the door— the tell-tale shivering and the sound of pages flipping in a book.

You check the windows again, peeking around the curtains or through the blinds, not wanting to miss anything important. A wave of relief washes over you when you find the views empty. Just the same burnt field and vacant dirt roads, no strange creatures or four-armed visitors waiting to meet your gaze through the glass.

But then the knocking comes. Five hard raps against the wood, each one louder, harsher than any you've heard before.

You don't need to look through the peep hole to know who, or what, is standing on your porch. The sinking feeling in your stomach is enough of a warning as to why you didn't see the pale visitor through your window.

He's already at your front door.

yay finally finished part 2! i hope u guys enjoyed. shoutout @seventasia for beta reading 𖹭

perm sukuna tags (from venusins): @cupidstrace @kamoswrld @sukubusss @cosmosalight @onlykuna @amooorette @luvleixo @mmari-07 @nishinoya-senpaai @gabrielliyy @tojiscreampie @ita606 @babbiez @buttrsc0tch @sugrfairie @officiallydrunk @kalihrts @fawnsfantasy @iridescentshine @anubisvoid2 @k1yomee @kunababy @sttvr @a-court-of-smut-and-sluts @junofern @volleyballgirl2022 @trsh-kitty @littlemisssatorugirl @skinstickets @burpzz @tocinoandkamatis @fairyof553 @grignardsreagent @nicerthanu @seellove @haazelnuutloover @arigato-rei @paintedperidot @angeleclair @astridgraves @cliffaria @winkii @kittykatz777 @hazedrat @liszero @justhereforthehottea @poeticbe4uty @planetchoso @lemonjuicie

[reignpage]

who knows how accurate this is to canon, but I want to die every time I imagine babyjo seeing curses for the first time and being so scared of the monsters that he cried and cried but no one ever came to comfort him. he cried in the way children do, with hiccups, hyperventilating, all snotty and red in the face. they probably scoffed at him too. disappointed and disgusted by his display of weakness. babyjo didn't understand why they were so mad at him for crying, why no one was protecting him from the monsters.

he couldn't shut his eyes, because he still saw them. everywhere. all at once.

babyjo eventually learnt to self-soothe. he had to. because no one would talk to him until he stopped crying. because he didn't like disappointing everyone. he might have had a blanket or toy he brought with him everywhere till it was dirty and torn apart because it was warmer than how everyone else holds him. because no one hugged him. no one rubbed his head or patted his back, no one sang lullabies to get him to sleep, or reassured him after he woke up from a nightmare

maybe someone higher up decided that the heir shouldn't have a teddy or blanky — it's an embarrassing display of vulnerability the gojo clan cannot afford — and they snatched it from him. no one listened to him when he begged to have it back. and he begged for so long.

once again babyjo was alone.

that's why, if he ever has a baby, best believe he's spoiling the little thing with all the toys in the world!!! he doesn't believe in letting the baby cry it out. doesn't believe in saying 'no' or 'be a big boy'. dadjo always brings his baby up to eye level or he bends down. he hates towering over his baby. he doesn't believe in a child being able to identify their parent by their legs or their shoes.

dadjo dresses his mini me in the cutest, softest onesies and cuddles the hell out of his baby as a way to heal his inner child. he's the type to be admiring his baby and then suddenly getting cuteness aggression. "my shaylaaaaa," he'd coo, biting his baby's chubby cheek.

oh and he totally compares his baby with all other babies. 'my baby doesn't scream endlessly like that in public' + 'my baby eats all their vegetables' + 'my baby can build tower blocks as tall as they are'

but dadjo also always tells his baby, 'you're perfect just the way you are. even if you're not the smartest, the biggest, or the strongest. just grow up healthy. and take care of your mommy. she gets sad when I'm not with her.'

[blkkizzat]

                                                mdni 18+ smut/fluff easter bunny! unckuna who ends up squeezing his big ass into a full easter bunny costume—fuzzy suit, oversized head, floppy ears, the works—for his nephew yuji, half-brother choso and his friends, megumi and nobara on easter sunday.

no thanks to you... well, maybe him—but he's still blaming you for forcing him to do it.

earlier in the week, sukuna got stuck covering for jin on playdate duty. easy enough, you were with him—he'd take the kids to the park, let them tire themselves out. except they weren't running.

instead they were just sitting on the grass arguing about whether the easter bunny even comes to japan since none of them had ever seen him.

sukuna, leaning against the fence and half-listening, made one offhand comment about the easter bunny 'not even being real just like that red pot bellied freak san—'

—and you nearly took his fuckin’ head off for it.

four sets of eyes went wide and their bottom lips wobbled. so you shoved sukuna toward the ice cream truck with a hiss to buy them all cones as damage control them while you distracted them on the swings.

it didn't end there. obviously.

by the time he'd got back, hands half frost bitten by all the ice cream he's juggling, you'd already promised them a sleepover. you told the kids if they all came over to 'unkykuna's' saturday night, the easter bunny might just show up in the morning. the three six-year-olds cheered in unison. choso—pushing eleven, was too old to believe in easter bunny but of course he was already on board. that kid would walk through fire for yuji's happiness.

thus sukuna's fate was sealed.

truly, as the damned preparations fucked up his entire week. you taking him on mindless errands—him driving, you spending, the backseat and truck filling with various pastel bullshit and enough candy to rival halloween, to all culminate on sunday morning.

he'd have put a stop this before it started but knew he wouldn't be getting any ass for a while if he fucked this up so sukuna is forced to play nice.

he only grumbles half-hearted curses under his breath while you arranged the edible grass, stuffed baskets with candy, dyed eggs in pastel colors—and he set up a scavenger hunt across the backyard. the clues took him way too fuckin' long to write, mostly because you kept rejecting them.

"sukuna, they're six. they can't solve riddles about 'the ephemeral nature of spring.'"

"it builds character."

you deadpan.

"what? the lil' emo one's got it." he shrugs. "he's like ten and already reading danzai."

you roll your eyes, fed up. "make it fun for KIDS, ryo—or i'll make you wear that costume all day."

reluctantly sukuna complies finishing early enough to catch a football game on tv in his full bunny suit. when the quartet finally wakes up and spots the baskets, they lose their minds—three six-year-olds shrieking and tearing into candy while choso watches with a soft grin, giving yuji some of his candy too.

and then yuji spots the giant bunny on the sofa re-adjusting his balls.

"THE EASTER BUNNY CAME!"

sukuna freezes. megumi squints, approaching slow and suspicious at the easter bunny being a manchester fan—(too damn adept for his own good at six) while nobara and yuji are already sprinting at him. choso catches sukuna's eye and gives him a thumbs up like the supportive little shit he is.

sukuna spends the next hour in full costume, crouching down to their height, guiding them through the scavenger hunt in the yard with exaggerated paw gestures because he can't talk—yuji insisted the easter bunny doesn't speak, only wiggles his nose and hops. 

hopping—like a fucking animal.

sukuna almost breaks character right then and there.

but then yuji looks up at him with those big stupid brown eyes, all wonder and belief—and choso's right there standing behind him, clutching a giant plush carrot like he might attempt seppuku with it if the illusion shatters for his little brother.

so sukuna rolls his eyes in his suit and proceeds to hop and wiggle his fucking nose—because he's ultimately just as weak as choso when it comes to that kid.

not that he'd ever admit it.

eventually the kids scatter across the lawn and sukuna retreats to the porch—arms crossed, still in the fucking suit even though he's sweating balls because if he sheds this skin where the kids can see, you'll peel his off next.

no sooner had he thought that then you appeared, fresh lemonade in hand.

speak of the devil. or succubus, more like—the way that sundress is sitting on you. the thin straps slide over your skin as you move and the hem of it is barely covering mid-thigh.

shit. the temperature inside the bunny suit immediately spikes about twenty degrees higher.

not being able to take his eyes off of you, sukuna takes in how the morning sun catches the fabric just right—sheer enough that he can see the shadow of your nipples, the soft sway of your chest.

clearly no bra. on a sunday too? slut, he thinks. especially as you crouch down to hand nobara a glass and your hem rides up, flashing the curve of your ass.

in that moment though something shifts in sukuna.

not just the obvious—though his cock is definitely awake now, twitching inside this humid furry prison.

no, it's the way you brush yuji's hair from his forehead, smiling. the way you laugh at something megumi mutters, perfectly handling his moods. the way choso trails behind you holding the lemonade pitcher like a little assistant, ready to refill glasses before you even ask.

the way all four of children orbit you like little moons.

you'd be a good mother.

the thought lands like a sucker punch to the jaw. sukuna tries to shake it off—what the fuck—but it lingers warm and unwelcome in his chest, made worse by the way you glance back at him with a smile like he's something soft.

sukuna is a lot of things, sure, but he is not soft—just ask his p.o. and former cellmates. he's done 2 prison bids over the years. 

and yet sukuna can't help but think maybe he is starting to go a bit fuzzy at he edges considering what he's currently wearing.

and ultimately, he doesn’t even resent you for it.

he’d do it for you again.

he’d do anything for you, actually...

that thought lingers as he watches, visualizing your body round and plump with his seed as you take the now empty glasses and pitcher back inside.

sukuna automatically follows.

the screen door barely shuts behind him before he's on you.

bunny head discarded on the floor with a thud. his paws yank you back against him before you can even turn around, and you gasp feeling how hard he already is, grinding against your ass through all that ridiculous fabric.

"kuna—the kids—", you whine, already feeling yourself getting wet from the feral energy radiating off of him.

"outside."

sukuna is down to one-word answers only. his brain's not working right, clearly. and the only thing he gives a fuck about right now is being inside of you. so he's shoving your sundress up and dragging your pretty panties down your thighs to bend you over the counter.

"k-kuna!"

"shut up and take it. i know you're already soaked, woman."

he fishes his cock out through the costume's front slit, the seam splitting wider as he stuffs himself through—the thing was clearly not for someone of his size—and sinks into your cunt in one slowly, savoring your gooey core as you clench desperately.

wet already. still loose from the night before too. he fuckin' called it.

shit, you're so perfect.

sukuna groans hot against the back of your neck, burying his nose in your hair and tongue slurping up the perspiration beading at the back of your neck. the fuzzy suit bunches awkwardly at his hips as he bottoms out, your slick already dripping down his length and soiling the white fur.

"gonna have to burn this fuckin' thing after," he mutters, pulling out and fucking back in hard and fast enough to make you squeal.

"worth it tho..." sukuna muses, "now let's get this needy girl down here talkin' too."

one furry paw fists in your hair and the other clamps over your mouth as he rails into you. thankfully the costume quiets and obscene slapping of flesh, yet the vulgar squelch of your pussy is only drowned out by the kids yelling as they play in the yard.

bullying himself deeper, your pussy is squeezing him so tight he's seeing stars.

...well fuck. does your freaky ass actually get off on getting fucked in this damned thing?

"this what you wanted, huh?" sukuna pants against your ear, fucking you harder, deeper, the fat head of his roughly bullying your cervix with every stroke.

"the audacity" he laughs against your ear, mean and half-deranged. "you got some nerve, you know that? make me dress like a fucking clown and then walk out there in that? bending over where anyone could see what's mine?"

sukuna suddenly snaps his hips hard enough to make you cry out, slobbering profusely from both lips. "nah, you wanted this. wanted the easter bunny to stuff your greedy little hole. c'mon cum my slutty lil bunny."

"mmmph!"

oh and you do cum embarrassingly fast, your sobs muffled into his furry palm, drooling all over it, clenching around him so hard he nearly busts right there.

but sukuna doesn't pull out.

he fucks you through it while the breakfast you were making burns on the stove.

sukuna doesn't give 2 halves of a shit either—you'll all go out somewhere for breakfast on his dime—after he has his fill. you're pussy is his favorite way for him to start his day and he's gone too long this morning without it.

finally releasing in you, sukuna pumps you full until his cum is leaking down your trembling thighs and into your kitten heels, until your legs shake so bad you're barely standing, only the counter holding you up.

he stays hunched over you, heavy breathing filling the space, as you both catch your breath. then sukuna pulls out slowly, enjoying the sight of his load overflowing from your pretty lil pussy and pooling in the gusset of your ruined panties.

"happy fucking easter." the words are a growl against your ear, his stubble scraping your skin. tuggings your panties up over the mess, sukuna pats your swollen pussy with a satisfied hum.

"keep these on for me. my kids are on their own little scavenger hunt now—let's see if they find that egg before the day's out."

𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚋𝚕𝚔𝚔𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚝 © 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹-𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟼

♡ happy easter! this fic literally spawned outta nowhere and i had to write it down. sorry for any errors, i wrote this one fast and my dyslexic ass likely didn't catch everything.

𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.

[blkkizzat]

🔖 gen taglist 2 (gen tag list- open) more tags to come, 1 list per hr queued. (sorry for anyone who has seen b4 tag)

Group 2:

@chosos-prettyprincess

@claudiwithachanceof

@shamelessreaderthere

@audiblez

@kasumimiwa1

@kingofpiratesiguess

@maliyachan

@cupidstrace

@megottheswaskikacooooke

@nico-inwonderland

@snugglyshoji

@starkissedsiren

@pwd54gr54

@dannysankletattoo

@blcknebula

@youllneverfindmona

@mookiebut

@gabbyscribbles

@urfavsunkissedleo

@ilysmmdouma

@kittygirl134

@karazorel7

@xxprincessshaexx

@chososlvrr

@sgarcubes

@mayjoe

@nana1344

@momoangelical

@00zerona

@gravecyte

@joke-er9165

@tojisgothiccbaby

@mel-1s-treading-carefully

@withersworld

@throwmethroughawindow

@bohoooitsme

@crims0nova

@strawbrysapphic

@oxymorondemon

@akutagawacallmediablo

@enjinsprettygf

@chanspov

@ruberry33

@xochyw

@harper1666

@pastelgukierecs

@kandypiee

@southside-otaku

@keisfslutt

@whimsynojai

[aquasprings]

୨୧ choso’s just about as pathetic as a man can get. ୨୧

this realization comes to you after gojo begs you to give his friend a chance.

“please,” gojo says, and you scowl at him. “he’s nice. and i’m pretty sure he has a massive thing for you.”

“me?” you ask, incredulous. “i’ve never talked to him in my life.”

gojo sighs, flopping back onto your couch. “if i ever, like, loosely mention you in conversation, i swear he blushes.”

that’s how you end up in the living room of the frat friday night. loud, warm, the air slightly hazy.

choso right beside you on the couch, barely looking at you at first, all hunched shoulders and quiet glances, dark hair brushing his neck, dermal piercing catching the light every time he nervously shifts.

yeah, you think, he’s cute.

you end up sharing a joint, and that’s when you notice how he freezes every time your fingers brush his, how his breath hitches. it’s not subtle. not even a little. and when you lean a bit closer, knee nudging his, he almost drops it. across the room, gojo and the others are already smirking like they know exactly how this is going to go.

they don’t even try to hide it when they leave. gojo claps choso on the shoulder, says something low that makes his ears turn red, and suddenly it’s just the two of you on that worn-out couch, the music muffled now, the air heavier.

choso apologizes. for his friends, for himself.

you remember thinking how easy it is to get a reaction out of him. how all it takes is a hand on his chest, a soft question, and he’s unraveling right in front of you.

he nods at everything, says yes too quickly like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he hesitates. when he slips and said “please,” you know you have him.

“d’you like me, cho?” you murmur with glassy eyes, hand sliding up his collar and pressing against his nape, fingers deftly threading through inky hair.

“g—yes. yes, so much,” he exhales, voice shaking slightly as you pull him closer to you.

“wanna fuck?” you whisper, straddling yourself on his lap and relishing in the small, broken sound he makes when your glossed lips suckle at the junction of his neck.

“here? now?” his eyes bugger wide, hands squeezing your waist as your lips trail up, and up, and up, until you’re sliding your tongue in his mouth, bracketing your lips against his, swallowing his needy little moans.

he pants into your mouth as your hands pull at his hoodie and he shrugs it off wordlessly, cheeks flushed as your eyes trail down the milky expanse of his chest.

“pretty,” you murmur, and he whines, hands frozen at his sides when you slip your shorts off and toss them to the side.

“as much as i wanna feel your mouth on me,” you breathe, pupils blown, “i need to feel you in me. now. yeah?”

“y—yeah,” he shudders, hands fisting the couch beside him nervously as you tug his jeans and boxers down mid-thigh, his cock beading precum as it aches towards his stomach.

“i—ohmygod,” he slurs, whimper being pulled from his throat as you sink down on him in one shot. “please—”

“haven’t even done anything,” you say, hands locking onto his shoulders as you lift your hips slowly before dropping them back down, the motion making choso buck up desperately and moan into your neck.

“m not gonna last,” he whines pathetically, and you sneer, telling him to be good for you or you’ll stop.

you think it’s 30 seconds before he’s cumming, head falling back against the couch with a strangled sound.

he whimpers when you ask him which direction his bedroom’s in.

[eikyuuni]

shoto saying “one more” is the biggest lie he tells.

it’s always one careful kiss at first, the kind he gives like he’s being polite about wanting you. and then you pull back, smiling, thinking that’s it.

shoto doesn’t move away. he stays close, eyes flicking to your mouth like he’s weighing something, like he’s trying to be reasonable.

