The mission in space was every physics teacher's wet dream. And yet, when you found yourself alone on a spaceship, dread filled your mind. Fortunately, it turned out you weren’t quite alone. As a weird creature you’ve met by accident seemed to be quite happy in helping you finish a mission and keep a warm company.
𖥔 ݁ ˖pairing: ꒰ Alien!Gojo Satoru x Physics teacher!Reader ꒱
𖥔 ݁ ˖content/warnings: ꒰ MDNI 18+ : fluff, fluff, fluff : also a bit of angst : mutual masturbation : use of sex toys : happy ending : women in stem, doomed to never being able to touch each other : prepare some tissues : space : aliens : Satoru is a brat in every universe : alien's D : mates and mentions of mating ꒱
𖥔 ݁ ˖WC: ꒰ 15k ꒱
𖥔 ݁ ˖ notes: This story is based on the movie Project Hail Mary. Shoutout to @indiewritesxoxo whose story The One That Got Away inspired me to write a space-based fanfic!
dividers by @diviniyae
art by daichichirou on tt
"Miss, what's the space like?" a little girl with round frames asked you once during the class.
What's the space like? You wondered for a moment, with similar glasses resting on your nose.
Little models of planets swirled under the ceiling, clashing against each other with warm beams of sunshine curling around their painted bodies. The classroom stilled with silence, heavy and curious, marked by a dozen little eyes glancing up your furrowed forehead.
"Unfathomed," slipped almost in a whisper. But the kids were too young to understand this word, so you tried again. "It's endless, deep, mesmerising, silent, like–"
"Like a night?" a boy from the first row asked, playing with the wooden spaceship, all the children in the class had just finished painting.
You chuckled, playing with your own little toy, brushing the little silver window with a thumb.
"Much, much quieter," the spaceship landed on your desk, right next to the little, soft ball painted like Earth. Your eyes shimmered as you looked around the class of a dozen munchkins. "What do you hear while sleeping?"
Something began to coil in their little Einstein heads, with soft foreheads furrowed in thought. A flicker of an idea – a spark, their young minds were yet to discover and nourish throughout their lives.
You watched them with a smile, something warm spreading beneath your chest. Not everyone was born to be a teacher, with the day-to-day tiring work of preparing materials for classes, conducting lessons and checking all the foolish assignments that neither you nor the children liked. The education system truly was a shit hole from the very first steps those young minds took.
"Miss, that's a silly question," a little girl without one front tooth giggled. "We can't hear anything while we're sleeping!"
You hummed softly as you picked up the small earth ball. It yielded gently beneath your fingers, and the woollen toy, crocheted by your mother herself, felt pleasantly soft against your skin.
The bell would ring soon, and the afternoon sun was high in the sky, creeping through the tall, clean windows into the small classroom. Summer break was almost here, and the sweltering heat lingered in the stuffy air, filled with children's coughs and soft breathing.
"Exactly," you said, sitting on the desk and tossing the ball into the air. "That's what space is like. You can't hear anything."
"But what if I close my ears?" another boy said, pressing his hands to them. "I can't hear anything now, miss!" he screamed, setting off a wave of sweet giggles from his classmates.
The small green ball flew his way, and the boy caught it in one hand, scowling. "Hey, miss, that's not fair!"
"That was not, I do admit," you slipped off the desk, walking around the classroom. All small pairs of eyes followed you like puppies. "But you see, in space, there would be no need to cover your ears, because there is no air or matter for sound to travel through. Even when you're sleeping, there's always something out there, right?" Your eyes met a few nodding Einsteins before drifting towards the window. "You can hear the crickets singing under your window and the wind swirling between the leaves. But in space, there's nothing. Simply an empty, endless realm stretching beyond our comprehension."
A few droplets of sweat coiled on your temple, and you quickly brushed them with a thumb. Glasses sat crookedly on your nose, hair slipped away from a pin-up, and so you pushed them behind your ear.
"Miss, the space sounds so scary," the girl with round frames sighed. "I don't want to be an astronaut anymore."
You chuckled, coming to the previous boy and stealing a soft lump of earth from his sticky fingers. "The space may feel lonesome if you're there alone. But now, astronauts usually go in groups." The ball landed back on your desk, brushing gently against the wooden spaceship. "But even if you were alone, I think the view would be worth the night spent in loneliness."
And as it would soon turn out, nothing was worth the years spent alone. On the huge spaceship, with endless darkness spreading across the little window and years spent somewhere doing God knows what.
"The sun is dying," the government envoy had said. "Can you help us save the world?"
She caught you right after one of the classes, with a half-empty cup of instant noodles and cheeks peppered with crimson chilli-oil kisses. Arrived with a tall, muscular man and a printout of the PhD dissertation, placing a copy on your messy desk.
Your forehead crinkled, eyes landed on a neat, Times New Roman formatted title, An Analysis of Water-Based Assumptions and Recalibration of Expectations.
"That's not mine," you mumbled, going back to the cup of noodles. You hadn't eaten anything for a whole day, and your stomach was already pressed against your spine, with hunger twisting your weary mind.
"That's your name, isn't it?" she said, pressing a neatly trimmed nail against the smaller letters beneath the title.
You didn't even spare her a glance and simply shook your head. "No, I think you've mistaken me for someone else."
Both she and the man sighed, rolling two small chairs from the children's desk to sit in front of yours. With eyes fixed on your face, grimacing in ignorance, and a few locks of hair slipping into the cup.
"I'm Yuki," she said, crossing her legs before looking at the man with the dullest, most bleary eyes you have ever seen. "And that's Choso. We're from a… well. Now you only need to know that we work for NASA."
And that meant one thing – trouble.
Seeing your utmost disinterest, she continued in a warm tone. "Listen, we know your dissertation was a fantastic breakthrough that the supervising committee didn't appreciate. But–"
"A small correction," you interrupted, with eyes still glued to an almost empty cup. "They did not not appreciate me, but completely failed me. My research was proven wrong, and I spent almost five years chasing something that was never there. So no, it wasn't a breakthrough or anything."
Her long fingers clenched into a fist, and a tongue nervously filled a creamy cheek. "Listen, in our current world situation, we believe that your research wasn't pointless. The hypothesis that life can exist without water–"
"Which was ultimately proven that it cannot," slipped in a whisper, gaze still following anything but those two.
"Right," she sighed, staying shockingly patient. "But the thing is, it actually may."
And for the first time in the past five minutes, you finally looked at her. With eyes hidden behind librarian-like glasses, a white shirt neatly pressed against your body, and chilli oil still coating lower lip. You brushed it quickly with a tissue before clearing throat.
"You have five minutes."
But Yuki needed just a second.
"There are some… microbes, the nature of which we aren't yet sure, that are slowly eating the sun. If we don't do something, in thirty years the global temperature will drop enough to kill every life on Earth."
A long, heavy silence stretched between the three of you, though she was the one doing the talking. The man in a suit sat in silence. He was rather handsome, with dark hair falling long down his neck and purplish under-eye bags framing his deep, doe-like eyes.
Feeling your eyes fixed on his face, Choso wriggled in place. "We believe that you are one of the few scientists who can help in research on those microbes."
A deep sigh slipped past your lips as you took off your glasses and closed eyes. A pulsing headache was filling your mind, weighing down an already overstimulated brain. A few short strands of noodles clung to the bottom of the plastic cup, looking up at your weary eyes, pleading to go home.
You finally murmured, throwing the cup into the bin, "I don't see how that's my problem. I'm just a physics teacher, the academic environment pushed me away, and I believe there are many more qualified scientists for this role."
Yuki's forehead furrowed, lips pressed in a line. "Not your problem? The world is dying, and you think it's not your problem?"
You could almost see a grey smoke drifting above her head, eyes shining like two coffee beans. Golden hair brushed against her suit-covered breasts, with a few straight strands sticking to soft cheeks. She appeared magnificently commanding, exuding a dominant aura of someone beyond the law. Even sitting on a small children's chair, you felt goosebumps cover your bare shoulders.
You leaned back in a chair, the hard backrest digging into your spine. "I just don't understand why it should be me. This," you pointed at a three-hundred-page dissertation, "was just a foolish fantasy of my younger self. And trust me, I felt how stupid it was," your eyes fell to your fingers, playing with a soft, earthy ball. "No one treats me like a scientist anymore."
And then, Yuki stood up.
Suddenly, reaching over the desk right to your shirt, before pulling you closer with a single move. Eyes fixed on yours like a deadly viper, and a sweet note of heavy perfumes hit your nostrils.
"Try it," she gritted through her teeth. "Accept my offer till I'm still begging. I don't want things to get messy, but I really need your help on this one."
And so, feeling rather threatened, you nodded swiftly and followed the kind smile that lifted up her lips.
Now, three years later, reflecting on that time, you never felt as happy and alive as you did then. Surrounded by the world's most exceptional scientists, working on alien, new microbes – the freshest discoveries in current scientific research – spending days and nights fuelled by bitter coffee, sitting in the labs.
The time didn't matter, as long as you could work on your research. To once again feel like a valuable input to the academic environment and a student from your PhD days, when the world was most beautiful under the microscope and while collecting the newest data.
Your heart raced during the meetings as your fingers carefully noted each idea, each plan that other scientists put forward. The greatest minds in the world, flooding your own with plans and speculations you could've never thought of. Your brain fired multiple times a day, always running, always getting fed with new questions and solutions.
Why is the sun dying?
How can we stop it?
How to produce enough fuel to go all the way right to the sun?
Is that even possible?
But then it was revealed that an alien microbe was composed entirely of water, and your world collapsed. Because it finally confirmed the very point you've been secretly trying to reject for years, proving to you that cells cannot survive without water.
Your heart broke, and a wave of shame washed over your spine. The shame connected to your younger self, foolishly believing in a greatness of discovery no one has ever made. Something worth the international conferences, massive grants, Nobel Prize, and yet, you needed a single, alien cell, something not belonging to the human world, to finally prove those old geezers from your committee right.
The white, big lamp of the lab flickered; darkness spilt over the endless night. Nothing but a faint buzz of mosquitoes filled the lab, hitting the window again, and again, and again. Hungry and relentless, looking at your body hunched over the failed experiment and slightly trembling lip.
You haven't noticed someone else's presence until something cold and wet touched your cheek. Turning the head around, you noticed a can of soda and Choso's pale fingers wrapped around it.
"Thanks," escaped in a whisper, as you took the drink.
He nodded, sitting on the stool right next to you. Your lab partner, who's been through your highs and lows for the past few weeks. The biggest encouragement and life support, always reminding you to eat well and drink something other than a third coffee in a row. He was another government body, Yuki's closest friend, yet – you liked him.
He felt the most normal here, and thus, your head rested on his shoulder, while hair covered the slightly wet cheeks.
"Are you crying?" he asked quietly.
Your head shook, and a second later, a loud sniff rolled. Choso chuckled, offering a tissue.
"Thank you, Cho," you mumbled, trying to hide the streaming tears behind the wide glasses.
He nodded, waiting for you to calm down a bit. The white lamp buzzed quietly, and the screen of the computer shone bright with your PhD dissertation. The thick letters of the title, with your name written right below.
Three hundred pages of bullshit born from your silly dreams. The Nobel Prize? Dear heavens, you barely deserved to be part of the current team.
"That's not the end of the world, you know?" he said, then pressed his cheek with tongue. "Hm, no. It actually is."
You laughed disgustingly, with a snort slipping out of your nose and another wave of tears streaming down your face. "I'm sorry," slipped almost silently. "I'm sorry, I proved you all wrong."
Choso sighed, looking at your sorry state. He pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear and brushed away a single tear with a soft thumb. "No, you didn't. Now that we know what it's made of, you can think about another solution."
But there isn't another solution, you wanted to say, and instead bit down on your lower lip. The words bubbled in your throat, but a thin thread of hope still pulled at your heart. A faint wish that maybe this discovery wasn't a disaster. That the alien cell, made almost entirely of water, could somehow help with the mission.
That you could still prove yourself as a true scientist.
"Hey," Choso whispered, turning your face towards him. Deep, warm eyes shimmered with kindness as he offered a soft smile and gently pinched your cheek. "You are one of the smartest people I have ever met. I'm sure you can figure this out. Yuki believes in you. I believe in you." Staring into his eyes, you nodded with a pout. He chuckled and opened your soda with a quiet hiss. "Alright, let's call it a day and get back to it tomorrow. We still have time."
But the fact was that – you didn't.
And it was painfully obvious in how Yuki glanced into your lab every few days, asking about progress and results in halting the spread of alien microbes on the sun. Her neatly plucked eyebrows furrowed whenever you shook your head, and a short, stressed sigh escaped her rosy lips.
Try to hurry up, she would usually say, pulling a not-so-comforting smile.
Weeks went by, and everyone's stress increased. Yuki decided to set up a deadly mission, sending a team of astronauts to collect data personally.
The catch? They wouldn't return.
While there was enough fuel to reach the star teeming with alien microbes, there wasn't enough to return. Their goal was to collect the microbes, find a way to stop them from consuming the sun, and send all the data back to Earth.
The first time you heard about it, your knees almost buckled. It sounded outrageous, absolutely crazy, and the chance of finding someone mad and healthy enough to meet the requirements perfectly was already impossible.
And as it turned out, you were wrong.
The four astronauts were more than willing to sacrifice their lives for the greater good – to venture into the vast, endless space and perish there, in the company of strangers and eerie silence. To become saviours on a mission that could save the entire world.
Except, there was a risk the mission would fail.
Except, no one knew if they wouldn't lose their lives for nothing.
Because if that happened, if it turned out that all the money and sacrifices the government has invested in it would go to waste, the world would truly descend into shambles.
You stood against it from the very beginning, but Yuki had already decided. And so there was nothing left to do but help the spaceship travel the twelve light-years towards the only star that was also dying, devoured by an alien microbe.
One hundred and thirteen trillion kilometres.
An unimaginably vast distance a simple mind could not grasp, yet you had to find a way to make it work. To figure out how to gather enough fuel to propel the massive, metal spaceship through every single kilometre.
And after a few weeks of getting yourself filled with coffee and nights spent outside the NASA base, gazing up into the endless darkness, you finally got it.
"The alien microbes possess unimaginable power," you said in one breath, looking like a madwoman. With hair twisted into a messy braid, hands shaking from too much caffeine, eyes glimmering as if possessed by Einstein himself. Your fingers gripped the black marker before drawing another black dot on the whiteboard. "You see, what we can do is allow the engines to feed the alien microbes into a reaction chamber and boil them to the point of natural breeding. This way, the cells will multiply and multiply, allowing us to use them in a much more efficient way," the black marker swooshed all over the board, drawing a crooked picture of the spaceship.