“...one more,” he murmurs.

you give it to him because how could you not? and he kisses you like he’s grateful, like he’s trying to make it quick...

except his hand slips to your waist. his thumb presses in, and his breath stutters like he forgot his own plan.

you break the kiss. “there.”

shoto blinks, as if he’s surprised you stopped him. then, quieter, like he’s confessing to a weakness, “one more.”

it becomes a pattern. a trap you fall into willingly.

because shoto’s “one more” isn’t about stopping. it’s about stalling. keeping you close. buying time. and the worst part is how earnest he is about it—how he says it like he truly believes the next kiss will satisfy him.

at some point, you start laughing every time he says it, because it’s ridiculous, and he gives you this small, offended look like you’re misunderstanding him.

“i’m serious,” he says, and then he kisses you again anyway.

and when you finally catch his wrists and hold him back, smiling, “shoto. how many ‘one mores’ do you need?”

his cheeks go faintly pink. he looks at you for a long second, painfully honest, then mumbles:

“…i don’t know,” before pausing.

“...one more.”

a/n a repost from my old & inactive blog eikyuunimain (mariinktg) so if it looks familiar, that's why! likes and reblogs are much appreciated! | mha masterlist

[butterflytint]

in your web of lies - s. gojo

summary: as a devoted student of science, you put all your time just to that. Misfortune falls upon you when you are faced with being in the same class as satoru gojo, your longtime academic rival and essentially the bane of your existence. It goes one step further when his strange behavior seems to get even stranger as the web slinging hero of New York suddenly swings into your life. . . not that there's any correlation.

pairing: spiderman!gojo x fem!reader

warnings: college au, excessive banter, guns, violence, death/bloodshed mentioned, sexual content, smut, porn with plot, p in v, oral sex, missionary, doggy style, riding, little sprinkle of dirty talk

wc: 26k

a/n: this is based off the spiderman gojo art by @ aliyartss on instagram!

First weeks of any semester are always brutal.

The sound of traffic clogging and polluting the streets, brutal. The beginning of ringing headaches from the lack of sleep, brutal. The start of all-nighters to complete homework and study, brutal.

That’s just a small piece of the brutality that follows college students.

At least that’s what most students can relate to.

You glance over at Shoko, next to you as you settle into class. Being miles ahead of schedule was always way better than being even a second behind. So walking into the small lecture room ten minutes before class plays in your favor even if it was Professor Yaga’s class, the same professor you’ve had for two past semesters already.

“You look a little annoyed,” Shoko comments while flipping through her notebook.

“Sorry—I had a bit of a fight last night with my Dad,” you sigh out, shaking your head. Your finger slides along the edge of your own notes. “And I guess I’m just a little stressed about everything. The JJ Tech guys are having me spend extra hours and I can hardly get an hour to myself in the day.”

“Well chin up, we’ve got a long lab ahead of us today,” Shoko tapped playfully against your chin, her eyes down on her papers.

“Hm, right,” you mumble, eyes drooping at the chalkboard. “Wonder how you’re getting through this lab by yourself.”

“Hey, Satoru is my lab partner. You shouldn’t worry too much about that,” she chides. Shoko has a habit of not looking at you when she’s in the middle of doing something while conversating. “You seem like you have something else on your mind. You wanna talk about your dad?”

You eyeball the warmup problem he has on the board, jotting it down in your notebook. Your mind races with that conversation you had with your father just last night. How he wanted to have an assigned detail with you on campus, safely getting you to and from class. You have enough to worry about with finally shifting to yours and Utahime’s new apartment in a few short weeks without having to think about your dad.

Your impending argument was scheduled to continue once you saw him again since you didn’t even have a fighting chance when he got a call about a high-profile criminal striking again. You wonder just what could have transpired last night, apparently there were witnesses that sighted him.

“Not really.”

His fingers trail down the side of his torso, eyes screwing shut when he grazes that sensitive expanse of skin. Throbbing mercilessly, he hisses through clenched teeth, opening his eyes and glancing at the banged-up mirror on his wall.

That skintight suit was still clinging to his body like glue. He tears his mask off his head, tousling his white locks in the process. His head tips back when his gloved fingers brush over that tender place on his side.

A series of slow, deliberate breaths travel past his lips. Mindlessly, he reaches for a vial of painkillers. He doesn’t even count how many he tips into his waiting palm before popping them into his mouth and chasing them down bitterly with a bottle of water.

The boy grunts out as he falls back onto his bed, hoping he could sleep the soreness off before class tomorrow.

RING! RING!

Those eyes of his that had just shut after eons of forcing himself to stay alert and prepared for any attack were cruelly wrenched open once more.

RING! RING!

Another blasted alarm sounded from across his room, an alarm clock he simply can’t punch to snooze as he’d already bought a new one after abusing his previous two.

Satoru sat up, wincing at the sting on his side.

He groaned, gruffly peeling that suit off his body. Thoughts of the day ahead warped his mind. He had spent all night traipsing rooftops, swinging through the streets in pursuit of a gang of sloppy bank robbers.

He usually had fun trailing and taking down thuggish rogues, picking them off and bringing them to justice ever so casually. He got to feel the rush of the midnight air as he swung from building to building, between the streets. Arms and legs easily stretching and freely moving without a care in the world.

He loves it.

Last night, he had run that stolen van off the road without much effort. Everything went swimmingly until he had foolishly been launched into a brick wall mid-chase.

That had caused him to lose a bit of coordination during the fight that ensued shortly after. After stringing them up with his webs, he had swung back home only to stop yet another mugger on the way.

Once he had finally returned the woman’s stolen purse and made sure she got home safely, he gave himself the same protocol.

He tries to rush out of the apartment as soon as possible. He had enough on his plate to worry about with school, he could hardly keep up with his nighttime activities.

No, not that. His work as a vigilante made it difficult to have even a moment to himself. Let alone the fact his internship at JJ Technologies started earlier this month as well. So yes, he has enough on his plate with no room to spare for the breakfast his conscience had suggested.

“Yo! Suguru!” Satoru calls. He is jolted out of his thoughts when he approaches his best friend right by the theology building.

“Oh, what’s up?” Suguru turned around. “You watch the game last night?”

“Wha—no,” Satoru shakes his head, pushing his glasses up. He sheepishly sighs, “You know I’ve been busy with the internship and with homework.”

“Oh right,” Suguru mumbles teasingly. “The internship? Speaking of, did you see the news? They’re saying the man who banged those guys up pretty good last night was the mysterious Spiderman.”

“Will you shut up?” Satoru gasps, almost slapping him.

Of course, Suguru knew. He found out in a freak accident only a week after Satoru had been bitten. The freak accident being Satoru forgot to lock his bedroom door while changing out of his costume and his best friend walking in.

“Relax. No one knows,” Suguru reassures, he takes a sip of his coffee. “Only a small population of the public are still choosing to be delusional.”

“Yeah, delusional enough to believe Spiderman doesn’t exist,” Satoru scoffs.

“No, delusional enough to believe he does,” Suguru corrects harshly. “If I didn’t walk in on you half naked with that suit on and saw how you shot out a web before you realized I was in the room, I would never have believed those photos I saw in the news either.”

“Spiderman is a household name now whether you like it or not,” Satoru self-righteously points at himself with his thumb. “You wouldn’t believe how big of a fan the ladies are.”

Suguru shakes his head as he eyes his student portal on his phone. “Fuck, I have a history quiz today.”

“Shit, me too,” Satoru grunts, shaking his head as he walks past yet another sorority bake sale on his way down the main streets of campus. “Wait—we’re in the same class.”

“Oh—yeah,” Suguru fumbles with his phone as he points at Satoru. “I think I might ask Nanami to let me cheat off him—Haiba won’t mind but let’s face it, he’s not the brightest—Wait, you never mentioned what exactly happened last night.”

“Toji Fushiguro’s on the run. There was a sighting of him last night and I went to track him down but no luck. Then there was a bank heist on West 7th, I wish I got to fucking sleep after. Being flung against a brick wall is not as fun as it sounds. Fuck—wait I have class!” Satoru interjects, darting off in the middle of the conversation, leaving Suguru with a look of disappointment on his face.

“I have the same class,” Suguru frowns.

Yaga has always been quite the authoritarian, he knows what to expect from one of his star pupils as he strolls into class with a lazy smile on his face, ten minutes late.

“How nice of you to join us, Satoru,” Yaga’s tone isn’t as sweet as his words. “I should count myself lucky you showed up at all today, no less right before we worked on our lab assignment.”

That hand you have your cheek resting on slides up to palm at your forehead, hoping to soothe the forthcoming headache once that boy settles into his seat.

“We’re switching lab partners today,” Yaga declares, pen in hand as he scribbles and crosses out names on his seating chart. “I know you must’ve been comfortable with your partners from last semester, but I’d like you to find your name on the board and sit accordingly. This partner is who you’ll be working with for the final project.”

Satoru was perfectly fine working with Shoko. Their scientific caliber was on par with one another and despite the fact they butted heads quite often, they somehow managed to do quite well on their labs.

His mind traps him in praying he doesn’t end up with Yuki that he almost doesn’t realize the fact you were his new partner. He whips his head to the right, seeing your brows raise as you glance back at him.

Seriously? Him?   

No one can relate to how brutal it is having Satoru Gojo of all people as your classmate in your organic chemistry class.

Yeah sure, give you an assignment of reporting the development and properties of organic photovoltaic cells for renewable energy applications or even deciphering the molar mass of your father’s whiskey collection, you could make sense of it.

You could never make sense of this kid, however.

Satoru Gojo.

The irritating kid you’ve been battling to beat out for the highest exam score since middle school. The kid that ran into class late and hardly seemed all that present but still landed a score almost as high as yours every time. The kid that sat at the back of class, dozing off during lab. The kid that spent a decent chunk of senior year playing Digimon on his phone and still antagonized you before every science test you had.

That kid you thought you wouldn’t have to worry about after high school but were proved severely wrong when you saw him on your campus your first semester. That kid you hoped you wouldn’t have to run into anywhere else but still did somehow where you had been interning.

If there was a chemical formula to understand why you couldn’t stand him, your list of grievances would have to be simplified to fit on one page.

You’re seriously contemplating on marching up to Yaga and demanding a switch in partners. Someone else. Anyone else.

Trying to change Yaga’s mind on anything though, was a feat greater than what any scientist could accomplish.

Heaving a sigh, you plop your books down on the table. There was this severity in your movements that wove seamlessly into propriety. He peeks over at your color-coordinated notes all lined out in neat handwriting.

Yeah, he’s been competing with you in school for years. It’s not like he meant to, he was just great at just about everything he did. It’s not his fault!

He knew you couldn’t stand him, and he enjoyed that for some reason. Getting under your skin with quick quips were designed to be much more fun because of that. Since he is on the clock every hour of the day, he needs to let out his stress somehow. Punching bad guys is not enough anymore.

“Look at your notes,” Satoru cheeses, flipping through your book. “All shiny and pretty. You know, if you put more effort in, you could look the same.”

You shove his arm, snatching your book back from him, “Shut up. Don’t make me mad. Words can’t explain how pissed I am already.”

“Aw, you know I’m kidding,” he grins mischievously. “You’re not that bad to look at.”

You press your lips together as you inhale heavily. Your eyes raise to look dead straight at the front of the class before you turn your head to face him.

He catches that fire in your gaze that he’s not even seen in the most vicious of criminals and mutants he’s gone up against.  

“I don’t get why Yaga didn’t call Suguru out for being late either,” Satoru frowns, facing forward.

“Because Suguru isn’t late every day,” you point. “You are. And half the time, you leave early. It baffles me how you still pass all your classes.”

“Is someone jealous?” Satoru smiles.

As you shake your head, you look down at your notes. You’ve known Satoru for many years, but he was always just a classmate. He was also always the classmate you would barely beat out to get the highest marks in science or any other class. The classmate that would get under your skin way too often.

There was something about him that made you pay close attention to him.

“Oh shit!” one of the students in class shouts out, eyes glued to his phone. Needless to say, he’s garnered the attention of the entire class. “There’s a robbery going on right now at the bank downtown! Six-gun men have all the customers and staff held hostage!”

This earns a series of nervous gasps and prayers from the students. The hair on the back of Satoru’s neck stands up and he’s still in his seat as his peers flock toward the lab table of the student watching the news live stream.

“Wonder when Spiderman’s going to show up,” one of his classmates ponder aloud.

“Nah, he can’t do shit. You think a clown in tights is going to take down a fucking group of men with guns?” another kid snarks, causing Satoru to all but roll his eyes as he stands up.

Ah, the everlasting and everchanging debate as to whether the wall crawling vigilante was a menace or a savior of society.

If he wasted his time worrying so much about what people thought about him, he’d never get a single thing done. He drowns out their discussion as he strides to the door with his mission clear in his mind: Save those hostages.

“Alright boys! Glad we wrapped this up!” Satoru, or should one say, Spiderman dusts off his hands ever so casually.

He crouches down, leveling with the leader of the gang who happened to be tied up thanks to Satoru’s expertise webbing. He breathes freely with the knowledge that the hostages have rushed out of the bank, straight into the arms of their worried loved ones outside and the police.

When a vial of green in the pocket of one of the tattooed thug’s glints in the light, Satoru reaches to pull it out. He squints through his mask at the bottle of green, “What do we have here?”

As expected, the thug spits out, “None of your fucking business, you bug.”

“Quiet, will you?” Satoru harshly smacks the man’s forehead.

“Robbing a bank on a busy day like this for me?” Satoru tuts, a menacing lilt in his joke. “You should feel lucky I haven’t strung you upside down in your underwear out on the street lamps. But I’ve got somewhere to be unfortunately, so have fun in jail!”

With that, Satoru extends his arms out and a thick web sprouts out in the direction of the tall buildings lining the streets. If it was any other day, any other time of day, he would’ve stuck around. Spewed out some more quippy remarks, had a bit more fun with the goons.

But alas, he must get back in time before class ends. He knew the twenty minutes he had vanished for were going to raise questions.

He was absolutely correct.

“Satoru, where the hell were you?” Yaga all but yells at the boy stumbling back in. “Class is over.”

The entire class has their attention steering over to the late boy. He knew what he had to say, the lie didn’t need to be ridiculous but he knew regardless, he would still sound utterly stupid. He did not particularly give a fuck though.

“Little boy’s room,” Satoru casually responds, not a speck of shame in his rather comical answer.

This has the entire class locked in a deadly silence. That is before they split into a fit of boisterous laughter. Satoru revels in the fact he’s defused the tension he suspected he may experience.

You narrow your eyes, eyeing Satoru as he trudges over to his seat, tugging his collar into place. You let your eyes fall to the tabletop, looking over your work.

Typical. He leaves for God knows what and you’re stuck doing his work. If this isn’t precedent enough to request a new partner, you don’t know what is.

He’s not said a single word to you yet . . . How odd. You expect him to do no less than tease the living hell out of you or ask if you missed him.

All that swarms his mind however is what the hell is in this vial?

“What the hell is in this vial?” Suguru murmurs quietly as he inspects the glass tube.

“Beats me,” Satoru replies, swiping the bottle off him. “I need to figure that out.”

“Don’t you think that maybe you should’ve handed it over to the police?” Suguru asks, the sound of fellow classmates typing away on their laptops and chattering away in the campus library buzzes in the background.

“Police won’t do shit,” Satoru bites back, rolling his eyes. “If law enforcement was capable of anything, don’t you think that there wouldn’t be a need for Spiderman?”

“What about Spiderman?” Haiba butts in unannounced.

Satoru nearly jumps five feet in the air at the sudden intrusion. His six eyes that worked in his favor as a sixth sense to alert him of danger have helped him tremendously in combat time and time again, but not so much with nosy classmates.

Quickly pocketing the substance, he looks at Haiba, “None of your business.”

“Are you kidding? I spent all afternoon looking for footage from today’s robbery—I got nothing,” Haiba whines, flailing his arms in the air.

“I heard it was pretty cool,” Satoru boasts pridefully, earning a well-deserved elbow to the gut from Suguru.

Haiba trots off to go bother Nanami before Suguru faces his best friend again. “Oh fuck. Y/n is coming this way. Good luck.”

The vigilante’s eyes widen when he recognizes your stern, no-nonsense face and stride. Everyone is well aware of what that means, your kind and lighthearted behavior is put on hold in favor of your stern approach to your academics.

He half expects you to create a scene in the library but he knows you better than that. You never openly got angry, the worst he’s seen you do is roll your eyes. It’s one of the reasons he pokes fun at you as much as possible, hoping to see how he can make you crack.

Yet, you never do. You hold notebooks and files close to your chest as you march to a halt three feet away from him. Indifferently, you pull out a packet and hold it out for him.

“Since your bladder has never-ending issues, I did your part of the lab today,” you chide like you have a myriad of other things on your mind.

“Shit—you did not have to do any of this,” Satoru knows he should be frowning, but he’s not. A little leer spreads on his face, eyes wide and glimmering through the lens of those glasses he absolutely had no more use for since the day he was bit by that spider.

“Don’t bail on me again. Then I won’t have to do it,” you purse your lips at him before you turn around.

He is left there with nothing else to do but embarrassingly watch you walk away, clutching his lab report in his hand.

“Hold on,” Satoru mumbles to Suguru as he watches you sift between the aisles of shelves.

 Before either of them know it, he’s making his way to the aisle you are in. He’s eyeing you up and down almost skeptically, eyes lingering far longer than they should.

“Can I help you?” you quiz quite impertinently, your right hand pulling out a heavy book from the biochemistry section.

“Why did you do my part?” Satoru tips his chin down, a crease forming between his silver brows.

“Because you . . . didn’t do it,” you slowly iterate, grasping the book with both your hands as you flip through the pages. 

“Well, duh, but why?” Satoru repeats. “You didn’t have to do it. I ran out of class and left it all on you—you shouldn’t have done it.”