At least thirty pairs of eyes, seated in a conference room at NASA headquarters, stared into it with furrowed yet hopeful gazes. Yuki and Choso, among them, tried to understand the point you were making. The crazy discovery you had made mere hours earlier, before quickly asking for a meeting.
"Our ship doesn't need turbines, generators or heat exchangers, because there's no conventional fuel. It works as a sort of ship driven by light energy–"
"That's impossible," someone among the other scientists interrupted. "You cannot fuel a ship of such dimensions with light alone."
You nodded, whispering like a psycho under your breath, head buzzing with numbers. "Yes, you cannot do it with the sources we have here, on Earth. But," you turned back towards the whiteboard. "Our ship is not like the others, and the microbes allow us to actually use the light force as a fuel. Look, for every action there's an equal and opposite reaction. Newton's third law, we all know it, right?" A few heads nodded in unison. "Well, our ship will emit light in one direction, while Newton's law will push it in the other. I know it used to work only in theory, but with the amount of power packed into a single microbe, we can use it for our good. In short, the alien power goes into the ship, the light comes out, and we can move forward."
A long, heavy silence filled the room as you finished your little drawing. Black lines coated the board, crossing the black dots and twisting around the childishly drawn ship. You pushed your glasses up your nose and tucked a strand of hair back behind your ear.
That was it. Nothing else could've been done on your side. If none of the scientists and governmental bodies believed your crazy plan could work, there was no other way to put the ship on a direct course towards that star.
Yuki sighed and looked around nervously. While people whispered, shook their heads, or took notes, no one offered you a warm nod or made direct eye contact. But it also seemed that no one else had a better idea.
"Are you sure it can work?" Yuki asked, a heavy gaze lingering as warmth crept up your cheeks. "It's over a hundred and thirteen trillion kilometres. Are you sure the ship can be fuelled only by this alien microbe?"
Something weighed on your heart. Fear, panic, years spent believing you weren't good enough to become a real scientist. Those snickers from the PhD commission stating your research was useless. The rejections from one scientific conference after another, as no one wanted to accept your proposals.
Days spent on crying and staring at your dissertation, as if looking at it long enough would suddenly make it all worth it.
And then, under the cold light of the conference room, with thirty heads staring at you in blank mimicry, you needed to make a decision.
The one that would soon turn into a weight on your life.
"Yes," finally slipped. Strong and confident, as you corrected glasses slipping off your nose. "I can make it work."
But then…
But then the catastrophe came.
The betrayal.
Yuki apologising with utmost sincerity. Choso sitting quietly in the corner of her office. Three men keeping your body down.
From the moment you saw the space crew, one thought kept lingering in your mind. You dismissed it with a casual "they'll figure it out" wave, ignoring the instinct that indicated something was off – something that should have been clear from the start.
Why didn't the space crew have the scientist?
And a day before the departure, you finally discovered why.
"I'm sorry, I'm really so so sorry," Yuki said, trying to calm your wriggling body. The man's hands dug deep into your spine, keeping the hands and knees in place, with a cheek pressed to a dirty carpet. "We don't have any choice, and you wouldn't agree if I asked–"
"Of course I wouldn't!" you screamed, trying to bite the soft hand that reached towards you. "It's a fucking suicide! I'm a simple teacher; I can't go to a fucking space–ah, can you be a bit more gentle?!" But the men's fingers were already wrapping your hands with a thick rope. "Yuki, you can't do it to me!"
The woman didn't say anything. She merely opened her office door and beckoned someone inside. Wearing a white robe and holding a syringe between their fingers.
Your mind raced, breathing became almost impossible, and your throat clenched as you fought the sudden urge to vomit on the carpet. You tried to meet Choso's gaze, but he sat in the corner with his head in his hands, avoiding your gaze since you entered the office.
"Choso," you cried, as the doctor came closer. Long, thin needle shimmered under the office's cold lamp, sending a shiver down your spine. "Choso, l-look at me. You fucking coward, you bastard!" Fat tears rolled down your cheeks as the man sat like a stone figure. "You knew about it from the beginning, right? How could you do this to me?!"
Deep, warm eyes that you spent days gazing into finally looked up. Slightly wet, a bit hazy, while taking in the miserable state you found yourself in. Your glasses slightly crooked, lying a bit away from teary face. A few strands of hair sticking to your cheeks, arms twisted painfully behind back.
His fingers dug into the leather chair, as if trying to force himself to stay back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't… I couldn't bring myself to tell you…"
"That I'm going for a fucking suicidal mission?!" you interrupted, still trying to kick the men off your body. "I thought we were friends! I trusted you! And you simply sold me away?"
Yuki shivered, her gaze shifting between coldness and heartbreaking warmth whenever she looked at your writhing body. She slipped her trembling hand into the pocket of her jeans before giving the doctor a small nod.
"N-No," you cried, when the man in white bent down. A sudden, sharp pain washed over your body, tickling the ends of your fingertips. "Please, I d-don't want to, I can't…"
And then, a weariness slowly filled your mind, lulling it into a deep sleep. Your body relaxed, eyes half-closed, as if weighted by the countless sleepless nights you had spent in labs.
The men lifted you up, keeping your head steady, but you didn't feel a thing. Your feet felt funny, light, as if blending into feathers. Some hushed voices started to argue, someone's warm hand brushed your cheek, and a heavy, musky smell filled your nostrils.
And before you lost consciousness, a silent save the earth sneaked into your ear.
𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖
"Amazing," a low sigh slipped past your lips as you watched a massive ship slowly follow yours.
Monstrous, at least twenty times larger than the spaceship you called home for the past three years, which couldn't be contained within the small window you looked through. It appeared incredibly bright, almost as if it were made of glass, yet you couldn't see anything beyond the thick walls.
It's been shadowing you since yesterday, and it has been following you since yesterday, regardless of how long you travelled or how fast you went; it remained right there. Always in your line of sight from your window, constantly mirroring every move you make.
It was… fascinating. To say at least.
A little frightening? Sure, as you were alone on a ship, with the crew long gone and drifting silently through the vast emptiness of space.
But still – fascinating. It marked the first time a human saw an object outside Earth. Majestic and otherworldly, it looked somewhat familiar yet vastly different. A faint cosmic glow shimmered on its diamond-like walls, casting short beams through your solitary window, as if attempting to communicate. As if the creature within tried to contact.
Still drifting slowly, you bit down on your lower lip. "Maybe I should stop?" you thought out loud, as another flicker of light hit your window. "What if they'll attack me?"
But at this point, already being alone on an impossible, suicidal mission, it seemed that an alien attack would be the least of your problems. In fact, maybe it would even sweeten your life a bit, and before meeting death, you would still have a chance to make the first human contact with life outside Earth.
"Okay," You took a deep sigh, pulling down the engine handle. "Let's see what you want from me."
Your ship stopped, and the monstrous glassed vehicle followed right away. With your forehead pressed to the window, you waited.
And waited, waited, till ten minutes passed and the ship stood still. Your tongue pressed against the soft cheek as you walked back and forth, awaiting any sign of activity. Yet, the vast galaxy outside remained tranquil, a gentle glow reflecting off the smooth, wall-like surface of the enormous ship. It lacked doors and windows, being just a glassy, shimmering exterior that–
"Oh no," your throat tightened as it drew closer. And closer, closer, swooshing towards you, something long slowly sliding out of the ship's tall wall. "Oh, that's bad, fuck."
A panic squeezed your heart, thoughts rushed through a tired mind, and there weren't enough cuticles on your nails to bite them all. The window was too small to see the thing clearly, but it seemed to be heading straight towards your ship's door. A long, shining tube swooshed closer and closer until your ship suddenly vibrated, as if gently brushing against a foreign object.
Your fingers fidgeted with the plush fabric of the shirt, while droplets of sweat made your glasses slide down your temple. With unsteady legs, you cautiously moved toward the astronaut's suit and started pulling it over your body. The zipper felt heavy under your touch, and the bubble-shaped helmet was more suffocating than usual. The oxygen backpack almost doubled your load as you headed toward the door, with heavy pounding in your chest.
Your heart was always perfectly healthy, and yet for the first time in your life, you tried to remember all the possible symptoms of a woman's heart attack.
Chest pain, severe shortness of breath, nausea, radiating pain in the neck and jaw, you counted in your mind, marking each and every sign in your current state.
"Fuck, okay," trembling, glove-coated hands squeezed the handle of the massive, metal door, before you pushed it. It opened with a low, soft creek, inviting you into the endless tunnel filled with darkness.
To your surprise, gravity worked here, and thus you dropped heavily onto the hard floor. A soft oh filled the helmet as you lifted the flashlight a bit higher. Something shimmered at the end of the darkness, yet you weren't sure what.
Your steps didn't echo from the thick walls as you slowly approached the entrance to the alien ship. Thoughts clashed painfully in your mind, questions rose one by one as you breathed with a squeezed chest under the weighty kilograms of a spacesuit.
How many of them were there?
What did they look like?
Were they friendly?
How quick and painful would your death be?
Your mind tried to ignore the last one, as the chance of a cardiac arrest before meeting an alien seemed much more likely. Fingers clutched the flashlight tighter, feet moved carefully, one step after another, sticking to the tunnel's crooked surface.
"Hello?" Your voice bounced off the walls, lined with terror. "Whoever you are, I come in peace!"
Oh, what a cheesy line, you thought, biting down on your lower lip.
After a few steps, the glimmering thing came fully into view, and only then did you notice it was a thick glass wall. Or at least something similar to glass, with a hard surface that stopped you from going any further.
Glove-clothed hand touched it, helmet bumped against it, as you tried to light the darkness spilling behind it.
"Hello?" slipped a bit louder, with your fist knocking on the glass. "Anyone there?"
A silence, dull and endless, filled an eerie tunnel. Looking back, you took a note that your spaceship was still there – safe and sound – and you let out a deep sigh. It's not as if it would suddenly float away, but–
A heavy thump suddenly shook the tunnel's floor.
Your head snapped back, breath hitched, fingers squeezed with a tremble around the flashlight.
"H-Hello?"
The light reflected off something towering and shimmering, slowly moving toward you in a relaxed, unhurried manner, nearly as tall as the tunnel itself. A bluish halo beamed off the creature's body, filling the dark space with a soft aura.
You stepped back, trying to direct a flickering beam straight at the thing coming your way, but your hand trembled too much. The heart was on the verge of stopping, and dread haunted the mind as it drew closer, revealing its height. At least two and a half metres, brushing the ceiling of the tunnel's crooked walls, filling the narrow space with its wide body.
And when the light caught on their face… oh.
The pale blue skin shimmered softly under a luminous glow. It appeared unnaturally smooth, soft, and a sudden, foolish wish to brush it with your thumb swirled inside your mind. White, snowy hair touched the handsome forehead, while nearly inhumanly pale-blue eyes gazed down at your spacesuit-covered body. You looked tiny and short in comparison, with a gloved hand once more resting on the glass wall.
The creature was dressed in a white suit, clinging tightly to its body and digging deep into the hard muscles bulging under its skin. Alien's head tilted, knees bent down, and within a second, it found itself on eye-level with you.
White lashes decorating endless, luminous blue fluttered, as if trying to take in the terror twisting your face.
"⊑⟒⌰⌰⍜," a low, manly voice crept past the glass.
Your eyes bulged like two porcelain plates, fingers pressed closer to the wall.
So he was a man.
Well, you could already figure that much based on his looks, but the warm tone slipping under your bubble helmet was evidence enough.
Your mind didn't register the language at first, but when his soft brow travelled up, and lips curled in a smile, you thought that maybe he was awaiting an answer.
"Oh, um," you took a step back, waving your hand clumsily. "Hello."
The creature's head tilted again, and he mimicked your gesture.
You blinked twice, still struggling to believe the situation you're in. "Uh, okay, what now?" you whispered. "I am..." You pointed at your head and said your name clearly and loudly. "What about you?"
"⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏ ⏚⍀⟒⏃⏁⊑ ⊑⟒⍀⟒," the creature said, and a wave of different sounds and tones once again hit your ears.
You sighed, pressing tongue against your cheek. "Right, it's not going to work."
He looked at you, and you looked at him. You, with a slightly furrowed forehead and your mind rushing through all the possible ways to communicate with the alien. He, with lips curled cheekily and pale eyes fixed on your face.
"I wouldn't mind your cooperation, you know?" you mumbled, but he tipped his head left and right, like a curious puppy.
"⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏ ⏚⍀⟒⏃⏁⊑⟒ ⊑⟒⍀⟒," the same sounds once again slipped past the glass wall.
His head was tipping and tilting, and a second had passed before you finally understood that he wanted to say something.
"What? I don't understand," you said, mimicking his movements.
And thus both of you were shaking and tilting your heads, going over and over the same ⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏ ⏚⍀⟒⏃⏁⊑⟒ ⊑⟒⍀⟒, and I don't understand.
His brows furrowed as if irritated, and large hand touched his chest. He took a deep breath – first and second – then pointed at his head and finally at yours.
Oh.
"You want me to..." you gestured as if removing the helmet. A quiet chuckle escaped him, and eyes glinted. "But I can't breathe here."
He didn't understand and thus pointed at your head once again. "⏁⏃☍⟒ ⟟⏁ ⍜⎎⎎."
Your head shook. "Whatever you say, I cannot take it off. Because I will…" Your hands slipped up to your throat before a wave of trembling convulsions bent your body. It wriggled, shook, before, with a theatrical cough, you fell down the crooked floor.
The creature was staring at you with a furrowed forehead and a gentle flicker of amusement coiling in his spectral eyes.
"Not the best first impression, I know," you muttered, swiftly standing up. "My point is, I can't breathe without it."
But it seemed he either didn't understand or was simply relentless in his pleadings. As the long fingers hit the glass wall, pointing right at your head. Another deep breath slipped past his lips, and he nodded, as if trying to say it was fine. Whatever he filled the tunnel with, you could breathe here.
And thus, the thought of what if slipped quietly into your mind.
What if he was right?
What if he really did fill your half of the tunnel with oxygen?
But what if he was wrong, and the moment the helmet would go off, you would die in inhumane suffering?
Light blue eyes shone with anticipation, lips curled into an encouraging smile, and a finger pressed harder into the glass wall.
You took a deep breath, feeling the droplets of sweat coiling at the nape of your neck. He seemed to be a highly intelligent creature, with the ability to communicate as well as you and a rather comprehensive understanding of the differences between your species. For some reason, trusting him felt almost natural, and the assuring look of his spectral gaze made you drop your head with a sigh.
When fingers hooked on the helmet's edges, your heart was nearing its death. Chest squeezed painfully, eyes closed till the eyelids dug deep into your balls. The sweat was now dripping down your spine, wetting the nape of your neck and shirt that clung to your body under the heavy spacesuit.
"Okay," you whispered, both to yourself and him, and it seemed that he was rather amused by the agony twisting your mind. When he chuckled, your brows furrowed. "Don't laugh. There's a rather big chance this air will burn me from the inside."
And so it happened – your fingers slowly unclasped the neck ring, allowing the pressurised seal to loosen with a soft puf. The bubble helmet was lifted unhurriedly, as if your lungs were still trying to grasp the rest of the oxygen swirling inside it.
With still closed eyes, you took the first breath. And the second, and the third, and then, looking back at the alien, a sweet, loud scoff slipped past your lips and flushed cheeks.
"⌇⟒⟒, ⟟ ⏁⍜⌰⎅ ⊬⍜⎍," he chuckled, pressing his forehead to the glass wall.
Still in shock, you stepped closer, also touching the warm, crystal surface with your brows. "Sure, whatever you say."
You looked at each other for a while, with beaming smiles and foreheads almost brushing as you leaned in, a rather intimate gesture. It seemed that the first meeting with another species broke down some specific walls for both of you. The curiosity and fascination with one another blurred the lines of proper manners, breaching all the careful first steps you surely should think of.
His eyes flickered, suggesting a new idea had just come to him. He raised a finger and gestured for you to stay put. After your gentle nod, he vanished into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving you alone with your thoughts swirling in your mind.
Five minutes passed, then ten, and as you sat on the crooked floor and took off the heavy spacesuit, he finally came back, with something gripped by his hand.
You looked closer, noticing the collar-like device and a small earplug. He placed it inside his ear while wrapping the collar around the pale neck. A faint, crispy sound filled his side of the tunnel, and milky brows furrowed as he pressed onto the device in his ear.
And then, with a gesture, he asked you to say something.
"Um," your head tilted, and he sat right in front of you, waiting with a soft smile. "You are rather pretty for an alien."
His fingers still pressed the small device, and after a second, cheekiness flickered in his eyes. "Am I, question? You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."
To say you froze in shock would be an understatement.
Your lips parted, eyebrows nearly touching hairline, as body leaned forward before your hand pressed against the glass wall. You didn't know whether you were more surprised by either his ability to speak your language or the casual compliment that caused your cheeks to heat up.
"You can…" You shook your head, barely breathing. "But how is it…"
He pointed at his ear. "This device recognises your language," then gestured to his neck. "And connects with this. Whenever I speak in my language, this collar converts it into yours."
A soft ah slipped past your lips, eyes fixed on the thin, crystal band made of a sort of rubber material. Your finger brushed the glass wall, as if trying to feel the device beneath it.
Your brows furrowed when another issue started to bite into your curiosity. "But how do you know my language? How did you build this translator? Our species never made contact."
He sat closer, pressing his forehead to the glass again. At this point, you started to wonder whether it was a sort of typical signal from his species, carrying a special, unknown meaning. And when he beamed with joy, you noticed little white droplets shining faintly, sprinkled around his cheeks. Was this an equivalent of a blush?
"You didn't with us," he pressed a finger to yours, and only then did you see the true, monstrous size of his hand. "But the Reds had been studying you for years."
The reds…
"Oh gosh!" A gasp ripped out of your throat as you covered your mouth with a hand. His head tilted. "The Reds, you mean, Martians?"
"Why are you shocked, question?" he asked, carefully eyeing as you quickly stood up and started walking back and forth between the walls.
Your mind pulsed, trying to comprehend everything that had happened over the past hour. The strange spaceship, the first-ever human contact with life beyond Earth, the final confirmation that aliens did, in fact, kidnap people and conduct experiments on them.
"I'm shocked, because humans never made any contact with life outside our planet," you said, biting down on a fingernail. "How long have you known the Reds?"
A low hum slipped past his lips, and smooth, blue forehead creased. "Five hundred years, I say."
"What?!" Your knees buckled as you once again sat in front of him, with hands and forehead and breasts pressed tightly to a glass wall. "Five hundred years? How is that possible? Are your planets close to each other?"
His head shook, but forehead remained wrinkled. "Humans are very underdeveloped."
You chuckled softly, noticing small, adorable language mistakes the translator made here and there. It's still, robotic voice muffled the creature's deep tone, and something squeezed your heart, as you surprisingly discovered that the honeyed warmth of his tone wrapped your mind in a rather pleasing manner.
"Yes, it seems so." Your head turned, with flushed cheeks pressed to the wall. "But till now I had no idea how far behind we are."
He stayed quiet for a moment before tapping gently on the wall. Your eyes slipped back to his, noticing the droplets sprinkled across his face, radiating adorably like flickering stars.
"My name is Satoru," rolled quietly, as the shimmering dust coated his cheeks ever wider. "Your name, question?"
When you said it slowly, he nodded, still tapping on the surface. Right against your pressed hand. "That's a very beautiful name."
"Yours is not bad either."
He hummed, as if in agreement.
Your head grew heavier and heavier, and the warmth was gently trying to coax you into sleep. As you yawned, Satoru's ghostly eyes carefully followed the exhaustion clouding your forehead.
"Are you tired, question?"
His throat bobbed when you giggled. "You don't have to add a question at the end of each ask, you know?"
You assumed that, because of his grammar rules, he needed to emphasise the difference between normal sentences and inquiries. You've noticed that his language sounded much more melodic than yours, yet it lacked the upward pitch humans use.
"But I am tired, thank you for asking." Looking over your shoulder, you've noticed that your ship was, fortunately, still there. "How about I go to sleep, and we'll get back to our talk in a few hours?"
You slowly stood up and grabbed your heavy spacesuit. Glasses slipped off your nose, and hair stuck to still-warm cheeks, as you lifted up the flashlight and… oh.
It seemed that you missed the sudden sorrow deepening between Satoru's brows. Eyes widened in panic, big palms plastered to the wall with lips just slightly opened, as he looked with a fearful expression at your attempt to move away from the wall. From him.
"Satoru–"
"Can you please sleep here?" His voice trembled, although the translator's robotic tone remained unwavering.
You looked around the tunnel, feeling the crooked ground bending beneath your feet and the dark walls emitting a deep, earthy smell. "I don't think that's a good idea, Satoru." A warm smile lifted your lips as you turned towards your spaceship. "But don't worry, I'll be back. Sleep for a bit, and before you'll notice, I'll–"
"Please," the anxiety filling his shaken voice stabbed right through your heart. "Please let me watch you sleep."
You glanced over your shoulder, seeing him in the same position. With hands pressed against the wall and eyebrows furrowed deeply.
"Watch me sleep?"
He nodded. "I… I didn't watch my crew sleep. The crew died. Satoru has been alone for the past forty years." Your lips fell open, but he quickly added, as if afraid you'd refuse again. "I watch you sleep, you won't die."
Seeing his face – filled with anxiety, pure fear, and misery – you could only smile softly and nod. As the mere thought of this man spending over forty years in space all alone tore your heart apart in the most inhumanely painful way.
"Yes, okay," barely pushed past your lips, before you cleared your throat. "Just let me bring my stuff."
You quickly changed into pyjamas, gathered a few blankets, a pillow and enough water for the night, before going back to the warm tunnel.
And then, as you drew closer to the glassy wall, you noticed a slight change in its shape. As during the five minutes you were gone, Satoru had prepared a special shelf for your body to lie right next to him. With his own feather-like blanket, he lay on his side, waiting for you to slip into the long space and hug him.
You giggled, filling the space with your own things. "That's quite intimate, Satoru."
His body was much taller than the width of the tunnel, and thus, he curled his legs a bit before trying to get even closer to you. "What does intimate mean, question?"
With head hitting the soft pillow and blanket covering your body, you turned his way. Nothing but a thick crystal wall kept you away from brushing noses with each other.
"It means that you're trying to be romantic with someone," but then you thought he might also not understand what romantic means. "Hm, it's when you do nice things for a certain person that you wouldn't do for anyone else. For example, make a special bed to be closer to someone."
A soft crease wrinkled his forehead, and the peacefulness of his eyes told you that he was deeply thinking. "I wouldn't do it for anyone other than you."
The sincerity beaming from his eyes was enough to assure you of the innocent truthfulness of his words. So you sighed, nuzzling deep into the pillow, hoping he didn't notice the warmth on your cheeks.
"That's very romantic, you know? Something you would say to your special someone."
"To your mate, question?"
You hummed, softly closing eyes. His presence somehow made your body tingle with a pleasant warmth, allowing the sleep to haunt your mind in a much softer, calmer way. In a way, you didn't feel for a long, long time, spending days in loneliness and a maddening need to feel someone else's warmth again.
You couldn't feel Satoru's heat, yet your heart fluttered fondly as his gaze truly watched you sleep.
"Yes, although humans don't mate."
"Why, question?"
When you giggled – sweetly, kindly – droplets coating Satoru's cheeks lighted up. Solely for a second, but it was enough to make him slip closer, and closer, and closer, till the glass wall was digging painfully into his body, and his heart still rushed your way.
You bubbled something under your nose. An answer he could not hear. With your lips falling open and a crystal string of saliva dripping down the soft pillow.
His finger pressed against the glass, as if wishing to brush it away.
And when another five minutes passed, a soft snoring filled your side of the tunnel. Breath calmed down, and body drew closer to his. Trying to curl into his – big, burning hot, utterly dangerous for yours.
"I watch you sleep," he whispered, brushing the glass with your pressed cheek. "You never die."
𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖
Satoru was much more intelligent than you expected.
It's not that you treated him as beneath you, but the true power of his mind exceeded your expectations.
And as it turned out, he was in the same situation as you – researching the alien microbes that were also eating his sun. Except that his species discovered the problem forty years before yours, and thus a wave of panic washed over your mind. Because if a creature like Satoru couldn't find the solution to the problem that apparently touched not just Earth but the whole universe, you wouldn't do it either.
One difference between you and Satoru was that, as an engineer, he could actually do things himself. Simply produce them, with all the glassed walls and tiny models of planets made from a strange, gluey substance that rolled off his fingers. He wasn't a scientist like you, so when he heard that you were the "brain" of the crew, his eyes flickered.
"We can work together," he proposed, already considering the path to the only planet not consumed by alien microbes. Since it wasn't infected, it suggested there was something in its atmosphere that enabled it to withstand the lethal bacteria. "You will be the mastermind of the entire operation, I will develop the sources. Also, I have spent forty years here, so I know how to navigate."
His eyes were fixed on creating another little planet, rolling the gluey strings between his pads, moulding them into a ball and waiting until the substance dried into a crystal orb. After a few days, your glassy wall had advanced enough to have a small opening for a shelf where you could exchange little presents.
Although you forgot that Satoru's atmosphere was close to boiling lava in temperature, when your hands accidentally brushed, a nasty, red bump was left on the skin of your thumb.
He put the ball on the shelf and moved his hand away so you could grab it.
"Which planet is it?" you wondered, brushing the crystal surface.
He tsked – something he learnt from you mere hour ago – and mumbled. "The earth, of course."
A scoff escaped your lips, and warmth spilt over the heart. "We're not that small."
"I believe you are."
"And we have more greenery."
He wondered, this time building a small spaceship. Your spaceship. "I would like to see it."
Some things have become clearer after spending the past few days in Satoru's presence. His planet was one of the closest to the sun, wrapped in a dense atmosphere that protected its inhabitants from being burned alive. As Satoru said, the days merged with the nights, and it was always rather dark – hence the pale, almost spectral eyes he and other inhabitants had. There was little to no greenery, and the water system had long been sustained by technologies developed by engineers like him.
"A lot of sand", he once said, and you wondered whether it would look like anything close to the climate of Arab countries.
His head tilted then, and eyes flickered with curiosity. "How do Arab countries look, question?"
You tried to describe the endless desert plains, the crimson sun, the curling droplets of sweat on your neck, and the nights filled with beaming joy as best you could. The feel of warm sand under your feet, sea brushing the skin sweetly and fresh dates melting on your tongue in sugary pleasure.
He listened, with eyes following the curve of your lips and fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.
"I would love to see it," he muttered, poking the glass wall with his finger. "It sounds beautiful."
You giggled, following the pale blue of his skin. Soft and shiny, it reminded you more of a region bitten by cold than of the merciless atmospheric temperature of over two hundred degrees Celsius.
"You're rather pale for someone living right next to the sun."
He scoffed, with fingers still creating the small spaceship. In the meantime, you leaned against the crooked tunnel's wall, with a laptop on your thighs, trying to plan the route towards the only "safe" planet.
"I'm not pale. I'm blue."
"That was a joke," you shoot him a glance, seeing the irritated squint of his eyes. "It means that the thing I say is supposed to be funny. You should laugh."
A low, awkward chuckle rolled off his lips, and you couldn't help but burst out laughing. Satoru knew how to express his joy, but it seemed he didn't quite possess the humour you did.
The moment has passed, and a comfortable silence stretched between the two of you. He was mapping the galaxy, while you tried to work out whether your ship still had enough fuel to travel that far. It would take you months to reach that planet, but there seemed to be no other choice. After that mission, the fuel will run out, and you, just as planned, will die here – somewhere in the embrace of endless space.
A low sigh slipped past your lips, catching Satoru's attention. "Are you tired, question?"
Your head shook, and a few strands of hair fell loosely from a pinup. "I would love to invite you to my ship. There's a room where we can watch movies and stuff. I'm sure I can find something about Egypt."
And so…
You've also learned over the past few days that Satoru took everything seriously.
In the most genuine and firm understanding of this word.
Two weeks have passed since your meeting. One morning, as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dressed in nothing but panties and a loose shirt while brushing your teeth, a deep, gravelly rumble shook the entire spaceship.
Your heart leapt into your throat, eyes bulged, and you dashed out of the room with wet hair and bare feet. With all the prayers you've learnt as a child repeating in your mind over and over again, as you run towards the entrance of the ship.
Did you somehow get unsealed from the tunnel?
Did something hit the ship and cause the irreparable damage that would cost you your life?
Fuck, did–
But when you finally got into the room connected with an entrance, with toothpaste smeared all over your cheek and glasses falling crookedly off your nose, a low gasp slipped past your lips.
"Satoru?!"
Because the pale-bluish creature himself stood in the middle of your spaceship, locked in a…
"And you're in a ball?" Like a hamster, wanted to join, but he probably wouldn't know what a hamster is.