You take a deep breath, slamming the book shut, “If you really think I did it for you, you really don’t deserve to be in the same class as me at all. I did it so I don’t have to rely on you to get the work done. I’d rather have the work done right than have it half-assed. And here I thought you were much more clever than that.”

“I’m not stupid,” he smirks. “Just confused about a lot of the things you do sometimes.”

“Yeah, because you don’t know me,” you say, sliding that book back into the open slot on the shelf. You look up, reaching for another book that is placed well above your head.

“I know you. I know you’re your father’s daughter,” Satoru’s statement is playfully delivered yet it strikes you like a bus. His fingers stroke the spine of the book you were reaching for, relishing the fact you couldn’t reach it. He looks down at you, tugging the book out and holding it in his big hands. “You might just be stricter than the captain himself.”

“Why are you talking like you know my father?” you glare, folding your arms.

“Seen his interviews on the news. He’s one tough cookie—but it only makes sense when you’re a cop, huh?” he has a lilt in his head.

“Why are you saying stupid things?” you question, narrowing your eyes at him. “I already have enough on my mind, I don’t need you badgering me with nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, it’s my professional opinion as your partner,” Satoru holds the book out with a ridiculously charming smile.

“Lab partner,” you fix his statement, reaching for the book but he pulls it back out of your reach, stupid grin still on his face. “Don’t play games with me, I have to get to work now, and you have to get there too.”

You pry the book from his hands and stride off before he can annoy you further. Satoru’s head turns, following you march off. He’s not sure why he’s trapped in staring at you for so long.

“I’m guessing you plan on finding out on your own as to what’s in that bottle,” Suguru interjects in the middle of Satoru’s wandering mind, popping up in the aisle.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Satoru fishes in his pocket, hoping that the touch of his cool fingers on the glass will telepathically reveal its identity to him. “If I had the equipment to do it on my own . . . it would be so much fucking easier.”

Suguru gapes at him like he’s stupid, “Hello? You intern at the biggest scientific research facility in the city.”

Satoru’s brows raise and the corners of his mouth turn down, weighing the possible next route to his answer.

“Okay, you have to log the results in the system like this,” you instruct your team. “Then you move on to the next step. Trust me you don’t want to forget logging that data, it could entirely throw off the process.”

You’ve been interning at JJ Technologies since last summer which has done nothing short of drain you of any free time whatsoever. It’s only been several weeks since you were moved up to lead a fresh batch of young interns. Luckily, you haven’t had to deal with teaching them in the laboratory with the equipment, just basic information and note-taking thus far.

That unfortunately was only the first of four hours at the facility. The next three hours, you would be holed up in the lab, inspecting and experimenting with nanotechnology. As tiring as it is, it is just as rewarding.

Knowing the amount of good that can be done with this research and work was a brilliant means of motivation. Society has advanced already as it is—the world of medicine has benefited greatly—billions of lives have the chance to improve. How could anyone give up on that?

Thoughts of what homework assignments you have yet to submit reign your brain. Hours and hours of straining your mind to intake as much information and apply it all in the lab was making you want nothing more than to crawl under your covers and call it a week.

With a hefty breath, you take a well-deserved recess to the vending machine. Hoping that this little trip for a snack can hold a candle to the sleep you oh so desire.

Satoru knows his assigned place of work is four levels down. He also is aware that his group had been dismissed ten minutes ago and he should be swinging his merry way through the streets to scout for trouble.

He is also entirely aware that he should not be on the twenty-something floor that had a chance of having an empty lab right about now.

Swiping his boss’s ID card is far too easy, shooting an inconspicuous web at any cameras of interest is just as simple.

The hard part is deciphering what is in this damn vial. The lights are dim inside the particular lab he steps into. A breath of relief pushes out of his lungs as he pulls the small bottle from his pocket, circling the stations to get to the specific equipment he needs.

There’s a limited amount of liquid in the vial, so he knows he must handle this process with care and precision. The story would be different if he had another vial or two.

You watch almost lifelessly as a bar of candy and a canned coffee drop down, landing with a dull thud. Mindlessly, you reach through the bottom flap, hearing the faint hinge as you pull out your restitution for break-free work.

Closing and harshly forcing your eyes back open, you try to keep your mind alert as you march on back to the lab to clean up. When you open the door, you’re not expecting this boy to whip his head up at you like a deer in headlights.

“Gojo?” you furrow your brows, one hand still on the door and the other clutching your food.

Gojo is stunned into silence, a laughable silence. When he says nothing, you tip your head down, “What are you doing here?”

“I just had some work,” Satoru quickly lies. “My manager needed me to look at something. I know you’re pretty happy to see me—your face says it all.”

“Oh, does it? Aren’t you supposed to be on the 20th floor?” you quiz, left eye twitching.

In most situations, when Satoru’s backed into a corner, he can somehow flip his way out of there or even sweettalk whoever he needed to. But he can’t explain why he actually feels bad lying to you, it makes his head whirl. “Uh—yeah, but I had to use some of the equipment up here.”

Squinting skeptically, you near him slowly. As you do, Satoru can’t help but gulp. He’s not sure what it is he should focus on. The fact he needs to come up with a way to convince you to not report him? Or the fact you are only a couple inches to his left, looking over his shoulder? The fact you look so adorable in a lab coat?

“What is that?” you peer down at the vial, noticing he has already placed a drop of that substance down on a microscope slide.

“Not sure,” Satoru shrugs. “I haven’t got the faintest clue.”

You continue staring at the chemical concoction, you flick your gaze at him, “Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it,” Satoru shuffles a couple inches over, giving you enough room to peer into the eyepiece of the microscope.

He can’t help but tautly swallow, hardly able to pay attention because of how sweet you smell. He has to stop himself from telling you just that but he can’t let it get to your head. As effortlessly as he spins webs, he only hopes he’s half as graceful when feeding you some half-assed answer as to just what this chemical was and that his manager most definitely would give him such a compound.

“Hmm,” you hum, slowly turning the dial on the side of the instrument to lift and then focus what was in the slide. “Figuring out what is it shouldn’t be too tricky. I just need to measure the resonance frequency by breaking the substance down a bit more. Then determining the chemical properties shouldn’t be too tricky.”

Satoru’s brows lift and the edge of his lips turn down, amused clearly. “Wow.”

“What?” you blink.

“I always forget how smart you are,” he says airily. When you shoot him a look that seems to be a hybrid of threatening and offense, his nose crinkles and his glasses shift accordingly on his face, “That came out very wrong. I just meant—”

“So this is why you broke into my lab?” you cut him off, still squinting down at the substance.

“I didn’t break in,” Satoru defends himself. “I just figured no one would notice.”

“Why don’t you check over the logic in that again,” you suggest, eyes glancing up at him. “It’s hard to believe you’re the guy who almost beat me out for valedictorian.”

“And why’s that?” Gojo tilts his head, leaning his elbows on the table. It leaves you eyeing him from head to toe as inconspicuously as possible. Sometimes you forget how tall he is. The fact he towers over you serves as a friendly reminder he’s not just any old geeky kid from school.

Before you can give him an answer, his phone buzzes. He shoots a glance down at it, his pretty features sinking. The program he had compiled with Suguru to tune into the police’s radio communications to pick up on any crime alerts had pinged with notifications on his phone. There was a robbery currently taking place at a jewelry store three streets away.

“Shit—my aunt needs me to pick her up from her cooking class,” Satoru quickly lies, blinking unsteadily as he faces you. “It’s kind of far and not safe for her to ride the train by herself. I have to go. Sorry for bothering you—”

“Wait—” you hold a hand up, earning a wide-eyed look from him. It’s kind of endearing how earnest he sounds. “How about you go, and I’ll keep looking at this for you? Once I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

“You don’t have to,” Satoru frowns, sliding his backpack on, his Spiderman suit nestled neatly inside.

“It’s no problem. You go—don’t keep your aunt waiting,” you beckon him to get a move on. “I’ll see you at school.”

There you go again, being so incontestably kind yet being so severe while doing so. It’s when you crack a hint of a smile to ease him that he actually does as you say. That must be the first he’s seen you sincerely look at him.

Satoru rushes out the door and you glance down at the vial again, trying to understand what exactly the contents of it were.

Satoru has no time to think about how badly he feels leaving you with such a task. He’s too busy webbing his backpack up high on an alleyway wall after he’s changed into his suit.

Before he knows it, he’s already in the air, swinging loosely through the streets of New York. He feels the wind rush at him like it wishes to capture him, keep him in the sky with the moon. But with how quick he’s moving, he feels invincible—like nothing can touch him.

Satoru’s fallen into the same routine every night. Despite the fact he never gets the recognition in his personal life, he would not give up being Spiderman for the world.

Citizens walking the streets all gasp and point when they see the great Spiderman shoot past them like a comet. His white and blue suit makes him look like he was meant to be a part of a winter night sky, the sapphire blue spider emblem in the center of his chest casting a beautiful contrast in the ensemble.

He pays no mind as the silver meshy strings of his webs cling to buildings, aiding him in passing through the streets with ease. He also doesn’t stop himself from enjoying the occasional flips to impress the children out with their families and friends. Satoru insists it’s entirely necessary.

Once he spots the store mentioned on the police comms, he zips around the corner. Landing right above the entrance to the small jewelry shop, he pushes it open rather discreetly. It’s almost comical the way the goons inside haven’t the slightest clue that the Spiderman was crawling into the shop right above their very heads.

Thanks to Satoru’s wall crawling abilities, he’s able to cling to walls and ceilings with ease and without so much as breaking a sweat. So when he casually gawks down at the masked thieves, he tilts his head in amusement at how panicked the men look shouting orders to one another.

“Quick! Before Spiderman gets here!” one spits, stripping a diamond chain straight from the display case. When his friend breaks the glass case all together, he screams, “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“The Spider’s not gonna come. He’s too chicken,” the other responds. “I’d like to see him try.”

“Cute,” Satoru chuckles above them.

This causes all four to whip their heads up at the masked vigilante. Satoru is only able to see their eyes through the cutouts but he can tell by the way their pupils dilate that they are downright terrified.

In the papers and in the news, Satoru is privy to the fact the general public is split on whether they see a need in all the flips and tricks that come along with Spiderman.

Satoru couldn’t care less though, he is wholeheartedly prepared to stand trial to attest to the fact that the flair is entirely necessary. He displays the testimony by the very way he does a backflip and lands with both feet and a palm planted to the ground.

“Y’know I left a really pretty girl all alone just so I could stop you?” Satoru teases lightly, straightening up and flexing his arms by crossing one over the other. “But hey, if that’s what you think, we can make this a lot more fun.”

One of the men reached for his gun, pulling it out and pointing it at Satoru. All he huffs out is a displeased and underwhelmed breath as he shoots out a web, yanking the gun back.

“Come on. Show a bit more effort. You’re killing me,” Satoru drawls like a six-year-old. His six-eyes alert him of an impending punch hurtling his way from his left, making him duck and grab the very goon’s fist in the process. “Missed me!”

The goon let out a threatening growl as he swung again, only to miss Satoru. . . over and over again. Satoru laughs childishly as he doges and parries off swings one after the other. Two of the others manage to finally point their guns at the arachnid hero, clicking the safeties with a string of snaps that causes the shop owner to gasp and cower further into the corner he was in.

Satoru rolls his eyes, delivering an unruly kick to one of the men that dominos into him clashing into his friend, knocking them both to the ground.

The hero giggles at the pathetic exhibition before him. He hardly bats an eye when one of the men throws something that resembles a marble to the ground. A cloud of smoke emits from the impact of the small pellet on the shiny limestone floor.

Satoru’s eyes widen behind his white and black mask. He moves to leap back but inadvertently breathes in far more than he intends to.

His head spins, or maybe it’s the room that is spinning, he can’t tell. All he knows is that his head is suddenly throbbing in pain, every nerve ending feels like it’s thrumming to burst within his very skull. Like they are conspiring against him and hoping to flee the purgatory of his mind.

His ears tune in and out like his head has been dunked underwater. Vision beginning to blur, he tries his best to plant his feet firm on the ground but to no avail. He’s hit with a great wave of despondency when he envisions his uncle’s dead body before him.

That and flashes of him in a beautiful house overlooking a balmy little coastal town, the sound of his laughter blends in with a girl’s and he cannot distinguish whose.

He hardly gets the chance to decipher the strange blend of images when he is suddenly hit in the back of the head with a crowbar.

Once again, the poor boy’s head rings and his head snaps down from the impact of the weapon to his skull. He lets out a pained groan, doing his best to gather himself and seize control of his sense again.

His vision begins to clear and all of a sudden, his six eyes begin to tingle and flash in his mind. INCOMING.

He listens to his instincts and ducks straight away, successfully dodging another deadly swing of that damned crowbar.

“Alright, party’s over,” Satoru scowls under his mask and flips back, snaking a well-aimed and well-timed web sticking to the man and tugging him back.

He punches him quite harshly in the face that it all but knocks him out. Satoru quickly lunges for the two goons in the midst of aiming their guns at him. The thieves don’t even process how quickly they are disarmed because Spiderman has already smashed their heads together.

They drop to the ground, leaving one more thug, quivering in terror. He points his gun at Satoru with a shaky hand, only to find that weapon of his leaving his very hands when Satoru tugs it at towards himself with the help of his webs.

“Last one, huh?” Satoru smugly says. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

The thug fumes as he charges at the vigilante, “I’ll fucking kill you. If not me, then the others!”

He throws a fist at Satoru, but he whips his head to the side, “Others?”

He then lands a punch of his own at the criminal before successfully dodging yet another hit. As Satoru’s third punch causes the thief to lose balance, he’s already in the middle of stringing the man upside down from the ceiling.

“Who are your friends—” Satoru stares at the tangled man, readying his fist to intimidate the thug. “And I advise you talk.”

“I’m not saying shit!” The thug spits, trying to wriggle free.

“You’ll be here for god knows how long. All that blood rushing to your brain, oof, must hurt a little.” Satoru threatens playfully. “And it’ll hurt like hell when I actually beat you to a pulp!”

“Shit! Okay! Okay!” the thief cries, panic-stricken sweat dripping down his forehead into his hairline. “I—I work for a guy named Jogo! He’s this freaky looking guy that wears this mask on his face—I’ve never seen him but he’s big in the group, works with some other guy—I don’t know his name.”

“Jogo,” Satoru mumbles wracking his brain to see if he has had a run in with him. “What is he up to?”

“I’ve got no clue! I swear!” the man attests frightenedly. “All I know is that they needed us to look for a specific relic—You see my partner you knocked out right there? He’s got a picture in his back pocket. Jogo sent a bunch of us on heists in banks and jewelry stores to see if we can find it but there’s no sign of it anywhere.”

Satoru steps back and grabs the photo from the pocket of the man the other thief had indicated. He pulls back the photo, glossing over it briefly.

It was a photograph of a box. Made of some sort of coppery-silver metal with engraved eyes on the sides of it. The irises though, were made of jewels—rubies.

“Going through a whole lot for this freaky looking thing,” Satoru waves the photo with a dexterous flip of his fingers. “Why are they going through all that trouble for this? And what’s in it for you?”

“Wish I knew why those guys want that thing,” the man shakes his head, eyes still wide. “They told us they’d give each of us a cut in all that we returned from the heists—Jogo is not someone to be messed with—he’d track us down and kill us if we went back on our deal.”

“Tch. You’re scared of the wrong people,” Satoru tuts, stowing away the photo for safekeeping. “Tell me what that thing was that your friend threw on the ground. That little ball.”

“That? I have no idea. The boss just gave my partner a few—I think that was the last one. He didn’t tell us what it was or what it did,” the felon explains.

Satoru feels his own fingers twitching in irritation, “Think again. Remember what it was and I’ll go easy on you.”

The criminal’s eyes widen, “I don’t know anything! I swear! Please don’t hurt me!”

“Goodnight,” Satoru grunts out, ramming his elbow into the man’s nose, putting him to sleep.

It’s a matter of seconds before Satoru is watching from a few rooftops over as the cops arrive on scene. The flashing blue and red lights flashing into the back of his very skull. He’s running through what the thug he interrogated said, trying to make sense of it.

Speaking of making sense, you’re lugging yourself out of the lab after finally making sense of just what that vial Satoru had given you contains.

The worry on your face embeds itself into your features as you stash the chemical in your bag. Why would his manager hand this to him?

You glance over your phone, seeing your father calling you as you’re walking towards the train platform. Taking a beat to answer, you speak into the receiver, “Hey, Dad.”

“Hi, sweetheart, are you on your way back? It’s getting late,” your dad says, chatter in the back cause your ears to perk. Radios and police codes being tossed around in dialogue.

“Yeah, I’m waiting for the train,” you reply, looking up and down the tracks. “Are you still working?”

“Yeah, captain duties, dear,” your father responds calmly, yet you can hear the annoyed strain in his voice. “That spider’s strung up a few men in a jewelry store downtown. Taking care of what’s left of this place.”

“Oh—you saw Spiderman?” you ask, watching the train stop in front of you, bracing yourself as the lashes of wind whipped at you full speed.

“No, he’s left his webs all over the place,” your dad grunts dishearteningly. “Damage control is going to have lots of fun with that . . . Mom’s going to be pretty mad at us tonight for missing dinner, huh?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” you nod like it’s obvious, sitting down and making eye contact with a gruff pair of men before quickly averting your gaze. “Maybe you should bring her flowers. She always likes that.”

“Yeah, maybe I will,” your father says. “Alright, honey, get home safe. I’ll see you in a bit.”