Standing right in front of you, fully upright, with long legs wrapped in a white suit and a muscular back bulging under the stretched material – he appeared even more monstrous than usual. A creature over two metres tall, looking all over your place with amusement shining in his eyes, his gaze following all your dirty panties spread across the floor.
"Yep, so I won't die in your atmosphere," long fingers knocked the crystal ball, before lips curved in a cheeky smile. "Can I smell it, question? I want to know how your body smells. Put it to the shel–"
A sudden warmth had hit your cheeks, and throat tightened around the remnants of the toothpaste. "Absolutely not! It's very not polite of you to ask such things."
He started walking around in a large ball that barely fit the corridors of your spaceship, its hard walls brushing against each and every machine, piece of furniture, and console on its way. He strolled freely, dropping different comments here and there, while you followed him and picked up all your clothes.
"So dirty," he snapped, pushing a loud scoff from your throat.
"I didn't expect the guests!"
But he ignored you, as your bedroom appeared somewhere within the line of his sight. Blue cheeks shone with crystal droplets, and white, fluffy hair almost stood on end with excitement. Before you could stop him, long legs swiftly moved towards your bedroom, taking in every little, dirty, detail – more panties, a small mattress, a few books lying scattered all over the floor.
"Is that our nest, question?" He looked around before parking his ball next to your mattress. He sat down, leaning against the floor, and finally shot you a look. "I like it."
With a deep, weariness-filled sigh, you returned to the bathroom, cleaned yourself, and re-entered the bedroom. Soft light reflected off the glistening droplets on his cheeks as he probed the fabric of your panties with his finger. Only then did you realise that the ball, despite being firm, was quite flexible, enabling him to slide his fingers through its surface, which was covered in a sticky, shimmering coating that shielded his skin from the oxygen.
You took the material away from his curious gaze and pushed it back into your bag.
"Satoru, what are you doing here?" slipped rather harshly as you sat down on your bed.
He seemed to be confused by your tone, tilting the fluffy head with a furrow. "Are you mad, question?"
You knew that getting angry with him, while he was still learning to recognise human emotions, was silly. Stupid, even, and you felt as if you were shouting at the poor puppy. Except that this puppy was much taller than you and probably weighed twice your weight.
With a sigh, you fell back on the mattress and covered your face with an arm. "Sorry, I'm not mad. Just… surprised. I didn't expect you would come up my ship."
He tried to roll closer, but the space was too small to allow him any other movements than going back and forth from the entrance to your mattress. So he stayed in place, trying to observe the expression on your face.
"I can't see you like that," he noted.
Another thing you've learnt about his species was how important contact and intimacy are. Not even sexual ones, but rather a simple need to always be with someone. To communicate while looking right into their eyes, to feel their skin on theirs, and to follow the movements of their lips. To feel the presence of another creature next to them, even if the only thing you did was sleep next to each other.
So another sorry slipped past your lips, and you sat again, showing Satoru your face. He slightly lightened up before pressing a hand to the crystal ball.
"You said, and I quote, I would love to invite you to my ship," he noted with utmost seriousness, and you rolled your eyes. "So I came."
Well, he was right. You did say that, and you did wish there were a way to bring him into your ship. Travelling together would be much easier if both of you were on one ship, so amidst the pure chaos and shock he caused, you quite enjoyed the fact that he could live here.
With you.
"Okay," your hand pressed to the ball, filling half of his palm. "But we need to set up some rules first. First, we don't sleep in the same bedroom–"
"But I must watch–"
"Satoru," you interrupted him, seeing the pale eyes slip into the sorrowfulness. "You have excellent hearing and even more excellent sight. I'm sure you can watch me sleep while staying next door." A grim twisted his face, and a low mumble filled his little bubble. Too quiet for the translator to catch, so you chuckled sweetly, seeing his brattiness surface. "Okay. The second rule – you can't sniff my panties. It's something… reserved only for mates."
And, well, if that didn't fire him up – with eyes suddenly beaming in excitement and droplets twinkling one by one, like a tiny mingling stars. You felt as if you had challenged him, and thus quickly added. "And because we are not mates, you cannot do it. It's too intimate."
"I want to be intimate."
A sudden flush hit your cheeks, and warmth spread beneath your chest. "No, Satoru, you don't understand. It's about sexual intimacy. Something you share while…" saying it out loud felt like giving a biology lesson to elementary school kids. "Mating… with your special someone. When you, well, have sex and stuff. Do you know–"
He chuckled low, a sly smile lifting his lips. "I know what mating is."
Something in your lower belly bubbled, seeing him like that. Tall and strong, spreading a slightly possessive and dominating aura. With eyes full of bratty cheekiness and something, something, slightly sensual dripping from his voice.
"Well, so you know that we can't do it," You moved back, taking your palm away from the crystal ball. "Let's work on our plan and try to find a way to save the world."
And with a slight dissatisfaction, Satoru finally agreed.
But the next months spent in his presence were… interesting. To say at least.
Every day brought new surprises, which sometimes ended with your body blushing from head to toes, sometimes him getting shy and flustered, while still trying to keep up the cocky demeanour.
He was nothing less than excellent when it came to engineering and helping with the travel itself, also being an amazing companion for the long, daring journey.
Soon he resigned from constant stay in a ball and filled the interior of your spaceship with long corridors of crystal, making himself at home. Whenever you were – he was right next. Be it a bedroom, control room, kitchen or…
"Satoru!" You quickly covered your breasts with your hands, seeing him walking into the bathroom with the most casual demeanour.
A plate of some weird substance, he was always eating for supper, and a white suit half unzipped, showing off his muscular, blue chest. He leaned against the door, spectral eyes slowly following your naked body. From legs up to hips, staying longer on the gentle swell of your ass and the mould of your pussy, before going up, and up, to the breasts covered by your trembling fingers. "Sweetheart is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."
"Sweetheart" because he really wished to call you something human pairs use for each other. Even though at least three times a week, you needed to remind him that you, in fact, were not a pair.
A muffled, surprised scoff escaped your lips. You pointed to the exit with one hand, forgetting it was clutching one of your breasts. When the silky swell smoothly slipped from your grasp, bouncing gently before his eyes, he moved closer, already pushing a finger through the stretching wall.
"Can I–"
You smacked it, once again showing the exit. "Satoru! You can't walk on me while I'm naked."
"Why, question?" he asked, relentlessly trying to get closer to your body. With a finger poking the wall, that unfortunately couldn't stretch enough to even brush your skin. "Come a bit closer."
Something in your belly bubbled, warmth spread across your chest, and a single, dirty thought of letting him touch you bloomed in your mind. After all, sexual needs and anatomy were among the things all researchers wished to know about foreign species. And because Satoru was of the same, curious kind as you…
"It's too early, out!"
His head tilted, and lips curved into a foxy smile. "It's eight in the evening."
"No, I mean, we're not close enough to do such stuff."
He knocked on the crystal wall. "Sweetheart, but I can't get closer."
Oh god.
You sighed, finally letting the other tit bounce softly too. Leaning against the small shelf, you glanced at him with a frown. He, however, looked anywhere but into your eyes. Rude.
"Our relationship is not on that level…" yet. "What you want to do is too intimate. Sexual." And then, a sudden curiosity spiked your mind. "Satoru, how does the… mate thing look like among your species?"
His eyes finally slipped up to yours. "We choose one mate for a whole life."
Well, that was rather clear.
"What about the, you know…" You gestured awkwardly, partially at your still naked body.
"The mating," he finished. But as if feeling the spike in your curiosity, with round eyes ogling his naked chest and slipping shyly towards his hips, he bubbled a low chuckle. "Come closer, and I will show you."
What a brat!
With the last tsk and a dirty look shot his way, you turned back towards the mirror and finished your quick, morning "shower". Even while using rinseless soap and water pouches to clean your body, you still felt Satoru's presence behind you.
Deep blue eyes following the curve of your body, back muscles working beneath the soft skin, and when you bent over to rinse your face, a sudden, sharp breath escaped his throat.
You didn't have to look back to know that he was looking straight at your pussy.
"It's wet," he mumbled, coming closer. And closer, until his finger once again tried to evade the stretching wall, too short to even brush the swell of your ass.
You hummed, trying to hide an embarrassed warmth kissing your neck. "It's a natural lubrication. It usually happens when a woman is…" oh fuck it. "Excited."
He seemed charmed, completely bewitched, and some part of you wished the difference in temperature between your bodies wasn't over two hundred degrees Celsius. As the moment Satoru's hands touched your skin, you weren't sure whether calling it the third-degree burn would be enough.
"Why is sweetheart excited, question?"
With your body leaning forward and hands resting on the shelf, you looked back, eyes slightly hazy, wetness dripping down your thigh. A silken droplet swirled down your leg, and Satoru's always oh-so-attentive eyes, of course didn't miss it.
"I want the taste," he mumbled, and only then did you notice a bulge, trying to rip free from beneath the white spacesuit covering his hips.
You took a deep breath, bending yourself lower and lower, till he could clearly see your cunt shining with silky wetness.
"I'm excited," you started, voice dripping with sensuality. "Because of you."
As if awaiting this exact answer, his eyes, for just a second, ripped themselves away from your soft pussy and looked up. To cross with yours – slightly teary, a bit too warm.
"I want to–"
You turned around, once again leaning against the shelf. A low groan escaped his throat, as he no longer could see your pussy in its fullness. The little pout twisting his lips made you giggle, but a tricky, dirty thought has slipped into your mind.
"How about this?" You took a step, then another, until you stood right in front of him. Much closer than before, but not close enough to let him brush your skin. "I will let you touch me. Watch me…" You coughed, feeling this wind of bravery leave your body as quickly as it had come. "Masturbate. And you'll let me do it too."
Satoru's lips fell open, eyes sparkled in excitement. "I thought the intimacy was only for mates. Are we mates then, question?"
"Let's call it friend with benefits."
His eyes narrowed. "We don't do such things with friends."
You scoffed, pushing your hip to the side and biting the inside of your cheek. "Well, we do, so you can either accept it or not."
And seeing that this time his bratty stubbornness wouldn't work, Satoru nodded.
A few minutes later, you found yourself in the most embarrassed, going-straight-to-the-grave position you could imagine. With elbows supporting your body on the bedroom's mattress, legs spread open, and pussy pressed against the crystal wall. The slippery juices coated the surface, making Satoru breathe much, much harder than before. With fingers wrapped around the biggest, most monstrous cock you've ever seen.
You needed a moment to take in the sight that sprang up in front of your eyes after he took off the rest of the suit. Massive, veiny shaft, with a swelled protrusion at his base, probably used while mating. The blue skin was peppered with similar droplets sprinkled on his cheeks, and shimmered faintly whenever he looked down at your cunt.
Small and fluttering, with your hole squeezing around nothing and clit swelled from excitement.
The penetrative gaze of his made you warm up even more. "Satoru, touch me," slipped like an order.
His long finger brushed the crystal wall and pushed – gently, carefully, till he felt a soft button under his pad and heard a low moan escape your lips.
He dreamed of feeling the gummy structure of your pussy. To roll the clit between his fingers, without any surface protecting his body. To lower himself down and smell, lick, taste the dripping cum that in his mind was sweeter than anything he had ever tried.
And it should be noted that he had quite refined taste buds.
His other hand pumped his massive cock in slow strokes, enjoying the sight spreading in front of him much more than the feeling of his fingers wrapped around the dripping shaft.
"Does it feel good, question?" He asked, hearing another moan fill the small bedroom.
"Y-yeah, ahh, try to make gentle circles," slipped faintly, as you started to roll nipples between your fingers.
His thumb pressed against your clit harder, making your feet curl and legs spread even wider. As if trying to invite his massive cock, that would surely rip you in half.
Maybe the fact that you couldn't touch each other wasn't that bad. Because if he somehow found a way to fuck you with this size, you sure would feel it up in your throat.
And thus you enjoyed the sight spreading in front of your eyes – his beefy thighs bulging whenever you jolted under his thumb, pearly cum dripping down the blue skin, long fingers squeezing the veiny meat as he still oh-so-carefully rubbed your clit.
"It's getting wetter," he noticed, biting the inside of his cheek. "I want to taste you."
His low voice made your body melt under his fingers, forcing your thighs to spread wider and wider, while chasing the pleasure bubbling in your belly. Your hole fluttered around nothing, and a sheer sight of his cock spun your mind in crazy wish to get yourself stretched around it. To feel every vein scratch your tight walls, till the drenched head would kiss your swelling womb.
"Fuck, wait, I have an idea," you backed out, crawling towards your bag.
Crazy, stupid, nasty plan slipped into your head, as you took out a mid-size, creamy dildo. With a sucking pad at the end, and a slightly curved head. It wasn't yours, as you somehow found it among the things… oh well, does it really matter? It was clean and had been bathed in antiseptic spray multiple times; thus, using it was not disgusting at all.
But when Satoru saw it, his breath hitched. Eyes slipped down to his cock, and forehead furrowed. "Why is it so small, question?"
You chuckled, sticking it to the crystal wall. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that's the average size of a human's dick."
He followed your body as you once again spread your legs open and brushed the silicone cock through your folds a few times. Drenching it all in your juices, and Satoru, since learning the meaning of jealousy, felt something unpleasant bubble in his heart. Because he wished to be the one making your pussy flutter around his head and push it inside, till your sugary walls would clamp around his fat cock.
Your forehead furrowed, eyes glistened from prickling tears as his thumb once again landed on your clit. But this time, the pleasure was twice as intense. With a silicone dick stretching your tight pussy and his finger rubbing you in slow, maddening circles.
"I could make you feel better," he groaned, hearing another pitched moan slip past your lips. "This pathetic thing is not worthy to be inside my sweetheart."
With rising irritation, he pressed your clit harsher. Till a tremble washed over your body and back hit the mattress, as you rolled your cunt to feel the dildo go deeper. But Satoru was right – his cock would indeed make you feel better.
Your hands slipped up to your breasts, pinching the hard buds and chasing the maddening pleasure bubbling in your lower belly.
A deep frown creased Satoru's forehead, and he gently squeezed your clit. "I can't see your face."
"R-right, sorry–ahhh," A cry rolled off your tongue as you once again leaned on your elbows. "Satoru, it feels so good, mhmm."
His cock was more flushed than before, with a cherry tip spilling the heavy, thick droplets all over his hand. He pumped it madly, never once taking his eyes off your lovely face. With pleasure twisting your brows and teary eyes fixed upon his.