You think over what he says. Your father always mentions the elusive Spiderman. How none of his men have gotten even close to cracking the case on who the wallcrawler is. How Spiderman is somehow everywhere and takes care of crimes of all scales.

How could a man find the time to even do all that?

The desire to study a man like him plagues your mind far much more than you would like to admit. Who would pass up such an opportunity?

But more of what’s spinning in your mind like a deadly train is why Gojo has a vial like this?

Speaking of trains, when yours comes to a stop, you stand up to get off. It’s unfortunate that the subway stop couldn’t be closer to the next one you are supposed to take.

As you drag on down the street, you mull over what you plan to say to your dad when you try convincing him to simply leave you be once you move out because your safety is put more at risk from the distant and late commutes after classes and your internship.

There’s something in your gut telling you to rush, like you’re being chased or watched at the very least.

You toss a look over your shoulder, seeing those two rugged men about fifteen feet behind you. It’s well past dark and your heart hammers louder against your ribcage, a prisoner demanding release.

Facing forward again, you try to hurry as fast as you can but you feel helpless when you enter a scarcely populated street.

Fuck.

That’s when you break into a full speed run. You hear the footsteps behind you pick up. Your hand slips into your bag’s pocket to grab your mace or taser, but when your fingers only skim the glass of that substance Satoru gave you, you know you’re doomed.

You glance back again, thundering heartbeat blaring just as loud as your footsteps against rough pavement.

“Hey, pretty!” one of the leering men shout. They are far too close to you now. “We just want to have some fun!”

You reach for your phone to send an SOS message to your dad—but that’s exactly the moment the man grabs your arm. You scream in horror, trying to keep going but the other one grabs you too.

Against your will, they drag you into the deserted alleyway nearby. You’re still wriggling in their hold, hoping to free yourself. Thrashing, kicking, screaming, you try it all.

“Let go of me!” you scream. “My dad’s a cop and he’s on his way right now!”

“Shut up,” his friend spits. “You’re full of shit.”

“I’m not,” you grit your teeth. “Captain L/n—badge number 103—”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” the first man says. “You look better when you’re not talking. We gotta do something about that.”

Your eyes widen, and you try pushing, screaming as loud as your lungs can take. The elbow you throw against the jaw of one of the men seem to have done some damage. His head whips to the side but surprisingly his body shoots back about five feet, striking against the brick wall.

Your big eyes follow the man, seeing that wasn’t your doing at all. Of course, it wasn’t. How could a girl like you simply cause a man to fly across an alley and slam against a wall?

That’s when he appears like a fallen angel. In black and white, a glowing blue in the core of his chest, a symbol of hope.

Spiderman.

He’s against the wall the man had flown into, but you have to crane your neck a fair amount to look up at where he’s clinging to. You can hardly blink at the fact he’s against the brick wall with no reinforcements whatsoever, just his fingers and soles of his feet keeping him afloat, defying physics, logic, and gravity.

“You gotta be at least a little attractive to hit on a girl like that,” Spiderman tilts his head, voice light yet husky, young.

“Fuck,” the man closest to you now was backing away. “I didn’t do nothing! I’m—I’m sorry—”

“Ugh, shut up,” the vigilante drawls, dragging out his syllables childishly.

He drops down with the most impressive of flips you haven’t even seen gold medalist gymnasts do. After he effortlessly sticks his landing, he wastes absolutely no time in lunging at your assailant.

He punches him square in the side of the jaw, the pop loud enough that you gasp, stepping back.

The man lets out a frightened cry, and right when you almost feel bad, you’re reminded of how you screamed a few moments prior. Yeah, this terror is well deserved.

Spiderman delivers a seamless kick to the side of his opponent’s abdomen. The entrancement you’re trapped in doesn’t let you avert your eyes at all. His movements are like water, like a choreographed dance even Broadway level performers can never imitate.

A scientific miracle. Something inhuman. Someone untouchable.

The man falls to the ground after taking a quite deadly strike to the face. Your eyes go from the attacker on the ground to his attacker.

The superhero stands there, his back to you, silhouetted by the dingy light from the end of the alley. He turns his head to the right, and you’re guessing he sees you from his peripheral because he’s still not looking directly at you.

You want to watch him for much longer, the superhuman that saved you. The superhuman in a well fitted suit, defining every inch of his body—his muscles, his perfect height.

“You okay, miss?” Spiderman asks, turning to you.

“Y-yeah,” you rasp. “Is—he . . .”

“Dead?” he finishes, snickering. “No. Just sleeping peacefully till the cops get here. Which should be in about five minutes.”

You nod, humming in the little frozen state of yourself. Behind the mask, Satoru wants to do a million things. Ask you a million things. But he knows he needs to keep up the persona of the wall-crawler he his.

“You don’t want to get caught in the lengthy questioning the police are going to do, right?” Spiderman (Satoru) crosses his arms, leaning against the wall.

“Not really, no,” you hardly move at all as you speak.

“See? That’s why I like my way of business. Less paperwork,” the web slinger jokes. “I can get you where you need to be in a matter of minutes. Tell me where you were headed.”

You gulp, “Home. But what do you mean? I don’t think you have a car—wait a second.” That’s when the reality of the situation hits you. “You’re real?”

Satoru chuckles, “We’ve been talking for almost a minute now, lady.”

“I know, but,” you’re looking him up and down. “I thought those news reports were based on just pranks. Seriously—no one has seen much of you—I thought these criminals were just leaving webs everywhere as a sign of loyalty to their gangs.”

This gets the man to laugh again, his head is facing down, and he shakes his head. You’re staring again, it’s hard not to.

“Alright, miss,” Satoru looks at you, making sure he doesn’t accidently slip up and call you by your name. “Where were you headed? Home?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching him push himself off the wall and hold a hand out to you. You glance down at his hand, then up at his face. His mask is covered in synthetic fibers stitched to imitate webs.

“I know you’re shaken up by those guys and what just happened but please trust me,” he sounds inexplicably genuine, unaccountably sincere. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Your eyes soften, so does the rest of you as you place your hand in his. There’s a level of trust you don’t understand the strength of when you do so. It’s borderline undermined when he tugs you toward him quickly, eliciting a gasp from you.

“You might want to hold on tight,” Spiderman suggests, snugly sliding his arm around your waist, pressing you against him.

“What are you—,” you don’t have the opportunity to finish your question when you find that your feet have left the ground.

You grasp on tighter to him, heeding his suggestion without so much as a second thought. You look down, feeling the wind whipping in your hair. The sight below you is enough to draw a yelp. Well, anyone that is being swung through the streets of New York would. It’s only natural.

“Oh my god!” you scream when you feel yourself hurtling towards the ground.

He shoots another web in the nick of time before you hit the concrete, and you’re in the air again. You bury your face in his neck, clamping your eyes shut. Satoru holds you close, tightening his grip on you. This feels nice.

A part of him doesn’t want this little swinging spree to end. Maybe it doesn’t have to.

“Sorry. No seatbelts,” Satoru laughs. “Should’ve mentioned that!”

“You think?” you quiz, half gasping with the rush of the wind. “Wait! Where are you even taking me? I didn’t tell you where I live!”

“Just trust me!” he yells back.

You open your eyes, looking over his shoulder at the city. The lights don’t blur like you expect them to. You feel like you’re flying, like the moon was waiting for you to join with the stars.

Cars seem smaller suddenly. People look smaller. New York, though, looks just as vast as it always has been.

Once the initial fear shakes out of you, you stare at the city, “Woah.”

You turn to look at him—at Spiderman. He’s still focused on swinging you through the city with one arm. Studying his mask, you can see the fibers of fabric, polyester or something similar. There can’t be many people that can say they’ve seen Spiderman, let alone been this close to him.

You’re amazed, in awe of the impossible. Peace consumes you as you continue to gaze at the wonderous city you love.

Another swoop over rooftops and you feel him lowering towards one. You hold on again, hoping the landing isn’t so rough. Luckily, it isn’t.

You look around, realizing you aren’t on just any rooftop. You’re one of the rooftops of the building you live in.

“How’d you know I live here?” you quiz, brows furrowed and jaw slack.

Satoru has a bit of an oh fuck moment. Words almost fail him but he’s easy to recuperate.

“Well, your dad lives here, doesn’t he?” he points at the ground. “The captain?”

Your mouth that was agape slowly closes and your eyes drift to the edge of the building, “Oh. You know who I am.”

“I know who your dad is,” the man replies. “Seen him a bunch of times. So I’ve seen your face around the main precinct a lot and on the news.”

“You have?” you cock a brow.

“Yeah—hey, don’t worry about those guys. Just try not to be alone at night,” he advises, gesturing with his hands. “Guys see a pretty girl and don’t know how to act a lot of the time.”

You can’t help the slight brow raise when you realize he called you pretty. Satoru pays it no mind however as he scratches the back of his neck.

“Where were you coming from anyway?” he asks, pretending not to know.

“JJ Tech headquarters,” you answer, licking your lips discreetly to tame yourself from gawking at his lean yet muscular figure. Eyes lingering far too long on how the skintight suit fit him, accentuating everything.

Satoru catches this, smirking to himself, “JJ Tech, huh? You must be pretty smart.”

“Pretty smart would be an understatement,” you say. “I wasn’t even supposed to be there this late anyway. I should’ve been home two hours ago.”

Satoru’s ears perk up, he takes this as his opportunity to pry, “How come you stayed longer?”

“Just this guy—he ran in and asked me to help him with an assignment,” you grumble, rolling your eyes.

“Just a guy? He your friend or something?” he asks, leaning his back against the wall to the stairs.

“Or something,” you mumble.

“Oh?” Satoru pipes. This is the perfect moment to see what you think about him. To even flirt with you without any repercussions. “Does that mean he’s your boyfriend?”

“What?” you squeak, voice all high pitched. “God, no. No. He’s just a classmate. He pisses me off most the time—I can hardly stand him at all.”

Satoru scowls beneath his mask, not what I was hoping for.

“I still can’t wrap my head around the fact you exist,” disbelief clings to your tone. “You know you’re a scientific marvel, right? Scientists would kill to study you.”

He laughs, it’s a pretty laugh, one that feels hauntingly familiar, “You want to cut me open or something?”

“Oh, I’m not qualified enough to do something like that,” you wave your hands. “Who’s to say I can’t study your body in other ways?”

Satoru can’t help but smile, he sees that glimmer in your eye and you sound so innocent despite how inviting you phrased that. You don’t even realize it, but he smiles wider.

“You’re funny,” he laughs, shaking his head.

There’s a bunch of things on your bucket list, a lot of things you aren’t sure you’ll get to even accomplish. One of them being making thee Spiderman laugh was definitely not one of them.

“Thank you for saving me,” you say, pulling him from his little fit of amusement. “I thought I was . . . I thought they were going to get away with what they wanted to do.”

Satoru raises his head again, straightening up. It dawns on him that he’s responsible for you being out on that street this late. That if he had hurried up, he could’ve gotten back in time like he planned. He just feels lucky that he made it in time.

He made it just in time, and he’s thankful for that. But he truly hates the fact you almost got seriously hurt because of him. He’s at fault and he knows this will haunt you for a long time.

“Don’t thank me. It’s nothing any normal human being wouldn’t do,” Spiderman tells you, walking over to the edge of the building. “Just stay safe. And know you can depend on your friendly neighborhood Spiderman anytime.”

And with that, he dives off the side of the building. You suck in a harsh breath, rushing and leaning over the elevated stone along the perimeter. Looking down, you find that you have to follow the black and white blur swing up again.

You smile breathlessly, watching the amazing Spiderman soaring off.

“Suguru, it was all my fault,” Satoru paces his apartment . . . ceiling?

 He’s walking in circles upside down, feet sticking to the ceiling like it isn’t scientifically impossible. His mask off but his suit remains on.

“If I hadn’t left her there for so long working on that freaking solution, she wouldn’t have left so late. If I was even a second off, I don’t even know what could’ve happened,” Satoru’s white locks are swaying as he walks. Although he defies gravity, his hair doesn’t.

“You saved her though, that’s all that matters,” Suguru assured, stuffing the chopsticks with a mouthful of noodles in his mouth. “But how did she not recognize you? There’s no way you talked to her.”

“I did,” Satoru drops to the ground. He makes his way over to where Suguru sits on the couch, picking up a box of takeout. “Maybe she’s not as smart as she thinks she is.”

“Please,” Suguru eyes Satoru, handing him a pair of chopsticks. “Don’t underestimate that girl, she’s smarter than half the tri-state.”

“Sure, she’s cute and happens to be smart,” Satoru shrugs. “She’s just a girl though, not a threat.”

“Why did you bring up her being cute?” Suguru narrows his eyes, lowering his food. “That had nothing to do with the conversation.”

“What?” Satoru mutters, chewing on his noodles. “She’s beautiful—there’s no denying that.”

“Beautiful?” Suguru laughs.

“What?”

“You just took it one step further,” Suguru teases, laughing again. “You have a crush on her!”

“What? No, I don’t!” Satoru snaps.

“Now it all makes sense,” Suguru has a wide grin. “Teasing her nonstop, annoying her to get her to yell at you. Wow, you can just ask her out, y’know.”

“Okay, you’re on drugs,” Satoru squints at his best friend.

“Yeah, yeah,” Suguru dismissively says. “So did you get that vial back from her?”

“Obviously not, I’m not supposed to know about that as Spiderman. Only Satoru Gojo knows that,” Satoru states, pointedly gesturing with his utensils. “I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

“Hm, what are you going to do now though?” Suguru asks. “I mean about this Jogo guy that thug told you about.”

“I’m not sure,” Satoru mumbles. “I’ll have to look into that.”

“Shoko, you know I wouldn’t make up something like that.”

“I know! That’s not what I said, it just sounds insane. Like, Spiderman? The Spiderman?”

You stare at her flatly and Utahime rubs your shoulders, “That sounds terrifying. Did you tell your dad?”

“What? Are you kidding? No,” you quickly spit. “If I tell my dad that he’s going to station two cops to follow me twenty-four seven. I can’t have that.”

“Y/n, that could’ve ended very badly,” Shoko frowns dejectedly. “What if Spiderman didn’t show up?”

“But he did,” you say. “If he didn’t, I’d be dead, and all my stupid little worries would be gone. But you don’t understand—that man . . . wow.”

Shoko and Utahime pause to look at one another, the former quizzing, “You—you don’t have a crush on Spiderman, do you?”

“Not a crush, no,” you chuckle, sipping your coffee before you look down at Shoko from where you’re sitting on the picnic table. “Fascination, yes, I have that. But to be honest, he was incredible to look at—his body was . . . ugh, I don’t have anything appropriate to say.”

“Now, this is how I know you need to get laid,” Shoko chuckles. “Having a crush on a spandex wearing spider is insanity.”

“Is it?” you look at where she sits on the bench. “You experience what I did, and I’d love to hear your opinion.”

Shoko frowns at you, then at Utahime. That’s when the latter says to you, “Wait, didn’t you need to talk to Gojo?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, sparing a cautious glance to your bag containing that mix. “Got to go over that stupid project before class. Would it kill him to be on time? He’s always late.”

There’s no need to tell your friends what the fuck Satoru had given you to configure on your own. Not until you at least talk to him and get the full story. You have enough on your mind as it is, having Shoko and Utahime’s thoughts thrown into the mix would only rattle and confuse you further. It doesn’t help that one of them grew up with Satoru and knows his aunt and the other loathes him almost more than you do.

“I’m going to grab a croissant before class,” Shoko rubs her stomach. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

You hop off the bench and head on down towards where your Orgo class is. There’s still about twenty minutes left till class and Shoko falls behind to grab her baked good.  

Those memories of last night carry you where you need to be. You strut along the path with a purpose, your hair is effortlessly styled, makeup barely there, yet it somehow masks just how disheveled you truly feel.

“Gojo!” you call as you spot him by the bottom of the steps in one of the University’s vast courtyards, he just so happens to be in the midst of discussing something Digimon related with Haiba.

Haiba and Suguru’s eyes widen as they realize it’s you storming towards Gojo and not just any other girl.

Satoru flicks his gaze over as you walk over, stopping in front of him. He’s not sure what to say, he knows he should probably address the task he stupidly left for you to do but he hardly strings a solid greeting together without sounding stupid, “Hey.”

“Can I talk to you—in private?” you ask, your face gave away an austere look, like you were about to scold a child.

How can he say no?

He nods, standing up and following you down the side of the building. The two of you are supposed to be heading down to class that happens to be the other way but he doesn’t even question you when he’s whisked onto the school grounds.

His mind fumbles through the events of last night. He had two conversations with you. One as your savior and one as the guy you got stuck with for science class. He’s racking his brain enough to decide how to behave although the answer should be obvious.

The boy follows you behind the bleachers, looking around with an incredulous quirk in his brow when you step into the dark underside of them.

“Is everything okay?” Satoru blinks as you stop.

“Gojo.” You sternly face him, not saying anything else.

“That’s my name, yeah,” he sassily retorts. “Doesn’t answer my question though.”

“Don’t test me,” you hold up your index finger threateningly.

Cute, he thinks.

“Where did you get this?” you hold up the small vial. “And the truth this time.”

Satoru’s eyes lock onto the green liquid, unsure what lie he should curate this time. He could simply insist on the same lie as before, convince you that you were overthinking. Or he could tell you the truth, ultimately putting your life and his secret in danger, but hey, it’ll save him from looking entirely idiotic.

“I told you, my manager,” he states, reaching out to take it.

You pull it back, further from his reach and he wants to laugh at how easy it would be to take it from your hands in the blink of an eye.

“How stupid do you think I am?” you quiz.