"S-Satoru, I, fuck, I'm going to cum," the silicone cock kissed your cervix, smooching it wetly with hefty, gluey cum sipping from your hole.
You tried to imagine getting split open on his cock. Being filled by his cum, with creamy saps stuffing your swelling womb and pumping your belly full. Getting manhandled by his muscular arms and wide back, as he would fold you into a mating press and push into the mattress. Till each and every spring would painfully dig into your spine.
So with a final cry, you came.
With a loud cry, spine arching into the sweetest curve, and a sprinkling of sweetness gushing all over his thumb, although it was a true pity that he couldn't feel it. Your body trembled and lips fell open, seeing a furrow cloud his forehead and fingers tightening around his cock.
And then, an idea slipped quietly into your mind.
"Wait a minute, don't cum yet," you muttered, taking a pair of panties lying on your bed. With a single, dirty move, you rubbed them against your drenched folds, gathering all the creamy cum and honeyed sweetness.
Satoru… dear heavens.
When a flimsy material landed inside the shelf, quite similar to the one he installed in a tunnel, Satoru's fingers snapped forward and snatched it. He brought it closer to his nose, lips, feeling your precious wetness and the rich flavour burst right onto his tongue, as a low, primal groan escaped his throat.
"Mhmm, s-so, ahh, tastes so sweet," a muffled cry was almost incomprehensible with your panties filling his mouth.
The head of his cock pulsed, massive balls constricted whenever his tongue took another lick of your fresh cum and eyes… oh, eyes stayed on you.
On your breasts coated in sheer sweat, thighs still spread open and a little, minx smile twisting your lips. Satoru was sure he could cum only at the sheer sight of your angelic face, and thus, after a few more harsh pumps and muffled cries, he came. Loud and heavy, with creamy ropes shooting all over his glimmering skin and fully emptying everything he has been keeping far too long.
What a waste, you both thought, wishing it landed somewhere far, far sweeter and warmer. Deep inside your womb, preferably.
A moment has passed, with a small bedroom filled with your heavy breaths and shy glances, looking everywhere but at your cum-coated bodies. With a faint cough, you finally closed your thighs and covered yourself with a blanket.
Blooming loveliness crept up your cheeks, and suddenly looking at Satoru required far more courage and calm than it had merely thirty minutes ago.
Before you could ask whether he needed a towel, his low voice spoke first. "Are we mates now, question?"
He said sheepishly, lifting your panties with a finger.
You groaned and fell on a mattress with his chuckle tickling your burning ears.
You didn't want to destroy this moment, even though you knew your mission would end with you dying in space. That he would go back to his planet safely, while you would float and float and float, while eventually dying of hunger.
And so, sharing this sweet moment of intimacy, with warmth spreading beneath your chest, you nodded. "Yes, Satoru. Let's become mates."
𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖
The next few months were filled with nothing but joy.
With movies playing on repeat in the small, cinematic room, Satoru watches each of them with his lips agape. Enjoying the landscapes of Earth, you could project them into a closed space, with a blue sky spreading across the ceiling and tall Scottish plains stretching beneath your feet.
With the golden sand of Thai beaches shimmering in the sun and coconuts falling from the palms, the chirping of birds perched high in the lush trees of the Amazon Forest, and the endless plains of the Sahara Desert.
When you joked that the three pyramids in Giza you were just looking at were believed to have been built by aliens, he only hummed and nodded as if in agreement. A scoff rolled off your tongue, and his head snapped towards you.
"Why are you nodding? Of course they weren't!"
Plush, bluish lips curved in a sly smile. "Is sweetheart sure, question? It looks like something we have on our planet."
An unbelievable shock crossed your face as you stared at him, speechless. "No, you don't!"
"Yes, we do."
"You're fucking with me."
His head tilted. "I thought we can't fuck."
You rolled your eyes, resting your head against his shoulder. Or at least against the crystal surface he was pressed against. "Forget it."
"I can't, my memory is excellent."
And that was indeed true, as Satoru seemed to remember every single thing you said or did over the past few months. The plan you devised to obtain a sample of the planet's atmospheric gas to discover why it was immune to deadly microbes was etched into his mind with meticulous precision.
Truly mesmerising creature he was, especially as he also remembered which buttons to push, to make you cum faster.
What you had also discovered was that Satoru loved to talk about your future.
Particularly during the late nights, when you were curled up under the warm blanket, lying on a mattress in a dimly lit room, with him cuddled up against your side.
He couldn't brush your soft cheek pressed against the wall, but it was fine.
For the look of your lovely face, he watched with warmth blooming in his chest, was enough.
On such nights, when both of you longed for each other's warmth, he enjoyed dreaming. Of you returning with him to his planet, building you a small, private island with oxygen, and fulfilling all your wishes. You teaching the children of his species physics – as you did on Earth – and him continuing to serve as the most valued engineer on his planet.
Of you and him living together in a small seaside cottage, spending days loving each other and lying on the soft beach till darkness would spill over the ocean's horizon – the only his planet had, the one he was ready to fully give into your hands. Having sex all day and night, to which you responded with a sweet, faint giggle, as sleep slowly slipped onto your eyes.
"And how would we do it, hm?" you mumbled, pressing against the crystal wall.
A soft furrow haunted your forehead, and he imagined calming it with a gentle roll of his thumb. "The atmosphere of my planet allows us to use a special technique," through the glass wall, he traced the curve of your lips. "It wraps my body in a thin barrier, but I would be able to touch you," soft lips touched to the point where your nose pressed. "And kiss you. And hug you, make love with you, although we wouldn't have children."
You understood why and giggled softly, slowly opening your sleepy eyes to meet the endless, pale blue. "You really want to get even closer, huh?"
It was a joke, and yet a warmth bloomed behind his spectral eyes, forcing your heart to skip a beat. His hand pressed to the part where your chest met the wall, before he leaned his forehead against "yours". "If I could, I would make you live inside me. So nothing in this universe would ever rip us apart."
A faint oh rolled past your lips as you bit on the soft inside of your cheek. "Satoru, I don't know how long your species live, but… I don't have as much time as you think."
A sudden panic swelled behind his eyes, and thumb slipped out of the crystal wall to brush your lower lip. "My best friends have been mates for the past hundred and sixty years. How many can you give me, question?"
Something ripped through your heart. Cut it with painful slashes, till a crease on your forehead deepened. "Not a lot, Satoru. Maybe seventy years?"
His thumb paused, an ache spreading across the vast, pale blue plains. "I've lived three hundred years without you," he said, warm lips pressing into the wrinkle between your "brows". "I won't survive another seventy."
But the endless honeymoon couldn't last long.
For there was a reason why both of you found yourselves in space. Why the mission was tagged as suicidal, and why there wasn't enough fuel to get you back to Earth. And while Satoru's dreams indeed sounded tempting, you knew that it simply wouldn't work out.
For you breathed oxygen, and he needed ammonia gas.
Your body stayed cool at thirty-six degrees Celsius, while his was burning up to over two hundred.
He was three hundred years old – you twenty-seven.
But he didn't have to know all of that. Over the past twenty-seven years, no one had made you laugh, enjoy, and love life as much as he did. Even if those brief moments of happiness were only meant to last a few months, they were enough.
After the mission, he could go back safely to his home, and you… well.
And you would need to watch him die.
It was truly unpredictable, and none of you could foresee how the situation would turn out. You finally arrived on the planet, prepared to collect the necessary samples of the antidote. You didn't know, however, how dense its atmosphere would be.
How the wind would violently hit your ship, tossing it sharply left and right as you stepped outside in your spacesuit and carried Satoru's sampling device back onto the ship.
He told you to leave it. When you almost fell off the ship, he begged you to come inside. Hit the wall with hands, screamed right into the speaker inside your helmet, pleaded to leave the sample and just come back.
But you simply couldn't do it. Because leaving it here, after Satoru spent decades in space trying to seek the solution, would be simply foolish. Egoistic, and thus, after a few harsh currents, you grabbed the box filled with antidote cells and went back to the ship.
But then, it started spinning. And spinning and spinning, wish wind smacking it in violent currents, and you found it almost impossible to get back onto the normal route. Every single light inside the control room shimmered red. Satoru tried to calm you down, but there was nothing he could truly do from behind the glass wall.
You pushed and flickered every button, every controller, but after one sudden, brutal tug of the ship, your face hit the console.
Eyes filled with red, a nasty crack came from the nose, and the gaze became a bit hazy. You tried to push one last button that would help the ship get away from the planet's strong current, but you were simply too weak. With blood slowly covering your whole face and belts still pinning you to the chair.
Satoru shouted something, but you couldn't hear him clearly. Was it because of the red lamps and an alarm filling the control room? Or maybe because of the sudden sleepiness that blanketed your eyelids?
His fists hit the glass wall, spreading the dull echo around the control room. A soft sweetheart sweetheart sweetheart rolled past his lips, but you simply had no energy to look up. As if you did, the sigh of his trembling, panicked face would rip your heart apart.
His large fists wanted to break through the wall, eyes looked at the blood dripping down your face, body filled with helplessness and desperation, trying everything in his power to get close to you.
With a single finger, you still strained to push that last red button. To get the ship back on track, at least allow Satoru to be safe, and finish the mission that would help save his planet. But your body couldn't handle the gravitational force caused by the spin, which pressed you into the console. The slow crushing of your lungs, mind filling with fogginess, throat crushed beneath the flickering buttons.
So with a soft, almost inaudible I'm sorry, your eyes closed.
A second has passed, a minute, with mind registering the crying alarm and… and a shatter of glass.
A sudden pain washed over your body – burning and stinging every nerve. Someone lifted you up, carefully, slowly, trying to wrap you in blankets and clothes, anything to keep you from the lethal touch.
Quiet, you'll live, sweetheart will live, sweetheart, sweetheart, keep your eyes open, amid violent waves of coughing and painful moans, filled the corridors of your spaceship. When your eyes opened a little, you saw nothing but thick steam evaporating from something.
Someone.
"Satoru?" slipped out in a whisper as, from beneath the curling steam, a blue, familiar face looked down at you, wet-cheeked. "Satoru, no, y-you'll die–"
"Shhh, sweetheart, it's okay, it's okay, sweetheart will live," he repeated like a mantra, hugging your wrapped body closer to his.
Fiery skin burned through the thick layers of blankets, leaving burns all over your bloodstained skin. Your body hit something, and before you noticed, an automated medical care robot soon filled your vision. The mechanical arms pressed the oxygen mask to your face before an IV needle slipped beneath the skin of your arm.
"Satoru," you mumbled weakly, trying to find those familiar, pale eyes.
And he was right there, offering you the most painful, heart-tearing sight. Tears ran down his cheeks, white steam curled tortuously from his body, and gaze slowly grew weaker. He could barely breathe, yet still stood right there.
Over your barely warm body, making sure that you would live.
"I watch you–"
"No, S-Satoru," barely pushed through your squeezed throat. With crystal tears swirling in your eyes and fingers trying to push him away from the table. "Go back, p-please, or–"
"No, I watch you sleep." his fingers grabbed the hem of your shirt. "You won't die".
You were too weak to fight him. In too much pain, with your head pounding, skin burning from his touch and anaesthesia slowly kicking in.
And so, with a last look into the eyes your heart laughed for, you fell asleep.
There was no way to tell how much time had passed. How long you stayed under the mechanical clutches of the medical robot.
How long Satoru needed to suffer, to make sure you would be alive.
But when you finally woke up and ripped yourself away from the needles, he wasn't there.
He wasn't in your sight, but something else, something burned, marked the floor. Dark traces of blue dust led further inside the spaceship. Still weak, with the last traces of blood dried on your cheek, you followed them, your heart pounding. And a little grain of foolish hope bloomed inside your heart, fresh tears already swirling in the corners of eyes.
The ship was back on a normal route, carrying you through the galaxy at a slow, peaceful pace. Thanks to Satoru.
The blue dust led you through the control room, down into the basement, kitchen, bathroom, and finally to the bedroom, as if he tried to, for the last time, see every part of the ship. Just to make sure everything was working. That after waking up, you wouldn't have to bother yourself with anything.
And so another wave of crushing sob bubbled in your throat. A pain ripping you open as you entered your shared bedroom and saw him there – curled on the mattress, the upper part of his body already slipped inside his crystal corridor. As if he didn't have the strength to crawl in fully. Too busy watching you sleep.
"Oh, Satoru," a cry finally escaped your throat, as your knees bent beside his body. "You fool, so stupid, you're–oh!" A hysterical lament filled the small bedroom as you touched his cold body. "Satoru, how c-could you leave me alone?"
Face, always beaming with so much warmth and joy, lay in dead silence. With your loving, blue eyes closed behind the curtain of white lashes and lips more pale than usual.
Gathering every last ounce of strength still boiling in your body, you brought his ball back. In such a tight, ammonia-filled space, the chance of his recovery was much higher.
Opening it was almost impossible, so you cut a hole big enough to, with pain ripping through your muscles and sweat dripping down your spine, somehow push him inside. And then you glued the walls tight, with a prayer dripping off your lips, and your body cuddled into his crystal ball.
"I'll watch you sleep," you whispered, brushing the surface with his pressed cheek. "You won't die."
𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖
The sun spilling through the curtain tickled your cheeks. The chirping of birds made you sigh deeply, and the gentle sea breeze coated your skin with soft kisses. The shoulder, the soft line of the spine, the slightly sweating neck, with a salty fragrance slipping sweetly into your nostrils.
You tried to stretch, waking up your stiff body from a deep slumber, but something locked you in place.
Something heavy and long, curling around your waist and pulling you closer to another stony wall.
Or, maybe you should say, stony chest.
Looking over your shoulder, you've met with a cheeky smile curling your husband's lips and still-sleepy, pale eyes. He pulled you closer, until your head found itself under his chin and your legs entangled with his.
"Good morning," you giggled, turning in his arms. "Did you sleep well?"
Satoru hummed, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. The thin barrier wrapping his body glimmered under the spilling sunlight. After years on his planet, you no longer needed a translator to understand his language. And so you kissed his blue neck, tracing the kisses up, and up, along his jaw and chin, until finally locking your lips with his.
"Apologies, I didn't watch you sleep."
You chuckled, biting gently on his lower lip. "Were you that tired after last night?"
"Mmm," a soft, satisfied hum escaped his throat when you felt something hard poking your belly. "Forgive your husband, he didn't realise he had a tigress and no wife at home."
You chuckled sweetly, forcing his lips to curl in a sly smile.
"Does my wife need anything? Do you want Suguru to lower the temperature?"
Tracing the sharpness of his jaw, up to the curve of his lips, your head shook. "No, it's warm enough. Maybe you can ask him to lower the birds' chirping a bit. I think they're a bit louder than yesterday."
He nodded, pulling you even closer. Till your bodies tangled in one, and a slow, peaceful pounding of his heart beat against your breasts. "Mhm, sure. But let's sleep a bit longer, and then you can jump on me as much as you want, hm?"
So with the last, soft kiss between your brows and heart swelling from feeling the heaviness of your body on his, Satoru allowed you to cuddle into his muscular chest and watch him slowly slip into a deep slumber.
Synopsis. A jester marrying a princess? Not even in the most terrible joke.
Gojo Satoru has loved you ever since the first time he made you laugh, he’s loved you since you appointed him as your personal jester—and he’s loved you even when your royal engagement was announced.
But if only a prince can marry a princess…maybe a jester can wreck it.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!princess!reader, jester!Gojo, royalty AU, forbídden Iove, yearning, PLOT, hurt, best friends to Iovers, betrothaIs (not to Gojo), he’s so siIIy, and so in Iove, sad backstorìes, vìoIence and bIood (not to or from Gojo), rhymes, pranks, Naoya’s awfuI, hidden schemes, makeovers, masquerade baIIs, masks, somewhat CindereIIa-Iike, oraI (fem rec.), tongue f, fìngering, he’s PÚSSYDRÚNK, p taIking, pínching, bíting, spítting, ínappropriate use of the jester hat, he’s FÉRAL, raw, matíng presses, first times (for both), he’s BlG, making it fit, talking you through it, pushing down, dirty taIk, rhymes whilst he’s INSIDE, creampíes, cúmpIay, royal weddings, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 16.8k
A/N. TO THE LOVELY BABYGIRLS THAT HAVE BEEN BEEEEGGING FOR THIS TROPE- and inspired by the very talented @/karolineprihodko on Tiktok <33
“A fool may sleep. A fool may sneer. A fool may ask why the princess is crying here?”
It’s so sudden that it stops your tears.
Crouched in a small passageway near the royal court. Between the gleaming armors upon display of Gakuganji the Great and Kashimo the Fierce. For a brief moment of madness; you think you must have imagined the lilting voice—almost melodic. Marvelous.
It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever heard - even more so than the music wafting from the open doors of court, brought by the travelling circus that your palace was entertaining.
And then you’re hearing him again.
“Sob sob sob—for my princess is a crier. Dear Gojo here, shall set Yaga’s stache on fire—!”
That makes you finally lift your head out of your arms, with a laugh that is full-chested and unabashed. For the first time in a long…long time.
“What might your name be?” You ask the boy with the bright blue eyes, and an even brighter smile.
And that was the story of how you met Gojo Satoru - when you were eight, and he’d been merely ten. Though he didn’t look ten—he might’ve looked even younger than you.
White hair. Winks of dimples upon each cheek. His face was chalk-white from the make-up typical of jesters, even young ones, supposedly.
He was drowning in a faded red and blue jester outfit that looked as if it’d been dragged through multiple shows a night. It looked far too big to have been his originally. Even through the patched-up collar, his collarbones showed, and from the too-wide sleeves; his pale, near-skeletal limbs stuck out oddly.
His face was pretty, however, with eyes too large for his head.
Gojo’s cheeks were sunken in, yet his smile wasn’t the slightest bit smaller. That, too, looked too large to be his.
And you…
Crying outside the royal court, after your parents had declared you far too young to see the travelling circus. The acrobats. The sword-swallowers. And one little jester…that had gone missing during the processions.
Though, in time, Gojo took delight in weaving in additional parts of fighting off dragons and two haunted knight armors—enraptured courts that clapped and laughed as he sang of a white-haired fool and his crying princess. He’d whisked you off your feet and made you swoon in ways a princess utterly shouldn’t - and then produced you before your horrified father, His Majesty, as the sole suitor that made you laugh.
At least according to him.
Though one thing was true from that fairytale: Gojo had been the only person to make you laugh. The only one.
Previous jesters and palace acts wavered between confusing you with their overly long ballads, or enraging you - all because they assumed some little princess couldn’t handle humor. And maybe that was why - Gojo hadn’t underestimated you - that you’d gone right up to your father in the middle of a particularly splendid fire-breathing act, stood in the center of the lavish floor, and declared—
For Gojo to be released from the circus to become your personal jester.
As a royal jester he would be clothed, bathed, and tutored alongside you - so long as he kept you entertained with his rhymes (to which you had no doubt that he wouldn’t falter).
Not minister nor royal guest should lay a hand on him. He was to be treated as an equal member of the court, and should have titles bestowed upon him in due time—but for now, he will grow up as your best friend. Your only.
And whilst declaring this in about as much royal haughtiness as you could have managed, you looked over at Gojo. You don’t remember for what reason. You don’t remember what you were looking for.
All you remember is that Gojo’s eyes seemed brighter in that moment, like the night’s cloak of stars. There were tears in his eyes.
And he flashed you his crooked grin.
You grinned back.
His Majesty and the advisors didn’t take long to mull over the thought before asking the circus master to name his price for the boy. And Gojo had been small then - oh-so-small - a mere waif of a boy. He was clearly the youngest amongst these adults, and the circus master hadn’t even remembered he was part of the troupe.
He’d demanded two crowns and a bag of wheat.
To which The King had obliged with a simple wave of his hand—before freeing the other circus members, as well. He was merciful…most of the time.
And you’d been so overcome with joy that you ran to the jester and took his hands then and there.
Had it been in the little passageway where you’d met, then you might even have embraced him.
But perhaps you’d given the ministers enough conniptions for the day?
“Follow me.” You breathlessly whispered to the little jester that seemed far too shocked for words. “I shall summon the royal tailor whilst you take your bath- we have every fragrance in the land, and more than enough botanical springs.”
But the longer he stayed speechless and unmoving, the more self-conscious you grew.
Your fingers loosened around his, “That…that is if you wish to-”
“I do.” He stopped you from slipping away - he clasped your hands even tighter. Tight enough to nearly hurt—but you didn’t stop him. “I-I’d be honored, Your Highness.”
“You shan’t have to call me that.”
And though a few eavesdropping court ladies and gentlemen gasped at the destruction of long-held social etiquette, Gojo had merely smiled and nodded. And then you’d been the one to whisk him away.
You.
Gojo shared little about his upbringing that first day in the palace, and even less over the years. You knew that he’d been born into an average family just a kingdom over - Gojo itself was a fairly used name - but tragedy struck and his parents both passed away—although you never asked how, and he never shared why. It almost…seemed as if he didn’t remember. A part of him that had scrubbed out most of those years, like a bloodstain.
And he’d lived in the same lifeless home as them for five days. Trying to wake them.
No one listened.
No one arrived.
No one helped.
No one helped.
No one helped.
Driven by hunger and loneliness, Gojo finally left the house after those five days. And just his fortune, he hadn’t walked long before encountering the travelling circus—so many jugglers and jesters and acrobats and fire-breathers. And one master leading them from the front.
He’d been both enraptured and scared.
And hungry. So…so hungry.
Even the smell of the lion food was appetizing to him.
One acrobat passing by had spotted the boy watching wide-eyed from the side of the road, and seeing how desperate he was, shared her lunch and invited him to join. It was the biggest act of kindness he’d felt in five days.
And so he taught himself to rhyme. To joke. To smile.
And two years later was when you saved him- you told Gojo that it wasn’t so much as saving him than him saving you. But he denied.
“Thank you.” Gojo had whispered to you, almost fearful, during his first night in the palace. The Princess’s jester had been granted quarters right across the hallway from your own chambers—and yet, the first night was always the scariest, wasn’t it?
He’d given you quite the fright sneaking into your royal chamber after all the candles had been snuffed and your attendants had left. Soundless as a mouse—and looking just as unwelcome inside the gilded bedroom. But eventually, you welcomed him onto the lavish mattress far too large for even two.
Let alone two children.
Laid a fair distance apart, you faced each other.
“I forbid you to say those words again, Gojo.” You smiled. “And just for the one night, I trust?” You meant the bed-sharing; should your attendants walk upon this in the morning, then Gojo would be thrown into the dungeons faster than he can rhyme.
Gojo nodded, somewhat flushed. “Just for the one night.”
.
.
.
“Satoru-”
“Mmmm, puff pastries and wagashi.”
“Satoru.”
“Huh? Ohhh, sweet cheesecake.”
“Sato—” The exasperated call of his name doesn’t land before the kick does - square in the middle of Gojo Satoru’s broad back.
Sometime in the last few years, after he’d taken up training with General Yaga to keep himself fit for his dances, Gojo had started sleeping without his upper garments on.
And you couldn’t deny that it was a sight for sore eyes; his sun-freckled sun, the dips and curves of his muscles shifting as he did. The roundness of his deltoids. The sensual curve of his spine. The patterns of his scapulae, and lash marks that he wouldn’t explain. They moved like waves of an ocean, and they peaked and fell just as much. Some mornings you dared to trace every single one—just with your eyes, of course.
But of course, he was just your best friend - socially, your jester, at that.
Which is exactly why you’re kicking him off the bed the second you hear your morning attendants heading down the corridor. As soon as he’s out of sight, the double doors to your bedroom open—and they’re floating inside with steaming-hot trays of breakfast and new fragrances for your skin.
One of the attendants sets the breakfast tray down on your bedside table, and you sneak him a few of the blueberry-spotted pancakes. Though have to slap Gojo’s hand away from swiping the syrup, too, before one of them sees.
“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it, Your Highness?” Your head attendant, Utahime, trills as she throws the curtains open to let soft morning sunlight flood inside. “The perfect morning.”
“It is.” You’re nodding. You slap Gojo’s hand away from the syrup again.
“And we have no more than an hour to get you ready, Your Highness. So I beg you to finish your tea quickly.” Another attendant hands you your morning tea - just how you liked it. It smelled of something floral that reminded you of the royal gardens, and something else so utterly appetizing that you could feel Gojo huffin’ and puffing about beneath you.
Served him right for sneaking in again, you think.
You slap Gojo’s hand away again. Utahime continues speaking onwards obliviously, “—prepare for the guest.”
“A guest?” That piques your interest.
This time, Gojo steals the syrup. And it creates a loud clatter that draws the attention of all the attendants sweeping and scurrying about to pick out your gown for the day—you’re unceremoniously coughing to cover it up. You’re not sure it works.
Utahime crinkles her nose, “Nasty little ailment, isn’t it?” Her intelligent eyes dip down to the bed - though she keeps it discreet. Utahime, as well as being your head attendant, was one of your closest friends as well.
Close to you in age, you’d hand-picked her to be what was essentially your right-hand woman.
And she knew of the rather…close friendship that you and Gojo had; perhaps improper for court etiquette, but just right for the two of you.
From underneath the bed, Gojo snickers.
You bounce on the mattress, whilst Utahime kicks the bed post.
“Ah…this ancient bed.” You’re commenting once the other attendants look at you with raised brows, “Honestly, sometimes I believe it to be haunted.”
“Wake up to a mysterious figure at your bedside, do you?” Utahime eyes you. You avert your gaze from hers. “Well, we should do well to rid your chambers of that before the Prince arrives, Your Highness.”
“The Prince?”
“Prince Zenin Naoya, of course.”
Gojo knocks his head on the bed frame.
.
.
.
Prince Zenin Naoya possessed many titles; the latest one being the most unpleasant royal you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
Which was saying rather a lot.
You’ve met many a-princess that were appalling to her attendants, and many princes that boasted their numerous wars. Your father himself fell into the latter group. And many, many more dukes and duchesses and marquis—and whatever other title had surfaced over the last few centuries and gotten latched-onto with rabid, golden-ringed claws. Had it not been for your duty to maintain a peaceful political climate, you would have forgone those social gatherings altogether.
Though your father was particularly careful not to repeat the border strife that had occurred not too long ago in your kingdom…some violence-seeped dispute over power.
And so you lifted your head and plastered a smile.
You managed to clamor through even the most painful of social obligations.
But this one…this one might just force you to rewrite all the royal rules that had been drilled into you since you were younger.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You nod in acknowledgement as the Prince bows. His coronet was made of pure gold; a simple band with a blood-red ruby in the middle.
It flashed at you menacingly.
And so did his pearly-white smile.
“The pleasure is all yours, Your Highness.”
You’re taken aback at his choice of words. You meet Gojo’s eyes a little ways away from the court- and his read the same confusion. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Then Naoya turns to the King seated on the throne beside you instead. His smile leers, “My utmost gratitude for this invitation, Your Majesty. My parents send their regards.”
“Good people, good people.” Your father nods, “Their assistance during…those times of trouble shall forever remain in my memory.”
“Who are we if not united against the face of the radicals, Your Majesty?” Naoya graciously bows once more.
“Well said.” And then the King makes a sweeping gesture in your direction. “And in the future, it seems we shall be united once more.”
Naoya throws his gaze at you again, and the way he looks at you…it makes you hug your arms to yourself.
You’re unsure why your gaze had been upon Gojo at that very moment - they always did seem to find him - but you watch as his expression darkens. Darkens. Darkens. In a way you’ve never seen before, and then it’s hitting you—
“Father?”
But he ignores you, “Satoru—!” In the years that you’ve brought Gojo to court, your father had become rather fond of his rhymes and riddles as much as you were. So it wasn’t exactly surprising that he had been called upon, and Gojo’s expression switches instantly into one of foolish mirth. “Why don’t you share one of your amusing rhymes with our guest?”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” He bows deeply. As he makes his way to the middle of the court, where Naoya and his entourage were gathered, the bells upon his blue-and-white garments jingle.
And before you know it, Gojo clasps onto Naoya’s shoulders and ensnares him with his words. “Naoya o’ Naoya, with your great riches and gait.” The corners of his lips twitch - something sharp. Gojo covers his mouth in a faux-whisper, though his words reach every single corner of the vast chamber. “Every lady here knows you take potions to compensate~”
Naoya’s face turns green then red. A furious red.
As if fearing the Prince would swing, Gojo jumps back- just in time for the hay-blond man to whirl around. “But oh, no potion shall make Prince Naoya’s rooster big—the most you ladies get will be the size of a fig~”
The jester laughs maniacally, and so does much of the court; you yourself can’t stop from letting out a startled laugh or two.
Your best friend never did hold back - perhaps because he was the only one allowed to do so without fearing the threat of the dungeons.