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” he says, a smile goes with that shake of his head, his hair falling over his bespectacled blue eyes. “Just a little scary.”

“Listen, I know your manager didn’t give you this because he wouldn’t give you this.” You pointedly flash the vial in his face. “Do you realize what’s in here?”

“Wait,” Satoru’s smile fades. “You’re telling me you actually found out what’s in it?”

You nod haphazardly, more confused than skeptical, “You don’t know?”

“No—I don’t, what is it?” he asks, nearing you too closely without meaning to.

You lower your hand, “It’s a highly concentrated blend of hallucinogens and anesthetics. One sip could send a man into cardiac arrest—or worse, kill him.”

Your eyes are on his, but his eyes aren’t on yours. His are on the bottle of chartreuse in between your fingers.

“Satoru,” you murmur quietly, lowering the bottle into his indecisive palm, his fingers edging closer to yours but pulling back ever so gently before they attempt to muster the courage once more. You glance down at his long pale fingers, his skin glows sweeter than the moon itself.

Your gaze dips to your skin grazing his as you place the bottle into his hand. You let your hand linger against his, not sure why you don’t think of retracting.

Why are you just realizing how pretty he is?

The rims of his glasses glint as he looks at your face, studying your features like he’ll never get the chance to ever again. You blink yourself into snapping out of it, pulling your arm back and swallowing dryly.

“Sorry about the trouble,” Satoru quietly says, stowing away the vial.

“It’s okay,” you reply, voice rasping. While his eyes are focused on tucking the bottle safely, you say, “I don’t know what it is you’re hiding—I won’t ask, but please be careful.”

Satoru can’t help the grin he cracks, “I’m tougher than I look.”

And when he walks away, there’s a strange feeling that stirs in your gut. A feeling that tells you he may be right.

You aren’t sure why you’re still thinking about why he had that chemical in the first place. Did he make it himself? Did he buy it off someone? What was it intended for?

The rest of your organic chemistry class, you’re left there wondering what that boy is up to. You’re left wondering why he is missing class again today after you just saw him. And you’re left wondering whether Satoru thanks Yaga for never marking him late or absent at all. Call it favoritism, you suppose.

He thanks any deity that he can think of when he arrives on time to JJ Technologies before his manager questions him.

He finds some time to slip away, sneak up to your floor while you’re instructing your latest interns. He smiles, watching you scribble something down on your clipboard while you walk.

“Okay, this right here is just a sketch of one of our current studies,” you point at a holographic, digitized image that appears above a table. “This is a paradigm for a new discovery of nanoparticles. They’re commonly used to reduce the number of catalytic materials within chemical reactions. There are two fields within certain industries that they are applied to. Can anyone tell me what they are?”

The students all flip restlessly through their notepads, struggling to look for the answer to your question.

Satoru can’t hide the snicker he lets out. Half the student look back at him and you peer through the batch of preppy kids to see him.

“Petroleum refining and automotive catalytic converters,” Satoru replies, still smirking complacently.

You have a bit of a curl to your lips, eyes locked on his as you say, “Yes. That’s correct.”

Seeing him appear within your mix of pupils almost throws you off, but you know you have a certain image before the students so you keep yourself composed. You quickly instruct the students to write the answer down and head to their stations with their teams.

When the interns disperse, you cross your arms, face to face with Gojo.

“What do you want?” you ask, a sickly-sweet smile on your face.

“Oof, would it kill you to talk nice to me?” Satoru acts like a wounded soldier, palm across his abdomen.

“I feel like it might, so I’d rather not take the risk,” you say pointedly.

“Hm, right,” Satoru scoffs, he looks down. “You’re going to be alone now in the lab, right?”

“No, I’ll be in the lab but not alone,” you say. “My colleagues are going to be in there with me. You need something?”

“No, I wanted to ask you something,” his brows tense.

An odd sensation stirs in your stomach, “Ask me what?”

It’s been a while since either of you actually began interacting with one another somewhat civilly. You don’t know what it is that will come out of his mouth but you’re suddenly hopeful.

He grabs your hand, leading you off to the side, causing you to jerk your head around in case anyone’s looking.

Once you are beneath the mosaic mural of DNA helixes on one wall, Satoru stops, letting go of you. You try not to let the idea of his hand staying in yours distract you from what’s to come.

He tries not to focus on how soft your hand is, and once again how the fragrance of your perfume feels like candy on a summer day.

“You didn’t tell anyone about that bottle, did you?” he whispers, eyes darting between yours and the rest of the busy facility.

“No,” you shake your head. “Of course, not. I had a feeling you wanted to keep it private.”

Satoru looks at you, his smile reaching his ears, “Aw, how sweet. You care about me.”

You smack the back of his hand, causing him to hold it close to him possessively and rub it gently from the very slight sting of your slap.

“Shut up,” you snap, catching the way his blue eyes gleam behind his glasses. “Is that all?”

“No,” he states, straightening up and switching his tone from light and playful to serious. “You said it was deadly to take a single sip. That the properties within it were so overly saturated it could do serious damage. But let’s say . . . you needed to use it in combat . . . could you?”

The nature of his question startles you, “Combat? Like if soldiers were fighting?”

“Yeah, sure, like that.”

You’re blinking heavily, looking towards the place where the wall meets the floor, “Well, I suppose it could be used in a vaporous form. Like gas or something. That could do enough damage too.”

“Ugh,” Satoru closes his eyes and pinches his nose. “I was afraid of that.”

“What is it?” you peer up at him through your lashes. “You’re hiding something.”

“No—I’m not,” Satoru groans. He notices the suspicion on your face, “You got time for a snack in the cafeteria?”

Flaring your eyes over his, you glance discreetly at the time, “Fine.”

You begin to walk away.

“That was a yes or no question! Not a secret third response,” he trails behind.

“You got your answer, didn’t you?” you gesture to yourself.

“Yeah, but you seem entirely unenthusiastic about it,” Satoru grumbles. “A little energy may do you good.”

You hit the elevator button, crossing your arms, “I’m not here to appease you.”

“Appease me? Oh, god,” he lets out a baffled scoff.

“What?” you furrow your brows. “Poor choice of words?”

“Not exactly,” Satoru replies, loosely shifting to get into the elevator. “It might be nicer, I guess, to know if you actually wanted to get a snack with me and not as if I’m holding you at gunpoint.”

You roll your eyes, “You brought up a snack and I happen to be hungry. Where does gunpoint come in the mix? You really want me to do cheer like you came to my rescue?”

He almost laughs from the irony but he knows not to. He knows just as well that things could have gone extremely wrong the other night if he had not gone about everything carefully. There’s another sort of irony to him, a different form of saving.

“Mhm, but you like coming to my rescue pretty often,” he responds, a lopsided smile on his lips as he leans against the wall with folded arms.

You squint at him, the word rescue coming out of his mouth reminding you strangely of the danger you were in right in that alleyway.

“What does that mean?” you say with tightening eyes.

“You did my part of the lab report to save my ass, you helped me with that liquid, you kept that secret for me,” Satoru breaks eye contact, looking at the ground. “And that time in freshman year of high school.”

His final reminder steers your heart to a slow pace, your shoulders untense. You remember that event all too well.

“I’m a decent human being,” you explain as if it’s a scientifically proven, immutable fact. “It’s less about enjoying something but more of the fact I would be miserable and angry with myself if I didn’t help someone that needed it.”

Satoru lifts his head to level with you, his eyes are wide in a blank stare. That is right before he suddenly blurts a short chuckle. “Spoken like a true hero.”

Your eyes flit upwards as the doors to the elevator open. He leads you out into the hall, his strides are much longer than yours.

“Wait up! I can’t walk that fast!” you snap breathlessly.

His gaze flicks over to you, his eyes close behind his lens, laughing again. Bustling closely to him, you quiz, “Okay, well you still have a lot of explaining to do. Like where you got that green thing from.”

Satoru stops by the line of sandwiches. His head turns to face you, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Absolutely not,” you’re quick to counter. He throws his head back as you grab a saran wrapped sandwich from the stall and face it at him strictly, “You’re not normal. That’s what I’m realizing.”

Satoru grabs a sandwich and a sugary soda too and he’s about to follow you as you walk off to a table but is interrupted when the employee behind the register curtly clears his throat. A nonverbal cue to pay for you both.

Satoru lets out a throaty groan, fishing deep in his pockets for a crisp ten dollar note. He rounds the table to the other side, sitting down with you.

“You’re having all these revelations pretty late into our lives, aren’t you?” Satoru picks up the conversation as if there was no gap in between. “I’m a little surprised you just came to the conclusion I’m not normal.”

“Hm, I’ve known for a while,” you hum, turning focus to your sandwich.

Memories are thrust upon you from high school. When you first met him, he hardly spoke. He was short with his interactions and would hardly have the grace to offer more than five words. He clearly didn’t enjoy being around people.

Suguru seemed to help him out of this at some point because in your sophomore year of high school, he came to school as a completely brand-new person. His personality shown more, and he only then began pissing you off.

In a way, it was better than seeing him so down like he was before. Because of that, you have been more inclined to tolerate his shit a lot of the time.

“Listen, Satoru,” you sigh, not even noticing the way his body electrocutes at the fact you called him by his first name and not his last. “I’m very serious about my future. It means everything to me and to my parents. There’s only a certain amount of shit I can tolerate. And I can’t tolerate you slacking off at my expense.”

Towards the end of your warning, you look at him. He lowers his drink from his mouth, eyes straight ahead.

“Fair enough,” Satoru says. His head falls loosely between his shoulders, his hair glistening in the fluorescent lights. “It’s important for your parents too, that’s something I respect.”

Your brows uncinch.

“It’s important I get home on time for my parents too,” you sigh, looking at the time.

“You have an hour,” Satoru asks. “Why are you worried?”

Now he knows why you are worried. He still has to act oblivious, that’s all.

He sees the faltering blinks, eyes dancing here and there, mouth parted without a word ready to fly out.

Satoru takes another bite from his sandwich, talking with a full mouth, “Is your dad strict or something?”

Those anxious eyes morph into a revolted side eye, “You know who my dad is. You know what my dad is.”

“Yeah, he’s just the captain. Not some flesh-eating monster,” Satoru makes himself giggle.

You set your forearm on the surface of the table, rotating your body to turn to him, “My dad is a great man. He’s all law and order and then there’s my mom, also law and order. If I didn’t have enough on my mind, now my dad wants to assign a detail to me.”

“Assign . . .” Satoru shifts in his seat, lowering his meal. “You mean have a pair of cops following you around all the time?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

Satoru’s eyes travel over your face while you’re not looking at him. If the captain does sign cops to tail you, that means that there’d be cops around him. Background checks, tailing him to get a sense of who he is . . . that could lead them to him being Spiderman . . .

“That—he can’t do that,” Satoru pipes, jolting you out of your little trance of eating. “That isn’t fair to you. You wouldn’t be able to hang around me—hell, they’d be standing right behind us listening to every word you say.”

Your lips turn down and brows raise, “I had no idea you cared so much.”

“Sure, why not?” Satoru dials down his emotion.

He supposes he’d have to stay away from you if your father went through with that after all. And he finds his heart twisting and turning from the very idea of doing that.

“He’s pretty stressed because of those string of bank robberies,” you exhale, Satoru’s eyes refuse to move from your face. “So my safety has gotten to his head too.”

Satoru’s blinks were slow, something that could be confused with lethargy, “Does he have any leads?”

“Not really. He just knows they’re all linked. He thinks Spiderman’s involvement is fucking everything up,” you say, remembering your encounter from last night.

“Hm,” and he can’t help but ask. “What do you think about him?”

“Spiderman?”

“Yes,” Satoru’s heart teetering on the edge.

“I think,” you begin, “he’s what our city needs. As a medical miracle, you decide to help others—that shows what kind of man you are.”

He has nothing to say for once. No quick quip, no fast remark. His mouth falls open, unsure how to respond. You were talking about his alter ego, but it felt like you were telling him.

“He’s pretty cool,” you nod, thinking about the vigilante.

He watches as you get up, saying, “I’ve got to get going, I’ve got to get work done before my dad picks me up.”

He feels like he has much left unsaid, but he still watches as you make your way out on your own.

Satoru is rooftop hopping, rushing back after he hit a dead end on a potential jewelry store he believed a heist may occur. That has been his routine that past week on top of annoying you in class and sitting with Haiba and Suguru in the library.

“Hm, okay. I just need to get a minimum of a C on this next exam to maintain my A,” Suguru mumbles aloud. “Satoru, you should maybe focus on your philosophy paper, you don’t want to get called out by the professor again—"

Suguru continues talking but Satoru is on a completely different planet. His gaze had flicked over to you walking through the maze of tables, and it was like an angel had stepped onto Earth.

The dim library of the university had mysteriously brightened tenfold. The incessant chatter of students around you crashes to a muffled halt as the faces begin to lose definition. All he can focus on is your pretty face. Your graceful smile. Your beautiful existence.

He feels his heart caper at the very sight of you laughing, the honeyed sound of it. His heart twists a bit more at the fact that it’s because of another guy.

“Hello!? Earth to Satoru,” Suguru breaks into Satoru’s eyeline. He looks back at whatever could have grasped his attention so unapologetically. He groans in frustration, “When are you going to tell her you want her?”

“I—what? I don’t want her,” Satoru snaps his head over at Suguru.

“It’s pretty obvious you want her, bud,” Haiba says with wide eyes and all Satoru can do is roll his own.

The sleep deprivation is catching up to him and he’s not sure how to remedy it. Those brief hours he does get to sleep he can hardly do so, he’s too busy trying to figure everything out. Where is Jogo hiding? Where is the next hit going to be? Why does he need that relic?

What could you be wearing tonight?

He has to shake his head like a wet dog, screw his eyes shut and bury his ears with his pillow. What is going on with him?

The next lab you have together, you spend most of it trying to figure out how to get through it working together and not competing against one another.

Afterwards, he wants to trail behind you, talk more to you but you’re tugged away by Shoko without fail.

 Every time.

Every time you sit on some staircase out on campus, step through the winding aisles of bookcases in the library, sit at some table in one of the cafes, Shoko or Utahime are always there.

He figures he’ll get the chance at JJ Tech but he’s barely seen you with how busy both of your schedules have been. His last resort is waiting for a perfect moment to get you alone. 

Satoru manages to catch up to you somehow once again in the library, studying for midterms.

“Here,” he places a bottle of chilled coffee in front of you on the table, it sat before your notebooks and thick textbooks like an almighty divinity.

Your eyes pierce through the coffee, then up at him, “How’d you know this is the flavor I like?”

You look tired, usually you can put yourself together enough to not seem so, but tonight it’s apparent. Your pens and highlighters are spread across the desk in a crazed frenzy.

“That’s the one you usually get at work, I don’t know. Thought you might need it,” he shrugs nonchalantly, sitting down.

You straighten up, wanting to smile but holding that feeling back, tying it down, “Oh, thanks.”

“I see you’re studying for . . .” Satoru tries guessing but squints at the papers you have strewn across the table, “what class?”

“Neuroscience,” you sigh, chewing on the end cap of your highlighter.

“Stop doing that,” he lowers you hand, essentially pulling the highlighter away from your mouth. He then opens the bottle of chilled coffee, handing it to you, “Here.”

You take it from him, eyes on his as you pull it towards your mouth, taking a sip. He leans back in his seat, his eyes roaming the papers you have laid out.

“Looks fun,” he drawls, looking through everything. “Have you had something to eat yet?”

“No, not yet. I’ll eat when I’m home,” you answer. “Have you?”

“No, me neither,” he says.

“Oh,” you ponder over what the situation is. “If you aren’t doing anything, we can go get something to eat right now.”

Satoru nearly stops breathing, he has every reason to frantically say yes. One: he happens to be starving. Two: he knows he’s going to be busy all night with studying and with his Spiderman duties. Three: he can sit and relax with you. Four: It’s you.

But he needs to get going, a potential lead came up in relation to Jogo he needs to check out right now.

“I can’t,” he wants to punch himself. “I have to help my aunt with something.”

Disappointment prickles through your body, a feeling you weren’t expecting in the least in a situation like this.

“Oh, that’s okay,” you gather your belongings.

“Wait—where are you going?” his eyes go wide, watching you pack your bag.

“Uh, home,” you say as if it were obvious. “Did you forget what we talked about that one time? Dad—security detail—never letting me breathe?”

“You can’t actually be worried about that,” Satoru says as you sling on your bag. “I highly doubt the captain will go through with that.”

“Just make sure you’re on time tomorrow for class, we have to work on that lab,” you tell him, flipping your hair as you adjust your bag on your shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“I have an issue with losing track of time,” Satoru frowns. “It’s not my fault.”

“Maybe use your glasses to keep an eye on the time. Are four eyes not enough? Do you seriously need six of them?” you challenge with a look over your shoulder before turning back to the exit.

He wants to laugh at the sheer irony of your question.

Satoru’s on a rooftop again. Another sleepless night is sure to pass him by. He follows lead after lead, suspect after suspect, but nothing.

That tip he got led him to nothing. Led him to nothing but missing class the next morning.

He’s thinking only about how guilty he feels, how he should apologize for bailing on you again during lab. Especially when you told him not to.

You count your lucky stars that you are sitting at home today worrying about your midterm exams approaching and not worrying in the lab.

Your father shows up at your door with a cup of hot cocoa, settling it down beside you. He has a cup of his own, a rare to see smile on his face as he sits down next to you.

“Thanks, Dad,” you beam, taking the cup.

“How’s studying going?” he asks.

“It’s okay,” you sigh. “How’s that heist case coming along?”