And Gojo watches as a giggle slips past the hand you’d brought up to cover your mouth- and his grin widens as he takes it as a challenge. Dancing around Naoya, he continues—
“Naoya is hated by the ladies of the court. Naoya is hated in his medical reports~” He trills gleefully, darting a hand out and knocking Naoya’s coronet off. “And all the ladies and all the healers, have never seen a cock this short~”
Red face now turning almost…a sickly yellow, Naoya attempts to fist-fight the jester. Though Gojo was far more agile than he looked, and he was dodging each hit with ease.
“Oh—have I offended you, Your Highness? Perhaps a change of pace…” Gojo crows. “For all Naoya hates women, he might as well court men-”
“You- you—”
“Easy, son.” Your father chuckles to himself as well, “You should do good to familiarize yourself with the Princess’s jester if you are to marry her.”
Gojo stutters- and his rhyme pauses. His eyes widen.
You feel the red, red carpet give out beneath you.
.
.
.
“I simply must…apologize for Sato- my jester, Your Highness.”
The clinking of silverware fortunately masked the waver in your tone. It was insincere and unapologetic.
Naoya maintains an expression as if he’d just smelled something unpleasant, perhaps as if it was on his very plate. The Prince cuts into his bird with far too much force than necessary, “Apology accepted.” Rather short.
Though you yourself didn’t care—you shoot a look at the ministers that were currently attempting to meld into the royal portraits on the wall.
With nervous smiles, they urge you to continue.
It was a poor imitation of a romantic dinner - as romantic as a political marriage could get.
The royal dining room had a table that sprawled nearly from one end-to-end. Polished mahogany. Intricately-carved legs. So thick that they didn’t buckle under the hundreds of dishes piled on top: soups to puddings to heart-shaped wagashi to those you couldn’t even name. Woven in-between were flickering candles and vases of red, red roses—sprouting confessions of love.
Some of those petals were even scattered across the floor.
Though the dining room could seat about four-hundred guests, right now it only seated him and you. You and your future husband.
Your future husband.
Your future husband.
Your future husband.
It still hadn’t sunk in, and you didn’t want it to.
Zenin Naoya takes a bite of his roasted bird and spits it back out. From his entourage, one of the Zenin ministers darts out with a dish to collect it.
You wrinkle your nose in distaste.
Two courts were watching this fallacy of courtship.
From your side, it was the entirety of your court save for some of the outer ladies-in-waiting and some gents, and your parents. From his side, it was Naoya’s entire entourage at his every beck, call, and swallow. Just waiting for the opportunity that their beloved Prince didn’t like anything.
Which seemed to be…everything.
You yourself can only pick at the delicacies on your plate - they’d done well to include favorites of both you and His Highness. And yet…
And yet, in the past eighteen years you’ve never sat through a dinner without Gojo at your side.
Always at your right-hand seat. Always chomping through his dinner with overexaggerated noises that made you laugh, and the ministers grimace.
How could you feel so alone surrounded by so many people, and yet lacking one?
You’re biting back a sigh.
“Pssst.”
Confused, you look up at Naoya- but he seems just as morbidly indulgent in his food as he was before. He was spitting out even more.
And so you look around—but none of the ministers nor advisors catch your eye, either.
“Psssssst.”
There it was again. Somewhat irritated and feeling your confusion growing - this dinner certainly hadn’t put you in a good mood - you’re about to excuse yourself from this social hostage-situation. Someone must be attempting to make a fool out of you. You’re resting your hands on the polished table and about to push off—
When you feel something…touch your wrist.
You’re about to scream-
“Tamper your screaming, please.”
Oh, well if they asked so nicely…
Wait-
Who?
Without making too much of a spectacle, you slide your fork off the edge of the table.
Naoya grumbles at the metallic ringing—and muttering a dainty apology, you’re leaning down to pick it up. Or so it seems.
Instead, you’re crouching yourself down and lifting the tablecloth ever-so-slightly. It’s a purple velvet, one of the finest in the land, and it opens up to reveal one of the greatest treasures this palace held. At least, in your opinion.
Gojo Satoru brings a finger up to his lips and winks. His make-up crinkling handsomely as he did so, “Do you frequent these parts?”
“I should ask the same from you.” You hiss, glancing around to make sure that no one was looking. “Satoru, what do you think you’re doing-”
“Exercising my culinary skills, my princess.” And he raises up a little velvet packet in one hand, shaking it around tantalizingly. He answers your question before you can voice it, “Just a little horseshoe, just a little wool from Yaga’s sweater, and perhaps the Prince that swallows this shall be a little sweeter~”
Your jaw drops. “You cannot be serious-”
“Never in my life have I been more serious.” Gojo replies solemnly, then with an innocent flutter of his lashes- “Forgive me for not sharing, my princess. But perhaps you would favor it as well?”
“It shan’t suit my palate.” You answer firmly.
“It’s far more palatable than what I did to the wine, trust me.” Gojo smirks.
“You rouge.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but Naoya’s tone grates through the little bubble of mirth you’d formed—in less than a minute, no less. “Wife- wife.”
You and Gojo stare at one another in shock.
Wife?
One of your ministers coughs pointedly, and with a final glance at Gojo, you’re straightening in your chair. “Were you perhaps addressing…me, Your Highness?” And any smart man would have quickly backtracked at this opportunity to change their answer.
But you never claimed that Zenin Naoya was particularly smart. “My eyes don’t perceive any other woman here?” He scoffs, taking a bite of a chicken leg and then immediately spitting it out—“As for the engagement plans- eugh.”
You’re biting back a laugh as he drags out a string - seemingly from a wool…sweater…of Yaga’s - from his mouth and looks at his ministers in bewilderment.
“Th-the chef must have been in a state of pioneering.” You cough out.
Another bite he takes.
And another wad of wool he spits out.
You bring a hand up to your lips, “Perhaps you should wash it down with the wine, Your Highness? It had been brewed specifically for this occasion.”
And so he does - eyeing you all the while.
Naoya takes a big swig of his goblet and—shrieks as he finds half of a shoe inside.
One of Gojo’s very own.
That shriek is loud enough to make the walls of the dining chamber rattle; and Gojo shoots out from the side of the dining table, unable to keep his laughter in control, and dances away. “Twiddle dee, twiddle doo—Naoya coughed up a shoe~” Those double doors are still swinging as it sinks in what just happened- and your ministers and guards take a menacing step towards where the colorful intruder had disappeared.
You raise your hand to signal them to halt.
“This insolent—” Naoya was spitting with fury- unable to even formulate words. His mouth is a downturned slash, and he shoves the plate off the table. It shatters vociferously.
You notice that he’s turned a little green in the way he only seemed to do when Gojo was nearby. “My first order as King shall be to rid this incompetent kitchen-” He spits. “-and that godforsaken jester-”
Your fork clatters to the floor once again. “What’s wrong with Satoru?” You didn’t care if you sounded rather too offended by such a question. “Is it the practical jokes? I shall request that he ceases such-”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Naoya cackles to himself. “Woman, what is there not wrong about that goddamn fool? He’s- he’s—a fool.”
“For that is his duty, is it not?” You narrow your eyes at him.
“I suppose.” Naoya leans back in his chair, “But his duty is to the crown, and when I am King-”
“His duty is to me.” Before you know it, you’re standing. You’re breathing hard. You’re ignoring the ministers that attempt to hold you back. “He’s my best fri—jester.”
And you repeat…though you don’t know whether it’s more for yourself, Naoya, or the boy with the blue eyes that was once underneath the table.
“He’s mine.”
Those words fall like the blade of a guillotine.
Naoya’s eyes were spitting fire. “He’s…yours, is it?” He throws his cape back and stands, “Your Highness…I fail to understand why you entangle yourself with a mere jester?” Though the sentence itself wasn’t one particularly barbed, his distaste bled through every syllable.
“He- he is my best friend-”
“He is a jester.” Naoya says with a tone of finality. He pushes back, letting the chair clutter behind him- the brings up a palm to stop his ministers from righting it. “And a jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.”
Those footsteps of his resound louder than your heartbeat. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
On the way to making his exit, he stops before the entrance and speaks. “We are to be engaged in six moons, and when you are my wife, I expect you to act like one.” Naoya’s gaze is deadly as he grips the door open, “My family earned our titles bringing down entire households- a mere jester is nothing to me.”
Another guillotine: this time, it’s the closing of the dining room doors.
“Your Highness-”
But you’re following Naoya out, and tears burn behind your eyes.
Just as luck - or perhaps fate - would have it, who else had been standing behind the doors listening to every word? None other than Gojo Satoru.
Though his face is downturned, and you can’t make out his expression, your heart soars at the sight of him. He’s pressed against one of the walls closest to the doors, and he clenches his fists at his sides. And you’re just about to reach out- to tell him that Naoya’s words didn’t matter- to tell him that Naoya didn’t matter—
But before you could, Gojo sharply turns to you and bows. Those bells atop his hat jingle as he does so, and he stays bowed as he asks, “This fool begs to be dismissed, Your Highness?”
Your Highness? “You…you may…” Your brows furrow, fingers trembling towards him. “But Satoru-”
And yet, he’s gone.
And you didn’t get a single look at his expression.
You wondered what you would see. You wondered what you would be hoping to see.
But no matter what it was, you knew that all you wanted to see - whether anger or mirth or irritation - was Gojo himself.
Your engagement was in six moons.
.
.
.
To your dismay, Gojo Satoru was avoiding you.
You should have realized that something was off that moment after the disastrous dinner—or perhaps when he didn’t join you to sleep, or perhaps when he hadn’t joined court in the following days. According to one of the palace staff, the jester was ill, but every attempt at a visit to his quarters ended up with you being rebuffed or diverted.
And how many opportunities for diversion there were.
The palace was a-flush with florists, and bakers, and candle-makers, and mask-designers—and orchestras upon orchestras practising for your engagement waltz.
One of those times you’d been dragged away to floral-picking for the grand engagement ball - the one that would announce your union to the entire kingdom. Another time it had been to pose for a portrait with Naoya (a particularly taxing endeavour). And another time it was to pick out the colors for your mask- this was to be an extravagant masquerade ball after all. And another time it had been to get fitted for the ballgown you’d be wearing for the night—like exactly right now.
This time, you’d gotten just past the guards stationed upon either side of Gojo’s chambers (both on his word, and to prevent the Princess from getting into any…scandalous affairs before the engagement).
And you’d cracked open the door - ever-so-slightly - only to find that what was inside…made you halt.
Gojo’s room was completely and utterly empty.
Not just of himself, but of his literature books, his shoes, his bells, his flower vases. Anything and everything that made the chamber so utterly Gojo’s, was gone. Even the braid of friendship you wove for him when you were twelve - that he kept at the very top of his jewelry box - and the flower crowns you made for him that he dried and hung from his windows—you made them rather often, before…Naoya.
He had intruded upon your idle dance between love and friendship - and you were still feeling bitter and confused as Utahime fitted you. As she wound up the hip springs of your corset- and tightened, and tightened—
“I just fail- hah, fail to understand.” You’re muttering, slightly out-of-breath.
Utahime looks up from the knots of your corset, “Your Highness?”
The royal tailor had just stepped out to aid in bringing the imported silk and cloth of gold up to your bed chambers, and in the meantime your attendants were helping tighten your numerous layers underneath. Your ballgown - engagement dress, more precisely - would be fitted on top of the base linen undergarments and the crinolines.
Tonight, you will be engaged.
And to a man that has never made you laugh once-
“Your Highness?” Utahime repeats, snapping you out of your little reverie.
“Oh- forgive me.” You nod at her in acknowledgment. “What I meant to say was, I just fail to understand what he’s thinking.”
She nods back - you didn’t have to specify who. “It is precisely as I have told you, Your Highness.” Utahime tightens a few more knots- knocks a few more breaths out of you. “That ol’ nuisance has not a single thought in his mind. You must not worry yourself too much about him.”
“Oh, but Utahime…how can I not?” You’re sure the flurry of other attendants surrounding you were listening in - smoothing down your layers, preparing your jewelry. But you didn’t care at the moment, if you did say so yourself.
“I believe it is just a little ailment, Your Highness. I fear I am not blessed enough for such a thing to prove fatal to that jester-”
You gulp. “I believe Satoru may be avoiding me.”
At that, even Utahime’s brows furrow. “Pardon?”
“His chambers have been emptied of even the flower crowns, and I haven’t even the faintest glimpse of him these past few days.” Speaking these words aloud seems to make them too real. “I believe I told you of how he overheard the conversation between Naoya and I?”
Utahime nods.
“Naoya had uttered some things- balderdash, if you ask me—” Your fists threaten to clench, but two attendants were working on your nails. Another was double-checking the measurements for your mask. Mask. “Yet I fear Satoru may have misconstrued some things…and I haven’t laid eyes on him ever since.”
There’s a silence.
Her fingers finish their final knot.
And then Utahime stands to look you squarely in the eyes. “This is Gojo Satoru we speak of, is it not?”
Slowly, unsure of where this was going, you nod.
“Then you have naught to worry about, Your Highness.” She flashes you such a beautiful smile, looking over your corset for imperfections - of course, there were none. “It is most likely that he’s skulking about these palace walls, looking for a minister to scare or a prince to embarrass.”
You’re letting out a soft huff of laughter.
“Or even…a princess to adore.”
Your eyes widen- and you’re snapping your gaze to hers. There’s a knowing expression that Utahime wears - one she often gets whenever she notices Gojo hiding in your room, or watches the two of you sneak out during royal balls.
This one, in particular, was about to be the most crowded and convoluted yet.
And you’re meeting her smile, eventually. “I thank you, Utahime…” You then look down as you hear the doors of the dressing room fly open, “But adoration cannot stop a royal engagement.”
Three sharp claps sound as the tailor gets the attention of your attendants.
“That will be all, ladies. Thank you.” And his own attendants and apprentices flood the room to take over the fitting stage—Utahime squeezes your shoulder as she leaves.
Though she doesn’t reach her bed chambers for a much-needed rest, as she might have wanted to. Instead, she’s halting right outside the entrance-
“You.”
And making sure you were occupied by the tailoring, Gojo bows dramatically. Holding his little bells so they don’t jingle- “At your service, Madam Sour-face.”
“Cease it.”
“No, I said Sour-face-”
“Forget it.” Utahime could feel a migraine coming on already at the mere sight of his impish grin.
“Sour-face Utahime with her pressure so high, one more joke and she’ll make me cry~”
Why - oh why - couldn’t the universe take as kindly to her and forbid her from seeing this man, too? She continues, “First, enlighten me as to why you’ve been giving Her Highness the cut?”
A too-innocent expression crosses his face. “Pardon? I fear I have no recollection of ever-”
“I will kill you with my bare hands and feel no ounce of guilt.”