“It’s stressful,” he huffs out as well. “Got a bunch of different stories coming from the witnesses and that Spiderman jackass isn’t helping with my peace right now.”

“He’s not so bad,” you chuckle, taking a sip.

Your dad cocks a disgruntled brow, “That guy’s a menace. Just like that one news guy keeps saying.”

“That guy is crazy, Dad, and you know it,” this time you scoff.

“You calling me crazy, too?” your dad quizzes.

“No,” you set down your cup, “That’s not what I meant. I just meant that Spiderman has saved a lot of people. A lot of his good deeds go unnoticed because there are so many little things he does that don’t get broadcasted. Whatever—anyway, what are the witnesses saying?”

Your dad slowly lowers his offended brow and explains, “Witnesses from each location are saying they were knocked unconscious. Then there are witnesses who are also saying that the suspects dropped some sort of spray on them, then there are others saying it may have been a gas they inhaled.”

“Gas?” your nose scrunches.

“Hm,” your dad nods. “After they either inhaled or felt it on them, they started hallucinating. Some saw flashes of things they feared in their life, or of traumatic moments, or they were close to being driven to sleep by pictures of nice dreams. It all is difficult to figure out what it is. Our forensics team is having a shit time with narrowing it down since it may flush out of their system quick.”

You gawk at him, lost for words. It’s a highly concentrated blend of hallucinogens and anesthetics. One sip could send a man into cardiac arrest—or worse, kill him.

Your own voice rings in your head but his face is what appears before you. Those sparkling blue eyes and that silvery white hair. A flash of that green vial struck in an instant too.

“It’s all pretty confusing,” your dad exhales, taking a sip from his foamy drink. There’s a ring at the bell, steering his attention to it. He looks over at you, ruffling your hair, “You get back to it kiddo, I’ll see who it is.”

He walks out, closing your door and you look over that video about the fundamentals of chemistry, your notes splayed open with highlighters and sticky notes littering your desk.

But you can hardly focus—now that you’re thinking about Gojo all over again. This all has to be a coincidence, right? There’s no way Satoru Gojo of all people is affiliated with a high crime gang and drugging people to rob banks. There’s just no way.

But his voice rings in your mind once more—a memory of your conversation when he asked about that liquid being able to be used as a gas in combat. . . ‘I was afraid of that.’

The little three tapped choreographed knock on your door tells you that your father is on the other side.

“Sweetheart, there’s a . . . boy from your class here to see you,” your dad awkwardly says.

You blink the tiredness away, getting up and heading to the foyer of your penthouse apartment. Your hand rests on the railing as you descend down the stairs, only to stop halfway when your eyes land on snowy hair and silver framed glasses.

His sky-blue eyes lock onto yours, his blinks are restless, and his pretty lips are parted. You see him visibly gulp, like he was nervous to face you.

“What’re you doing here?” you finally say, remembering the fact he abandoned you once more today.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Satoru waits a beat till his heart tries to settle down. “Is that okay?”

You should yell at him, and you truly want to but for some reason you can’t. You huff out a sigh, beckoning him to follow you. As you turn around to lead him up the stairs, he’s once again scattering his field of vision everywhere.

He’s paying attention to the extravagance of your home. The chandelier in the foyer, the numerous potted bonsais and lilies, the expensive stonework polished floors, the ornamental china vases and molded ceiling. He shouldn’t expect any less from the daughter of the veteran police captain of the city and the successful assistant district attorney. Your parents were clear overachievers, mother and father both, it is no less than obvious you would be on a similar path of greatness yourself.

He eyes you rather shamelessly, it’s not like you have eyes on the back of your head. You glance over your shoulder at him.

Or maybe you do.

Satoru already felt scrutinized at the door when your father opened it. He should care a little more but finds that he doesn’t care one bit about the police captain’s protective gaze on him following his daughter up to her room.

You open your door, unveiling your bedroom to the boy. Suguru and Haiba would go nuts if he were to tell them he was standing in your room with you right now. Nanami would hardly believe him at all.

Your room is neat, that’s the first thing he notices. And it’s exactly how he pictured it. Furniture white, minimalistic and clean. The bed had four posts, sheer curtains draping down the top. You had white boards, bulletin boards, filled with excessive diagrams and notes. You had bookshelves in a corner of the room, lined with chemistry and medical textbooks where your desk was.

There was a wall of windows that overlooked the city, a balcony that had a set of Parisian doors to it. He wonders how much time you spent out there with your thoughts and what they could possibly be.

While he’s observing every element of your room, you face him. He has this wondrous look in those frosted eyes of his, a look that makes them look even wider. His lips part and when you look at him in the dim lighting from your study lamp, you notice the way his top lip prods out slightly over his bottom. That they have a pouted yet subtle curve to them that came to life when he smiled. That there was a soft pinkish sheen to them.

You wonder why you’re suddenly paying such close attention to him these days.  

“Here,” you speak, ringing yourself out of wherever your mind was going.

He cocks a brow, gawking at you rifling through your school bag. His puzzled expression deepens when you press a packet of paper against his chest. “What’s this?”

“Your part of the lab report,” you grumble, eyes cold yet thwarted. “Just memorize the material by next Friday before our presentation. I’ll make sure the rest of what’s left throughout the week gets done.”

Satoru’s entirely taken aback. You have every right to be mad but he wasn’t expecting you to still want to help him. His arm shoots out to grab yours before you can walk away. Your halted against your will, shocked as you gape at him trapped in the lamplight as it clings to his skin.

“Wait—that’s not why I came here,” he sighs begrudgingly. “I came to apologize. I’m sorry I missed class and bailed on you.”

“Twice,” you correct with furrowed brows.

“Twice,” he revises. “It was a shitty thing to do. And it won’t happen again.”

He swallows dryly as he stares at that cynical look on your face. He looks like a lost pet, waiting to be scolded by its owner.

“Promise?” you tip your head to the side.

“Promise,” he answers, he feels his heart tearing through his chest at how you’ve suddenly acquired a childlike disposition, one he’s never had the chance to witness before. And all because of him.

“Okay,” you smally smile, flashing your pearly teeth at him. “But if you bail on me again, I’m telling Yaga to give you a zero.”

“Got it—but how come you’re so sure he’ll give your word priority over mine?” Satoru challenges.

“Because you were the second smartest kid in high school, and I was the first,” you pointedly say. “I have a higher GPA than you, I have won three more academic awards than you have—and let’s face it, my attendance record outranks yours in an embarrassing way.”

Satoru presses his lips firmly and raises his brows in hilarity, trying to contain that laughter wanting to blurt out of him. He fails though, laughing anyway.

Your lips part as you stare at him, suddenly you’re so aware of how tall he is again, how he’s not as lanky as he used to be in high school.

“At least I’m not stupid,” Satoru tells you knowingly. “You could’ve ended up with a lot worse than me.”

“Really? Like who?” you cross our arms.

“Yuki—Haiba—Need I go on?” he speaks with a teasing tone.

“God, no. I got your point,” you hold your hands up in defense. Your nose twitches as you let your hands slowly fall to your sides. “You didn’t have to come all this way to apologize, you know. You could’ve just apologized tomorrow or over text, you have my number.”

“You wouldn’t have thought twice about forgiving me,” he puts his hands in his pockets. “Or murdering me.”

This evokes a laugh from you, cheeky and bright, this cold light of the moon suddenly feels like beams of sunlight embracing him, warm and comforting.

Then you point a finger at him, “But you have to tell me why you have that green liquid.”

Satoru can’t flip his way out of this corner. Another lie must suffice, “One of my friends from my neighborhood gave it to me—said he swiped it off some kid in his school. He wanted me to find out what was in it.”

“Oh,” you frown, all doe-eyed and innocent. “You should get rid of that thing. It’s dangerous.”

“Will do,” Satoru salutes with his middle and index fingers. He catches that little sideways twitch of your mouth, as you stare at him from the bottom up but stop halfway. “What is it?”

“I’m just a little shocked you’re not really how I thought you’d be,” you say. “Is that bad?”

“Depends,” Satoru eyes the room shamelessly, glancing at you before he sits down uninvited on your bed. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. We’ve known each other for like over half a decade—and we hardly ever really talked. I always thought you were some nerdy guy that had a bad attitude. I guess I thought you never really liked me.” You circle around the bed post to get closer to him.

Satoru’s brows are raised so far up high that they are practically skimming his hairline. He was talkative, just not with you at first. He feels like he might’ve been a bit blunt overall—but that changed for him when he became Spiderman years ago.

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Satoru says the unexpected. “I guess I just found you intimidating.”

“Me?” you point at yourself, sitting down. “Why? You’re, like, one of the most talented kids I know.”

“Because you’re crazy smart,” he blurts out, smiling as he can’t even maintain eye contact with you. He feels your body heat, just a few measly inches to his left. You’re in reach and he’s scared he’ll do something to cause you to slip away.

Your eyes widen at his words, and he seems to not be done yet with the way he sucks in a breath, hands resting either side of him on the comforter.

“You’re insanely clever and nice and it doesn’t help much that you’re pretty,” Satoru is shaking his head, meeting your gaze once again. Once again, gorgeous eyes stare back at him.

You furrow your brows, not remembering an instance in your life where you had seen him look so vulnerable for even a moment. Your eyes flick down to his pouted lips then back up to his eyes.

“You think I’m pretty?” you whisper.

“Is that even a question?” Satoru breathes.

You lean close, his icy blue eyes contrast his half lidded warm look behind his glasses. He inches closer, your noses brushing against each other.

Your lips are half a centimeter away from his. He can smell the scent of your lotion, the sweet scent of your lip balm. He’s so close to tasting it that he feels like he’s the closest he’ll ever be.

That tingling sensation shot up his spine and straight to his ears, not because of this tension.

It’s his six eyes telling him there’s an incoming threat. Footsteps. They’re faint, but he feels them coming this way.

He suddenly jumps up, grabbing the lab report and rifling through it, “Your dad.”

“What?” you’re taken aback, your face crinkling.

“He’s coming,” he says.

You blink at him, wondering if he’s just scared or if he didn’t want to kiss you in the first place.

“Listen, Satoru, if you don’t want to—”

Your door swings open, revealing your father. One hand rests on the knob and one on the door frame. The way he opened it indicated a sense of urgency, or a sense of wanting to catch Satoru in the act. The act being the boy making a move on you.

“Hey, sweetie, everything alright in here?” he eyes you quickly at the term of endearment but then keeps his razor-sharp cop stare on Satoru. He’s not doing anything to ring alarm bells, simply just thumbing through report papers like he gave the impression of initially.

“Yes, Dad!” You glare at your father. “I thought we talked about knocking.”

“Oh, sorry—I was just—” he attempts defending himself but your eyes widen as you tilt your head at him and he ushers himself out of your room.

“Jeez. You’d hardly believe I’m nineteen years old with a dad like that. What is he going to do after I move out,” you grumble. Your eyes slowly dance over to the boy who was standing up, “How’d you know he was coming?”

“I could hear his footsteps,” he says.

“Yeah, you told me like a whole minute before he actually was at the door,” you stand up, nearing him. “I know your eyes suck, but no one has that good a sense of hearing.”

“I told you that’s what I heard,” he defends himself.

You tighten your lips, watching him set the papers down with his eyes fixed on the door. His eyes are still but his mind runs a mile a minute. He’s ruminating on the fact he almost kissed you and that your father could have walked in. What’s worse right now though is the fact he is still standing in the wake of your missed moment.

“Satoru, something is up with you,” you stand up, taking a daring step forward. Your shoulders square in assertion, “I’m not sure what it is. But I promise you can trust me.”

He slowly turns his head to you, thinking about what to say but his breath stops short when you place your palms over his chest, gazing up at him.

He gulps, and he hopes you don’t see how his nerves are clearly rattling, shaking his very bones. His phone buzzes with the soft four chimed ring he’s all too familiar with and he curses himself and every other wrong doer in the whole city of New York.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” he grabs yours wrists. “I have to go.”

He goes around you, passing you without so much as another glance. You watch him leave your room and in the simplest of terms, you felt like shit.

You begin walking to your door to slam it shut when your father runs past you, frantically pushing his limbs through his police jacket, his other hand on his phone.

“Dad—what is it?” you question breathlessly.

“Sorry, honey, have to go in. There’s another theft in progress in the upper east,” your father explains in two quick breaths.

Your eyes follow him as you hear the front door shutting after he leaves, only a minute or so after Satoru did.

You can’t help that scowl you toss at your microscope on your desk, or how you sprint towards it to inspect the elements once again.

Satoru is thinking only about you. Only you, only you.

His cognizance on the fact he should focus on this heist is hardly doing him favors from how much he regrets not kissing you. If being caught by your father was a repercussion anyway, how bad could that have possibly been? Yeah, so what. Mild embarrassment, maybe a few threats here and there.

His hand wraps around the web he shoots at the side of the building, swinging straight through the shattered window. He has no time for histrionics, he just wants to get to the bottom of this case.

When the thugs turn to face the man that flew in through the window, they all drop what they are doing, scowling menacingly at the boy.

“Okay,” Satoru cracks his knuckles, tweaking his neck to the side. “Let’s wrap this up.”

That’s what prompts four burly men to lurch at the boy. Gojo makes quick effort to shoot at one’s face, gluing a sticky web to his eyes and hindering his senses completely.

He knocks over another one with a horse powered kick, pushing him into a glass display. He’s nearly amazed with himself by how rushed this fight is.

Another man comes at him with a closed fist, brass knuckles adorning them as they hurtle straight for Satoru’s face. With lightening reflexes, he swats the man’s arm, aiming the base of his palm straight up the man’s jaw. Except it isn’t his jaw he’s aiming for.

An anguished scream of agony leaves the man as he cradles his bleeding, broken nose. Spiderman towers over him again, kicking him in the gut while he’s down.

The fourth man fires several shots at Satoru, unfortunately for the goon, he hasn’t experienced just how the Six Eyes senses really benefit the Spiderman.

His gun is in Satoru’s hand before he knows it, a stringy web stuck to the end of it. The thief’s jaw drops, eyes reddened and wide when he witnesses the way the gun crushes in the vigilante’s hand, the pieces of it crumbling to the ground.

“This is getting boring,” Satoru whines immaturely. “I can’t believe I had to give up being with a pretty girl for this.”  

Forcibly tugging the man towards him with a web, Satoru delivers a lethal blow to the back of the man’s head, instantly knocking him out.

The sound of a glass rustling behind him draws his attention, the man he had knocked into the display was on his feet again. He has something in his hand that catches the vigilante’s attention, three small balls.

“Fuck no,” Satoru grabs the pellets by shooting webs again. “Not falling for this again.”

He lunges to the wall behind the man, psyching him out when he kicks off the wall and practically tackles the man to the ground.

“Not in the mood to get to know you,” Satoru frowns, his boot on the side of the man’s neck. “Where’s Jogo? And who gave you this?”

He hold up the pellets of gas, the stare of whitened eyes through his mask are enough to terrify the man.

“Please! I don’t know where Jogo is! I was just instructed to make this hit!” the man chokes out. “I got these through the—the lady we got that makes these—her name is Hanami—she works in a lab somewhere—we don’t know where. She has someone drop them off and she tells us where after the drop’s been made but—”

“You’re not telling me what I need,” Satoru steps down on the man’s throat harder.

“I—I can tell you where she gets her stuff from! In fact, I heard from somewhere that she’s got a guy on the inside getting her the goods. It’s at Myrtec Chemicals—one of her guys told me there’s a drop happening later tonight!”

“Thanks,” Satoru lifelessly smiles, kicking the man unconscious.

Shivering behind a wall of crates is not how you expect to be spending your Friday night. What you envisioned after a long night of studying was curling up with some popcorn and other snacks to watch a nice movie.

Most certainly not a group of men talking about people they are planning to kill.

“Man, I fucking hate the captain,” one spews. “I’d love to rip his heart out of his chest if I ever got the chance.”

You cover your mouth, trying to contain your gasp. The suspicion that Satoru may be involved with these men is tearing you apart. You haven’t seen or heard him in the last twenty minutes you’ve been here.

Standing outside the wired fence of Myrtec Chemicals is not how you want to go out. So slipping out now makes sense. You needed to make sure Satoru wasn’t linked to these guys and there’s been no sign of his loudmouth anywhere.

As you shift to run off as fast as you can so you can get to the bus stop at the edge of the next street, you accidentally bump your elbow into one of the big crates. A dull yet prominent thud reverberates through the air.

Fuck.

“What the fuck!”

“Someone’s here?”

“Who’s there?”

You know once again you’re cornered. Why must you test your luck so often? How on earth will you get out of this one?

“Hey! You!” a man is looking around the pile of crates, eyes landing on you.

You make a run for it but he grabs you—as expected. You cinch your eyes shut and a loud whoosh over your heads shoots through the air.

No way.

“Hey! Hands off her!”

The voice is hauntingly familiar. So is that black and white suit and that emblem of blue across his chest. That glowing spider—hope.

Spiderman leaps at the man that had grabbed you, striking him across the face. The other men shout out, rushing to grab their weapons, all the while the great Spiderman is making haste to scoop you into his arms.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry about this.”

“That’s okay, been wondering about you for a while,” he says with ease, then he leaps and you scream out, not realizing you’re on top of a small security tower. “Stay put here, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod seeing the thumbs up he gives you as he falls backwards to the ground, flipping straight back into action.

You watch as he takes down the remaining men, but the fascination to him isn’t all that you think about. You’re trying to pinpoint that voice—that cadence and rhythm in it. It sounds an awful lot like—

“How’d you end up here?” the vigilante is hanging upside down by a web in front of you, attached to the top of the watch tower’s antenna structure.

You blink, retracting in place, “I thought my friend might be here, but I might’ve been wrong. I was just worried.”

“You get into trouble pretty often, don’t you?” he chuckles, still upside down.

That thought invades your mind again—his voice sounds too much like his. There’s no way. There’s just no way.

“Sorry about that,” you shake your head.

“Why’d you think he’d be here?” the man tilts his head.

“They’re using a chemical, aren’t they? Those thugs?” you quiz. “They’re using it on people when they ransack places like banks and jewelry stores. I analyzed the particles and managed to isolate where certain specialized compounds can be mixed and it traced back here. Thought I’d check it out.”

Satoru’s suspended in the air, his state of mind matches his physical state. Speechless, he does nothing but stare.

“Ugh, God, why are you so stupid for someone so smart?” he groans.

“Excuse me?” you quickly pipe, taking a step back as he lowers onto the tower’s rail with you.

His arm slips around you, and he murmurs, “You could’ve gotten really hurt. This was a very dumb thing to do.”

“I know that but . . .”

“Why’d you have to come, huh? You care about that guy or something?” he asks, shooting out a web to another building.

“Yeah, or something,” you quietly say, eyes on him. Your suspicion as to who is behind the mask is starting to piece together and you aren’t sure whether you should comment on it or not. “Wanted to make sure he was okay.”

He can’t even face you. Do you even know what you’re saying? He wants to chalk it up to delusion but a mind as sharp as yours can’t be subject to something so petty as delusion.

When your arms slip around his neck, you stare at him and you can practically see through him.

“Hold on as—” Satoru begins.

“As tight as I can, I know,” you finish, not even being as terrified as you were the first time he web slung you through the streets of New York.

He stops at the top of a building, one far too high above the ground. That is when you realize you aren’t on top of any old building at all. You gawk from this point, the highest point of New York’s famous Vessel.

You look down, overlooking the Hudson Yard and seeing that the structure is closed to the public due to how late in the evening it is.

“I’ve never actually been here before,” you marvel at the sight. “It’s beautiful.”

“Hm, it is,” Satoru mumbles, staring at your wonder-stricken eyes.

At the sound of his voice you turn slowly, facing him, “Thank you for saving me. Again.”

“Nothing to it,” he replies, his tone hinting at a smile you can’t see. “Think I might’ve chipped a nail back there.”

Your eyes flit over him, head to toe. While your eyes stay by his feet, you say, “I want to take off your mask.”

“That defeats the whole purpose of it,” Satoru states. “Then you’d see my face. It defeats the sense of mystery too when you find out who I am.”

“I think I already know,” your eyes settle back on the white blank eyes of the mask, wanting to see the blue you’d been thinking far too much about.

Satoru’s stunned silence screams over how you move toward him. Your searing palms set on his chest, he feels like he’s being scorched to ash with how close you are.

He makes no effort to move away or tell you to stop. He swallows his inhibitions when your hands hesitantly slide up his chest to the base of his neck. The tips of your fingers caress his collarbone and neck till they tug at the edge of his mask.

Satoru knows he should tell you that he can’t let you see but he wants it so bad at the same time.

That’s why he watches with withheld breaths when you inch your way as your pull up the mask, slowly.

The pale of his moonlit skin exposes itself to you while you gently tear the mask further up. His chin peeks out, the sharp cut of his jaw, then you see his soft lips, the ones you want to just lean in and kiss so damn bad.

So you do and he knows he’d be stupid to stop you this time around. Your mouth feathers over his before you finally press onto him. Your lips meet his, buttery soft, warming your cold ones by a single touch.

He kisses you back softly but you back away, his head following your back before you part lips. He gazes at you as you cradle the lower half of his face, easing him into letting you take the mask off further.

You pull it back more, seeing that pointed nose of his you were accustomed to watching crinkle as he smiled. Then you finally pull them away from his eyes and his hair. You aren’t so surprised anymore, not as much as you should be at least.

That snowy white hair, like a fresh fleet of ice had poured onto his head ever so lovingly. Then those eyes, God those eyes. The shimmering blue that twinkled so brilliantly in the amber light, the eyes you feel like you’re seeing for the first time without any pair of glasses or masks in the way.

For once, you are the one smiling and he’s left with a somnolescent look on his face, like he could fall over at any moment. His eyes are half-lidded, fixed on your eyes and fleeting down to your lips without any sign of subtly.

He bends his neck down, capturing your lips in his again before slipping his arm around you and his free hand to your face. Now even if you wanted to move away, you couldn’t. Key word ‘if’.

You feel the way he softly inhales from his nose, breathing in like he’s breathing you in. He’s gentle and yearning, like he’s wanted this for a long time.

He presses his lips a little harder, and you can’t help the little sigh you let out. If you were in this situation two weeks ago, you’d be running around flipping your lid at the revelation that Satoru Gojo was the Spiderman. Except now, that mattered slightly less to you.

You both pull away by a hair, noses grazing one another’s as you gaze into each other’s eyes. You pull back a little more to see his face in its entirety. A fallen angel.

The little fidget of your smile as you decide whether to smile or not is enough to have him take the lead and smile anyway.

“So you did want to kiss me,” you say cheekily, eyes glistening from the city lights, the winter air pinching your nose and cheeks.

“Yes, dummy,” Satoru responds with a quiet nuance of hilarity. His gloved hand remains on your face, his thumb pressing down on your chin.

Tipping your chin down, your mouth opens. The cool air of the night blends in with Satoru’s warm breath, swirling in a strangely comforting breath, one that bore escape.

He pushes his tongue into your mouth, doing his best to taste every bit of you because he missed the chance for far too many years. Here, there is no police captain father to rush in, no thug or criminal to interrupt, no man that could touch you. Other than him of course.

You taste like peppermint, like what he would envision a warm and loving Christmas with family to be like. He wants more—he needs more.

Your tongues twirl in tandem, pace still slow but you each feel a growing desire crushing on your souls. It’s heavy and bone rattling, enough that he pulls back to shake himself out of it.

“I should take you back home—your parents—”

“Dad’s going to be out all night with that heist and Mom drank too much wine at dinner and my brothers and sister aren’t going to say anything about me not being home,” you’re quick to arbitrate. “I’m a little cold though.”

“I can see that,” he laughs as you shiver, the frosty air intermingling with his warm breath to create a translucent fog. “I—I don’t wanna sound like I’m rushing but you can come home with me to my place. I can explain everything there.”

You press your tongue in between your teeth in thought before you grin, “Let’s go.”

You help put on his mask when he cranes his neck down to you. He grabs you and you know the drill, hold on tight and do not, under any circumstances, let go.

He’s swung you through the entire city again and you take the time to enjoy, this time trusting him without a shadow of a doubt. The city looks pretty from his view, you count yourself grateful to get a glimpse of that, and that he has shared this special thing with you.

He stops outside a half open window on the side of an apartment building, he helps you through the ledge, safely getting you inside. You take a few steps back and watch him crawl inside, dropping to the floor with the agility of a cat.

“I can’t believe I’m seeing this,” you say softly. “I can’t believe I kissed Spiderman. I can’t believe I kissed you actually. That’s crazier to me.”

Satoru tears the mask from his head, his hair all disheveled fell into his eyes, “That’s crazier to you? That you made out with me not that I saved your ass again?”

“Shut up,” you narrow your eyes, looking around. “This is where you live, huh?”

“Mhm,” Satoru answers, watching you. “So you looked into that liquid again. Why did you come all the way to that place? That was very dangerous. And very very stupid. You really came all that way because of me?”

You face him, the air still coolly frosting at the shell of your ears, “I thought you might’ve been involved with those guys at first but based on our conversations, I assumed that maybe you were trying to play hero.”

“And you showed up and realized I was,” Satoru peers down at you. “Idiot.”

“Hey, if I was an idiot, I never would’ve been there in the first place,” you jab your pointer finger straight into his chest. He lets out an exaggerated and overdramatic cough, clutching his heart as if you did serious damage. “Seriously, Satoru, I get why you couldn’t tell me but . . . were you planning on not being near me to protect that secret?”

He stills, the smile vanishing from his face. His icy hair falls over his equally icy irises, bottom lip pushing ever so lightly into his top one in a small frown.

“I didn’t mean to push you away. I tried to stop myself from being close to you—that day you were late was my fault,” he shakes his head, eyes wide.

“But you still saved me,” you justify.

“But you wouldn’t be there in the first place if it weren’t for me,” he counters quickly.

You lower your eyes, “I have a mind, you know? I can say ‘no’, and I can make my own choices. Staying to help you was my choice. And I don’t regret it.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, lights darkened in his apartment. The only thing illuminating the space is the moon, its incandescent glow spilling into the room as if it were sneaking in secrets.

Shining down on your clandestine meeting, you each are inching closer, lips feathering over one another’s before he can’t take it anymore and kisses you.

His hands thread through your hair, his fingers interlinking at the nape of your neck, pushing you against him. He’s kissing you like he wants to breathe you in, like you’re the air that needs to be in his lungs.

You let your tongue slide across his bottom lip, easing it into his mouth. You lap inside his mouth, exploring every bit that your muscle can physically reach, intertwining with his.

Feverishly, you keep kissing each other, and it simply isn’t enough. Panting like starved dogs, you want to whisper to him to take you to his room but it feels too far—and your mind is running in circles right now.

Between kisses, you reach back, shedding your coat and kicking your boots off. Fuck, why is it always so cold in New York? Couldn’t it be summer, so you had less layers to shed?

He’s reeling you back in every time your lips leave his for even a moment. Taking yourself away from him for even a split second is cruel to him, worse than battling a group of mutants as Spiderman.

Satoru appreciates your enthusiasm and your forwardness, considering he’s not as experienced as he’d like to be for you. Hey, it’s hard to date as a superhero. He just prays it’s not too obvious

Your hands are busy unbuttoning your pants as he backs you into the backrest of the couch, not as coordinated as he hopes. He is not all that concerned clearly because you find yourself on your back on his couch, him hovering over you, lips not leaving yours for even a slight moment.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he breathes, his hips in between your parted legs. “I can’t believe my luck right now.”

“You’re such a dork—” you begin to joke before he rolls his hips against you, that tent in his pants prods at the heat between your thighs and you gasp out in pure shock and thirst.

Your eyes widen when they shoot down between your bodies, seeing that prominent bulge at the front of his pants, so obviously emphasized in that tight suit of his. How had you missed that before?

“What was that?” Satoru teases, eyelids bonneting over his irises seductively, a coy smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth.

He tries to hide just how painfully hard he is but now he understands there’s no use. After all, he can still play with your head a bit—just a bit.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist.

And his lips are on yours again, swallowing in your gasps and vice versa. All the while, he ruts his hips against you, grinding and dry humping like two pathetic teenagers.

Each time he rolls his hips into you, you moan, humming into his mouth shakily. He’s taking each sound in with pride, he can hardly believe he’s drawing out noises like that from you, miss put together. His lips trek down your jaw, peppering kisses as he makes his way down your neck, a smile curling at his lips.

With hazy eyes, you let your hands skirt at his abdomen, trying to tug at the fabric at his waist, “How the fuck do you get this thing off?”

“You’re supposed to buy me dinner before you see me undressed, you know?” he chuckles against your jaw.

“Ha ha, very funny. Now take your suit off—I don’t want to play any more games,” you plead, your tone dwindles towards something most would call pathetic, but he knows better than to make that mistake. “Please, I just want you.”

Okay, maybe he’s wrong.

He doesn’t have the heart to wait any longer either. The command is clear in his mind, tear the suit off, but his fumbling hands make the effort stretch beyond eternity.

While he is busy with the strenuous task of undressing, you decide to get yours over with. With the desire to stop, go slow, take it all in, each of you are still keeping your eyes on each other—listening to the other’s breaths, taking in the sight of the other’s skin unveiling itself bit by bit. 

As ceremoniously as one could in a moment like this, you discard your top and kick off your pants. You regret the split second you look away because when you look back at him, his shirt is gone.

The spider suit has a variant of features, all that aid in the never-ending trade of fighting crime. That suit also serves justice to whoever it may be underneath it, but fuck it underscored just how beautiful Satoru’s body is.

In the dim light, you make out his chiseled abs, how his shoulder blades are sculpted like an artist spent every drop of sweat, blood, and tears into defining them. How those broad shoulders seamlessly crown the defined muscles of his biceps. Your eyes trail down his arms to his forearms, veiny and working to take off his pants.

That’s when your focus shifts to his chest once more. The plains of his torso display his corded abs.

And you’re counting. Five—six—seven—eight—For someone so rambunctious, he sure fails to flaunt his perfect eight-packed figure.

Your eyes lock in on his lower abdomen, how his waist his much narrower in comparison to the width of his shoulders. His hips hollow out as they carve out a defined line, trailing down between his legs.

Temptation is close to getting the best of you when you realize he’s been frozen in place for half a minute now. Shooting your attention back up to his lustful gaze, you’re suddenly hyperaware of the circumstance of you only in your bra and underwear.

“You’re staring,” you warn with a sharp look.

“Mm—and you weren’t?” he returns the same expression, smugly lowering to kiss you once more.

Any argument you wish to spew are revoked the second his lips are on yours again. Satoru’s hands roam your body. Despite the freezing cold of the winter, his fingertips are piping hot, searing your skin wherever they touch. Your hips, your waists, your face, your breasts, your thighs.

Those lithe fingers slide down your side, around your back and where the clasp of your bra is. And you want to giggle at how he’s struggling to get it unhooked.

“Need help?” you grin, leaning on your elbows.

“Shut up—I got it,” he grunts out. He doesn’t have it in him to admit that he’s suddenly registering the fact that it’s you. You’re the one underneath him right now. It’s your body he can’t believe looks this perfect.

His breaths stops when he manages to tear off that stupid bra from you, your fingers toying with the waistband of his underwear.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Hm?” you hum interrogatively, being cut off when he dives down. “Satoru—ah—”

He buries his face in the valley of your chest, kissing you harshly while making his way to your exposed nipples. He latches his mouth over one and your chest nearly caves in. A moan slips from your mouth, hands at the back of his head, curling in his hair while he sucks your tits so lasciviously.

“Fuck—Satoru—ah,” you try to keep your eyes on him but find yourself cinching them shut anyway.

“You sound so cute saying my name like that,” he gasps out, tongue flicking over your pert nipple, and hand massaging at the mound he’s left alone.

Chills dissipate over your arms and legs, causing you to let out shivers. Shivers that could be a mixed response of the cold air and at the sensation of his mouth sucking you.

Satoru begins to lower himself, trailing kisses down your stomach as he goes. He doesn’t stop when he reaches the waistline of your panties. His lips press on top of the cloth, over your pussy, his fingers curl into the waistband at your hips.

His eyes flick up to yours, a smile on his pretty lips as he takes in your expression, pure desire stitched in every crevice of your face.

He pulls down your panties, eyes fixed between your legs like he was seeing the holy grail itself. His mouth is watering at the sight before him. He can’t believe that after years and years of knowing you, this is the outcome. All the competition, the annoyed glances, quick remarks, all boiled down to this very moment. With you spread out underneath him like a slut.

“Fuck me,” he groans out, tossing your underwear to the side. He lifts your left leg, kissing your ankle and trekking his way up your leg. When he reaches your thigh, his tongue begins to playfully drag across your skin. “Mmm.”

With shaky breaths, you watch him get close and closer but then he stops. He mulls over every form of research he’s ever done. He knows if he puts his mind to it he can please you, he just needs a second to reel himself in. Quite unlike him.

You watch him carefully, seeing how his smile faded and how he’s swallowing down dry lumps. There’s a flush in his face that isn’t something you’ve seen before. Is he . . . nervous?

Your hands shift down, cupping his face. At the endearing action, his heart quivers, as do his eyes. That’s when his jaw slacks, tongue lolling out and licking up your pussy.

You suck in a fragmented breath, fingers trembling when he smiles again and does it again. The saliva on his tongue drips down from the tip of his muscle, dribbling straight down to your slit.

“Do you always get this wet around me?” he has a smile painted on his face that is reaching his ears.

“Can you for once put your mouth to good use?” you whisper back sharply, earning a deep chuckle from his as he lowers his face between your legs again.

Eagerly, he swipes a long languid lick from the bottom of your pussy to the top, milking out his spit as well as your arousal. His arms easily slip around your thighs as he now buries his face, lapping at your cunt like a starved animal.

A loud moan rips straight from your throat, you toss your head back from the sheer intensity. And you can’t help but cry out like that again, feeling his tongue circling over your clit over and over.

When he hears a rather high-pitched cry leave you, his chest swells with pride. He isn’t sure what he was so nervous about. He just can’t believe he’s the one making you feel this good—or you’re the one he’s ever had a moment of weakness like that for.

Tilting his head to the side, he angles his tongue. Licking, sucking slurping your cunt, he’s producing the lewdest of noises, getting absolutely high off your taste.

“Oh my god!” you whine, now rolling your hips on his face, fingers tugging his hair and digging at his scalp. “Do that again.”

“What? This?” Satoru feigns innocence, flicking his tongue repeatedly and quickly over your clit, teasing you.

You almost let a scream burst from you, slapping your palm over your mouth as he teases you. It dawns on you then that those blue eyes looking up at you, are the same very ones you took so long to truly see. He’s not in his glasses but that sight between your legs would’ve been just as gorgeous too.

His hands grip your thighs, pushing them closer to your chest. His jaw unhinges like he’s eating a meal, nose rubbing against your puffy clit as he feels himself become impossibly and painfully harder that he could cum right then and there.

Goosebumps ripple over your body, every cell in your body short circuiting. His fingers dig into your flesh in a bruising grip. With another wanton tug at his hair, he slips out a nasty moan, eyes deliriously rolling to the back of his head.

There’s a sense of greed in the way he’s eating you out. Hunger and lust intertwine together in his movements, he can’t get enough.

His hand comes down between your thighs, fingers swiping over your clit.

Your back is arching off the couch, loud and shameless cries escape you one after the other with no end in sight. With your vision beginning to blur like a flock of clouds rolling in before a storm, you feel a white-hot heat between your legs.

Your eyes flicker towards his face below you. His eyes were shut and his brows your furrowed adorably in concentration. His hair fell in soft tufts and his jaw and tongue are moving in ways you would never have fathomed to see before. Needless to say, he is so fucking sexy.

Feverishly rocking your hips as best you can to meet his insatiable mouth, you know your orgasm is closing in. Every piece of your being is only focused on this immense pleasure and straining to get to the peak point it so desperately needs.

He sees you becoming more and more restless, your legs shake more and your fingers tug harsher at his scalp. The way you’re practically screaming tells him all he needs to know, you are right there.

You scream when it hits you like a freight train. You’re cumming right on his tongue and gushing down his mouth. By no means does that indicate he is stopping though. He continues his motions through your orgasm, not daring to stop till you were done.

Free falling from a great height, you’re whining, clawing at his hair, his shoulders, anything. Pushing him away because of how criminally intense the feeling is. He stays right there, undeterred by your efforts to get him away from you.

Your eyes stay shut but your mouth hangs open, long and drained breaths filling the air. Satoru raises his head, “So fucking messy—I find it hard to believe you haven’t always had the hots for me.”

Meanwhile, you still are reeling in your post-orgasm state, chest rising and falling. Your eyes shift to Satoru straightening up, expanding his posture.

“You okay?” he says, devious tones underlying in his voice. Sincerity had flown out the window.

You respond halfheartedly anyway, “Mhm.”

You slowly move to sit up, biting your lip to ground yourself. Despite your head feeling as weighty as a boulder, you hold yourself up. Your hands reach for his briefs, fingers hooking into the waistband and tugging at them.

“Woah—someone’s impatient,” he chuckles.

“We both know you’d prefer this over anything else,” you say with a daunting lilt of your head.

“That might be true but—” he sucks in a sharp breath when your hand grazes over the precum soaked bulge in his briefs. “Holy fuck.”

Hearing his exasperated breaths draw a smile from you, urging your hands to tug his underwear down and freeing—no way.

No Fucking Way.

Judging by your reaction, Gojo understands through and through that you were expecting much less from him.

It isn’t like you expecting so much less, but you weren’t expecting so fucking much. A dire mistake on your end.

It’s monstrous, big enough that if you wrapped both palms around it, there’d still be uncovered length left. You tilt your head in awe, eyeing the slight curve in it. How his pale skin underneath doesn’t overmine the flush in his tip, the white precum seeding at the opening of it.

“Something the matter?” Gojo flatly whispers, fully aware of how long you’re staring. But by no means is he feeling the heat of it.

“No,” you quickly glance up at him, unblinking.

“Uh huh,” he accepts disbelievingly, a cocky smirk on his face.

You lean forward, wrapping your palm around it. You give it a few precautionary pumps, almost as if you’re petting a wild beast, hoping to tame it. When you hear the reaction it elicits from Satoru, you can’t help but fixate on his face.

His brows knit together and his mouth drops, heavy breaths escaping him. Not only that, but you feel it. You feel the way his dick practically jumps in your hand, sensitive to your touch yet wanting more.

Your chest swells with pleasure, letting your hand feel just what he has to offer. You can feel the ridges in it, the way his veins ran thick, pulsating in your hand.

“If I knew this was the most effective way to get you to shut up, I would’ve done it a long time ago,” you murmur, half-lidded eyes on his twitching face.

“Ngghh—Ahh—Shut up,” he shudders, one hand gripping the backrest of the couch, and the other reaching across his stomach, a feeble hope to ground himself.

“Why should I?” you tease, tugging at his dick as you begin sinking further down on your knees, eye leveled with his waist. “I like hearing you like this a lot more, Satoru.”

And just as you’re about to drag your tongue along the tip of his dick, something within him snaps. He shivers, grabbing you by the back of the head and pulling you to his lips. A soft moan slips from his mouth into yours.

“I don’t think I can wait any longer,” he breathes between kisses. “—I gotta be inside ya.”

Just then, you practically feel a second heartbeat between your thighs. There is no argument in the world that you could use to refute him. All you do is nod dumbly, giving yourself up to him.

He pushes you down, your back falling against the couch cushions beneath you. Satoru hovers over you, staring down at your face, truly studying it. His gaze flicks down when yours does too, to where your fist covers his shaft.

He shudders pathetically when your hand moves along his dick, pumping it impatiently. He notes the clear enthusiasm it elicits from you, how your body curves into him from how horny you were.

Satoru’s own hand reaches for his cock, jerking it slowly before he drags the tip up and down between your folds, gliding over your quivering hole enough to tease it but not give it what it craves so desperately.

You whine, feverishly bucking your hips up into his dick, hoping he takes pity and gives you what you want.

He chuckles darkly, “So needy.”

He slaps his tip against your clit and you gasp, legs jolting at the feeling. It is more than clear he enjoyed pulling a response like that from you, so he does it again. And when you jerk in place like that once more, he sadistically laughs in a way that you wouldn’t believe he’s a hero at all.

“Look at it when I put it in,” he quickly pecks your jaw.

You hesitantly look down, seeing how he coats his cock with all your arousal mixed with your cum. A little huff drips from your lips, watching how his thumb swipes over his tip, a little wet sound stringing as he fists his heavy dick.

While he aligns his cock with the opening of your pussy, your right hand flies to his left forearm and your left hand curls around one of the couch cushions.

He begins pushing it in, grunting as the softness of your walls cling to his tip, threatening to suck him in. Your jaw drops, choppy breaths falling one after the other at how it feels like he’s splitting you open.

“Shit,” he chokes, his hair tickling your face with how close he is. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your fingers tremble the further he pushes in. Your pussy wraps around him so deliciously that he has to remind himself to practice restraint—for your sake. Ever the hero, Satoru Gojo.

Your breath stops, realizing he has way more left to go when you spare a painful glance down. He isn’t even halfway in yet.

“Fuck—Satoru, you’re too big—it won’t fit,” you push at his abdomen, teary eyed.

“Then we’ll make it fit, baby,” he coos, swatting your hand away. “Nothing to worry about.”

When someone tells you not to worry, you learn, it is entirely appropriate to in fact, worry.

He angles himself to sink into you, glancing down between each of your bodies and up at your face, seeing your face contort into a pained yet pleasured expression. The more you become acquainted with his shape, the more it begins to feel good.

When he ruts himself against you, you let out a sharp squeal, clinging onto him. Your eyes feel like they are about to burst from their very sockets, in an almost cartoonish sense.

He watches you, a smirk on his restless face. He draws his hips back and jams them back into you.

“Oh fuck!” you cry, a crease forming between your brows.

“Aw, you look so cute,” he smiles, taking a breath to wince at just how snugly set he is inside you. “All the other guys at school would want to fucking kill me to get to have a sight like this.”

“You talk too much,” you shake your head, reaching up to grab his jaw.

“And you love it,” he pulls himself out till only his tip rests inside you, then he drives his cock back in you, stringing a shriek from you. He begins doing it repeatedly, thrusting in and out of you.

At first his pace is slow yet precise, the tip of his cock prodding so far inside you, you feel it kissing your cervix. Then he decides it’s better to make you work for it before he gives you his all.

His quickens his pace, his thrusts rough and catching you off guard with each one. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles hooking behind him and toes pointing tautly.

“I’m beginning to think you go looking for trouble just to get the Spiderman to ruin you like this,” he accentuates his point with a well-meaning thrust.

The sounds filling the air are beyond your wildest dirtiest dreams. The sound of his heavy breathing is like music to your ears, just the way your moans are to his. The lewd noises of pap pap pap ofhis balls hitting your ass mix with the squelch of his cock drilling into your wet cunt.

The feeling of him on top of you—inside you, is something you can’t even comprehend the perfection in. Every inch of your body just feels so fucking good that you feel yourself teetering on the edge of delusion.

Your hands make their way up to the base of his neck, your fingers loosely intertwine behind his head. You moan again, letting your fingertips scratch at the back of his head.

Satoru pumps himself in and out of you. He can’t even help it—it’s like his body has a mind of its own. And now, he’s trying to have at least some form of restraint, trying his utmost best to not cum. It isn’t like you’re making anything easier on him.

He nearly falls apart when you pull his mouth to yours, gasping adorably as you let your tongue meet his. You’re sharing the same air at this point, and he fucking loves it.

You feel like you could cum at any given moment. You fixate on that feeling, realizing that you haven’t had time to yourself at all in the last few months. Certainly not enough time for a man to make you cum, let alone give yourself the time to do so.

Now though, you come to the understanding you were deprived. Satoru is giving you just what you needed after so long.

He knows that if his mouth stays on yours, he doesn’t have a fighting chance. So he parts from you, holding himself up by his arms and fucking you even harder.

Your hands jump to his biceps, whining as you do so. All the while, he soaks in your appearance. Your fucked out face, the way your tits are bouncing with every one of his strokes, and the way his cock is slipping so easily in and out of you.

When he suddenly pulls out of you completely, you hardly have beyond a second to realize he’s flipping you over. Your arms rest on the arm rest of the couch, while he adjusts your hips, getting you on your knees.

You turn your head over your shoulder, seeing his big strong hands spreading your ass, spitting down between your legs. You shudder, nose crinkling at the feeling of his spit dripping down to your pussy.

He then slides his dick between your folds again, coating it before he, without warning slips back into you.

He doesn’t ease into it like he did before at all. He has a quick, relentless pace from the get-go. His dick moves inside you like it wants to blend into your body, or perhaps go so far inside you that you feel him in your throat.

With this new position, you feel him prodding deeper than before. Your walls suck him in, helping the tip of his length brushing your cervix, this time at a higher intensity.

He angles his strokes better when his hands grip into your hips. With every lust driven thrust, you feel his fingers dig into your flesh even more. You’re more than certain it will leave a mark that you’ll be seeing for days.

“Fuck me,” Satoru breathlessly laughs. “You’re being such a good girl for me. You feel good?”

“So—so fucking good,” your eyes are closed, nails digging into the plush of his couch. “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he darkly mutters.

He ruts himself into your pussy again, feeling the warmth that he never wants to ever part from. He clenches his jaw, trying to ground himself in the smallest way possible at the very least.

His pelvis slams against your ass with great fervor, over and over again. Your heads drops pathetically, forehead against the armrest as you jolt forward . . . forward . . . forward. Your shoulders blades contract, back arching and creating a beautiful crease down your spine.

While he’s fucking you, a part of him wants to bend down and lick up that expanse of skin. Right where the spokes of your spine take shape. Then his eyes fix on the way your ass meets his skin and he does not dare tear his gaze away.

“Mmm shit, baby,” Satoru throws his head back deliriously. “Sucking my cock in so fucking nice.”

Then he rocks his hips against you so zealously that the angle he’s at elicits a loud scream from you. Your body falls forward, knees shaking.

“Oh?” Satoru comes to a grinding halt. “Did I find something?”

He draws himself back and drives himself straight into your pussy again, realigning himself to hit that same spot again.

When you choke out a sob, he grins, “Looks like I have.”

You spare another glance behind you, meeting eyes with that complacent expression on his face. His strokes are quick, deep, and precise, skimming at your g spot just right.

“Oh my god,” you cry, arms and legs shaking. A familiar heat stirs in your core, an iron searing heat. One that feels much more intense than anything you’ve ever experienced before.

You look back again, seeing how Satoru’s washboard abs are glistening with a beautiful moonlit sheen. He throws his head back and you spy the way his jaw hangs when he moans.

Your trembling legs are on the verge of giving out and he feels your pussy clenching. He knows you’re on the edge. He hovers over you, his chest pressing against your back as his hand swirls your sensitive clit in circles.

His senses are clouding, vision blurring just as yours is. Every muscle in your body tightens without any direction, moving at their own accord. A million little tingles flurry over your body like blizzards.

Your throat is drying out from the sheer amount of stamina stringing out of you. And you weren’t even doing any of the work.

Your cunt tightens around him, clamping down on him. His ministrations on your clit get you right where he wants you, cumming like a whore on his dick.

You cry out, body spasming like you no longer have any control over it. You’re writhing beneath him, spilling the sweetest of moans that are going straight to his head.

“Yeah, baby, come on. You got this,” he’s whispering encouragingly in your ear, lips brushing against your helix. “Ah—ah—yeah, just like that.”

Stars stipple across the night sky of your vision. All flickering on and off as if children are playing with light switches in an empty house. Any rational thought flies out of your mind, all you can focus on is this feeling, ardent as a flame.

Satoru’s pace comes to a stop, hands slowing on your nub as he backs away. He chuckles as you slump into the couch, watching you catch your breath.

Once you do, you get back on your knees, turning to face him. He looks as if he’s about to spew some condescending rhetoric but you push him so he’s now seated.

“Your turn,” you say hoarsely, taking your place on his lap.

He surprisingly has nothing to say. Or perhaps he does but his tongue fails him quite severely in that moment.

You straddle his hips with your thighs, sitting up straight in his lap. Your arms are slung around his neck and he finds it so sexy the way one of your hands reach down to put his dick back in you.

As you sink down on his cock, both your mouths fall open, eyes on each other’s. Your arms are slung across his shoulders as you look him dead in the eye and bottom out. You softly whimper but fuck, the whimper that escapes him is worth more than any currency.

His brows pinch and nose scrunches, his pretty lips fall into a pout. One that you want to kiss off his lips so bad. His hands are on your ass, pathetically trying to guide you to go faster and move at the very least. And you do, but the speed you move at is far from fast.

You lift your hips up, and then slam yourself down, earning a strangled gasp from him. You do it again, eliciting the same reaction. Your arms slide down till your hands are at the nape of his neck, feeling the scruff of his undercut.

He moans again, this time wrapping his strong arms around your back and letting you take the reigns completely. He watches the way your cunt sheathes down on his cock repeatedly, your hair in your dazed eyes and all.

As you ride him, he can’t steer his eyes away from any part of you at all, especially your tits bouncing in front of his face. He can’t even help leaning forward ever so slightly, wrapping his mouth around your nipple, hoping it stifles his moans.

You let out a raspy cry, feeling the way his tongue flicks over your bud. His prior hope of suppressing moans is all but futile for you can hear how his heavy breaths spiral into pitchy whines.

Your hips gyrate, rolling against him and he’s already been edging himself to prolong his orgasm but now he knows he’s done for. His dick twitches, and he lets go of your nipple with a pop.

His hands come to rest on your thighs and he looks up at you darkly, “You on birth control?”

Your nails scratch tenderly over his nape again, you bite down on your lip and nod.

“Good,” he simply mutters.

He lets out a choppy moan again, eyes hooded and breaths heavy. His cock twitches inside you again, and with one final plunge in you he’s fallen completely apart. “Fuck—"

His cum spurts inside your pussy, ropes of white liquid shoot in you. The warmth of it invaded your space, hurtling deep in you before it begins leaking out of where the two of you are connected.

Shakily, you breathe as you look down, feeling his seed dripping down your thigh. You take a moment to breath, watching him come down from his high as well.

You both heave heavily, catching elusive breaths. Each of you slowly trail your eyes up at each other, staring for a moment before you both break into laughter.

He rubs his hands over your thighs, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you smile, tilting your head unconsciously. You flick your gaze over his face, seeing the damp mess his hair is now, sweaty and clinging to his skin. His eyes still have that wintered glimmer. A smile rests on his lips too.

“Can I ask you something?” you quiz.

“Shoot.” Ironic pun.

“Is the reason you’ve been getting under my skin a lot because you had a crush on me?” you ask.

“What? No,” he scoffs, hands on your hips. You cock a suspicious brow, your hands loosely skimming his neck. “You’re crazy.”

“Uh huh,” you nod sarcastically.

“You hungry?” he asks, raising his brows.

“Oh, like crazy,” you breath.

He grins, “Let me order something and I’ll get you cleaned up. Now where’s my phone?”

He stands up, carrying you easily with one arm as he reaches for his phone on the floor. You squeal, tightening your grip on him. “Satoru!”

He pays no mind as he’s already halfway through punching in his pizza order, “Hmm, how do you feel about stuffed cheesy bread?”

“I could go for it, yeah,” you say.

“Great. Done,” he clicks, a satisfied bliss on his face.

“You know have a lot of explaining to do, right?” you remind him.

“You don’t think I know that?” he scoffs airily. “I’d be pretty dumb to forget that with you badgering me around all the time.”

You open your mouth to argue and he laughs, “Kidding! I’ll tell you everything—I swear. Let’s get you cleaned up first. Food should be here by then so I’ll explain while we eat.”

“Okay, but I like hot showers—if you put me under cold water I’m feeding you to that mutant lizard thing on the news,” you warn as he carries you off into the bathroom.

“Oh—I wouldn’t dream of it,” Satoru says. “Besides, can’t take that risk. The city needs me.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you choose to keep your sarcastic remark to yourself. Instead, you lean your head against his shoulder, letting him whisk you away.

hope you guys enjoyed as much as i enjoyed writing this!! likes and reblogs are appreciated!!!