Gojo clicks his jaw shut.
“I…” And it’s under the pressure of her unwavering glare that he finally cracks- letting out a deep sigh and dropping his head. “I plan to leave the palace.”
“Pardon?” Even she sounds utterly shocked. “When-”
“Tonight.” Gojo has never sounded more serious to her. “I have spent the past few days gathering my possessions, everything…she gifted me. As the ball starts tonight, I shall take my leave.”
“But your duties-”
“I have informed His Majesty of my decision. It seems though he shall miss the rhymes, he is keen for an amicable marriage between Her Highness and Prince Naoya. A jester can be replaced, trust in a marriage cannot—especially not one of political nature.” Utahime is almost shocked at this simple foresight, but then again- everyone always did underestimate the fool.
She watches his reaction, “And…the Princess?”
Which seems to make him flinch - as though struck. Perhaps a part of him was. “…I shall leave her a letter before I depart. Her Highness does not deserve to see such cowardice-”
“And yet you still remain.” Utahime’s words make his blue eyes snap to hers. She crosses her arms in front of her, and lets a smug smile take over her lips. “For what reason were you spying outside Her Highness’s fitting, if not to see her?”
“I—” He takes a desperate step closer. “It was simply in passing-”
“For what reason did you empty your bedroom of the flower crowns Her Highness made especially for you? Surely they shan’t prove themselves too useful on the road?”
Gojo’s eyes widened. “I…the memories-”
“For what reason have you waited until the last minute to leave? Until the last minute she shall not be yours, and yours only?”
He snarls, “She was never mine.”
“Because you believe the Princess does not deserve to base herself- being the lover of a fool yes?” When Gojo does not answer, she continues. “The fool seems to believe he knows what the Princess deserves. But does the fool know what he deserves?”
There’s a prolonged silence—of which is only punctured by the awed gasps from inside the dressing room, as the tailor and his apprentices comment on your beauty.
Gojo has the sudden, mad thought to open those doors just a little wider and see you for himself. Just one last time.
One last time.
What was he thinking?
He laughs to himself bitterly, “A jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.”
“But a princess can be everything to a jester, yes?” Utahime asks. “More importantly- who are we to dictate what a person is to another person?”
The answer was as obvious as it was painful.
Gojo Satoru loved you.
Loves you.
Something of it must show on his face, because Utahime throws him a pitiful look she’s never shared before—“You may leave if you please, I shan’t stop you.” And then she reaches out and presses a hand against the doors- they part, unlocked. “But if you wish to stay and stop acting a-fool…then follow me.”
She brushes past him.
Meanwhile Gojo looks inside and catches a glimpse of you - and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.
He runs after Utahime, bells jingling.
.
.
.
“You look…”
“How odd.”
“How startling.”
“What a change!”
Utahime crinkles her nose, “The only thing this proves is that your face is more tolerable when it is covered.” She turns to the brown-haired woman next to her, “And that my Shoko is a goddess when it comes to handiwork.”
Shoko smiles sweetly, “I have much practice making death masks.”
“I’ll say.”
As the other few attendants pendulate between laughing to themselves, and admiring Shoko’s quick work - she’d been requested just a few hours before to make a mask befitting a royal ball, and she’d finished it just in time - Gojo leans closer to the mirror.
He reaches his trembling fingers up to touch his face, “This is surely…me?”
“Unfortunately.” Utahime sighs, and she gets elbowed by Miwa.
Utahime had gathered the most trust-worthy attendants she led: Miwa, Momo, and Kugisaki from tailoring. Along with the impeccable royal healer, Shoko, who she knew would be the only one that would be able to create a mask for the ball with her expert hands. And they’d gotten to work fixing up perhaps their most difficult case yet—none other than Gojo Satoru.
The royal jester was rather fussy at first- insisting that the powder puffs and cloth wipes tickled.
Before Utahime put her foot down and announced that they weren’t going to present a ‘half-assed’ (forgive her language) marriage-wrecker to the Princess just yet.
That reminder of you kept him quiet for the rest of the make-over.
And Kugisaki had even commented, “Perhaps we ought to invoke the Princess’s name every time we need to keep the jester in line?”
“Do not tempt me.” Utahime had replied.
Gojo had shuddered.
But it really was true: he sat through the rest of the next hour or two without so much as a single rhyme or peep.
Not even when they told him to ‘pucker up’ in order to douse him in rouges and lip stains. That likely saved five years from Utahime’s life…
Gojo himself helped them scrub off his stark-white jester’s make-up. The vampiric base. The teardrops of black paint. The red, red lips—a few of his little troupe openly stared as they’d never seen the Princess’s jester without his make-up.
And Gojo himself knew that he wasn’t all that bad looking - he had noble features. A strong nose. A high set of cheekbones. A pert, pretty mouth that always looked to be on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t.
Or, at least, that was how you described him.
You were the only person that got to see Gojo without his court-deemed make-up; and you always did say he was handsome. To which he’d always bat his long, white lashes dramatically and compose you a sappy sonnet about your eyes. He supposes he knew he was decent, but…handsome?
He never saw it.
But these girls seemed determined to make him.
Cloudy hair. Delicate features. Blue eyes like a painting.
They replaced his make-up with something simpler. Gone was the cast of white, instead replaced by just a bit of rouge and shimmer. His pale brows were tamed and so was his hair - braided to the side using fragrant rose oils, with a few pieces falling handsomely over his face. All thanks to Momo, of course.
Kugisaki had dug up something from that ol’ tailor’s trunk—a snow-white cloak and doublet, along with the associated tights he often made fun of. It was a suit fit for a prince.
And it was exactly the type of suit he’d made fun of a prince for.
But here he was now - not a single difference between him and them. Or at least physically.
Gojo’s training sessions with Yaga had kept him fit; and he fit the suit perfectly. His broad shoulders were outlined against the clean cut, and his trim waist fit snugly into those damn tights—even through the suit, it was obvious he was well-built, in a way those baggy jester’s outfits never did show. Polished shoes. Silver buttons. Silver belt. Heavy silver chains and pendants that arrived with the robes.
He might even have passed for a battle-hardened Prince like this…
Momo helped him into his equally as white gloves - it seems they were sticking to a theme for him. All the better to help his eyes and his crown stand out.
Oh yes…the girls had somehow bribed Yaga into letting them sneak down to the royal treasure. For just a few minutes.
All the spoils of war and generations of wealth—and they’d come out with a crown.
It was Utahime who’d dug this one out, deciding that that would make him stand out far more than the usual hats.
Made of pure silver; the design itself was rather simple, or so it seemed at first. Only when one looked closer…when one ventured further…could you see that what seemed like a simple band was actually a wreath of silver branches and floral vines twisted into one, with sapphire-studded flowers blooming along it. One more thing had been taken from the treasury - a signet ring with a ‘G’.
“It felt proper.” Miwa, who had found the ring, beamed. “Names and titles are lost to time. And though I may not know what the ‘G’ once stood for, at least for tonight, it can mean ‘Gojo’, can it not?”
Gojo felt it getting slid onto his left hand, and he stares at the ring with furrowed brows.
He stares and stares.
He’s never felt more worthy of you.
By the time they had finished, the strings of the orchestra had started playing their opening sequence - the ball was commencing.
Utahime turns to the rest of them, “We have done well.” Then, ultimately, back to grumble at him. “…You have done well.”
And though Gojo could make up a rhyme to rile her up, though Gojo could comment that they could have done better and bask in the ensuing chaos, though he could do his mask and his mask—
He simply looks at each and every one and smiles. Sincerely. “Thank you.”
They smile tenderly back.
The final component of his outfit for your engagement ball was the mask. Though there was no set theme, Shoko had gone above and beyond to craft his in the shape of the upper-half of a snow leopard’s face. The feline gaze. The sharp ears. The faint outline of rosettes against the white mask. It was mastery.
Gojo dons it and smiles to himself. He really did feel handsome, as you had always said.
His blue, blue eyes twinkle from behind the mask.
.
.
.
“You look absolutely riveting, Your Highness.”
“I thank you.”
This was a royal ball that looked gilded. There was no other word to describe it—gilded.
Polished floors. A thrumming orchestra. Golden chandeliers had every single candle lit; and they crept halfway down to the ballroom floor as if gifted from the Sun itself. Just for you.
And that was in addition to the numerous other decorations that made even the most high-titled of guests gape in awe: the shimmering fountains that looked as if they were sprouting liquid gold, golden-dipped gardenias wreathed around the hallway, and the long table of foods were most lovely. All sorts of sweets and champagnes in honor of the union.
Guests upon guests upon guests being announced as they entered. They were dressed to impress, and there were more aristocrats gathered for this one ball than you’d seen in your entire life, perhaps.
Had Gojo been here with you, then you two would’ve had the most amusing time coming up with stories for each one.
There was Sir Gakuganji who held a secret liking for abstract dancing, here was Lord Todo whose son had fallen in love with a thousand-year-old portrait. No one would be spared. The two of you would have tucked yourself into some alcove and watched as the lavishments flew by, and when everyone was appropriately drunk you’d sneak out to the stables or to star-gaze.
Your heart clenches.
Satoru…
You attempt to shake your head free of him.
It most certainly was a beautiful ball. And if you imagined that this was one of no particular purpose, then you really could see it.
The ball was decorated to match your dress, you see.
Floor-length silk. Gold-threaded bodice.
Celestial layers upon layers.
Your uppermost skirts had gold dusting atop it; and they dazzled as you floated across the ballroom.
Your attendants had decided that going for a more simple look with the jewelry was appropriate - it would accentuate the simple gold circlet atop your head. A single sapphire embedded into the middle of it.
Naoya had sneered at the choice, of course. When doesn’t he? But this time, he was particularly offended at the presence of a sapphire rather than the Zenin family’s signature blood-red rubies.
You refused to make your attendants change it. You donned your cat-like mask with pride.
Perhaps that’s why he seemed keen on ignoring you in favor of a group of other beautiful court ladies in attendance—though you honestly couldn’t imagine anything different happening had the two of you been married, as well. You sighed inwardly.
You’re nodding in acknowledgement as Prince Okkotsu Yuta nears with a man beside him.
He looked older - about your father’s age, if not a few years older. Tall. Toned - in the way of someone that had one been corded with muscle, but had since lost it to age. Bearing an ice-white beard and a row of silver medals proudly lining his chest—he stands before you in his off-white uniform and bows. It was obvious that the man was rather handsome, drawing eyes from around the ballroom.
But what catches your eye the most were his eyes.
Summer-sky blue eyes.
They reminded you of—
“My uncle, Michizane, Your Highness.” Yuta introduces him. “This is his first time in the palace since…”
Your voice drops into something hushed. “I understand.” Turning to the general, you’re half-bowing once more. “I am rejoiced to welcome you into my home, any troubles that we may have had in the past-”
“Have naught to do with the present, Your Highness.” Michizane graciously nods at you. “And most certainly have naught to do with the beloved princess.”
You manage a smile.
“And if you can excuse my being so impudent…it is precisely what I sought this occasion for, Your Highness.” He looks over the bustling crowd, now getting ready to waltz- and seemingly catches the eye of your father. Your father who now looked as though he’d just seen a walking dead man. “I hope to bury the misunderstandings between my family and your father, and understand what happened to my younger brother and his family. It had proved itself to be both a blessing and a curse that I had been on an excursion during those troubled times. And I seek a resolution for the sake of my inner peace, if nothing else.”
You’re nodding in agreement. “It is most tragic what happened. For the sake of borders…nothing is worth so much. And I cannot ask for your mercy enough-”
“It is not something I shall ever be able to forgive. But you are not at fault, dear princess.” Michizane smiles conclusively, but not unkindly.
“And yet, I have been wracked with guilt ever since.” You ultimately reply.
Though you hadn’t met Michizane previously, you had learned that the history between your families was a long and bloody one. His family had been of a royal bloodline, of kingdoms now lost and eviscerated into neighboring ones - including yours. And you knew it was partly the fault of your kingdom. And although royal tutors justified and justified away your father’s actions—you could see past them
“Perhaps…” Michizane is the one to break through your whirlwind of thoughts. He reaches his gloved hand out, a silver signet ring on his middle finger. “-a dance to commence the burying of our animosity?”
“But of course.”
As the orchestra starts up a lively tune, Michizane whisks you away onto the dance floor. Much to the horror of some of your elderly ministers, of course, who gaped at the mere presence of the man.
And at the fact that your first dance wasn’t with the Prince.
But laughter bubbles to your throat as Michizane twirls and swirls you—sways you smoothly around and around the dance floor. He was one of the best dancers you’ve ever encountered, and you’re smiling appreciatively at him once the song comes to a close.
From the corner of your vision, you spot the black-and-red-clad Naoya storming his way over to you. And you hurry to beg a second dance when-
A title is announced - louder than all the rest.
A prince.
Prince…you don’t hear the name.
But you don’t need it.
Because you’re looking up at the grand staircase from which guests made their entrance, hand-in-hand with their partners or followed by their entourages. This one had neither. This one was one of the most beautiful men you think you’ve ever seen.
He looked like something from a story.
Snow-white mask. Snow-white suit. He was tall and clearly toned - but there was something in his demeanor that made him seem almost…dainty. He gripped the balustrade of the landing and looked over the glistening ball- barely even breathing, it seemed like. And he looked content to remain there in awe, before the chief butler reading out the named coughs- pointedly.
The man startles.
He looks over at the chief butler, and then nods jerkily to himself. In self-assurance.
Cautiously, he makes his way down to the ball.
And the closer he gets, the more of his details you’re taking in: like the traces of signature silver on his suit, and the way his fingers trembled ever-so-slightly.
He looked just like the princes you’d read about in fairytales - the ones you imagined as a child before you happened to meet a real-life prince.
Curls of white could be seen behind that snow leopard mask of his. They contrasted oh-so-beautifully with the blue, blue sapphire atop his crown.
Just like his eyes.
Your breath hitches-
“I believe I may have been monopolizing you, Your Highness.” Michizane whispers as the Prince nears.
“Pardon?” You look at him- but he merely smiles.
Before you know it, the mysterious guest has neared enough to give the two of you a jerky bow. His tone tremors ever-so-slightly as he asks, “P-permission for the next dance, Your Highness?”
Michizane nods at you reassuringly.
“I would be delighted.” You breathe, and then he’s taking your hand in his—gently. A touch even softer than the fabric of his tender, tender gloves.
“I bid you a good evening, Your Highnesses.” Michizane tips his hat, “And do take care of the lovely princess…” Before turning to the younger man…his brows furrow the longer he looks-
But a lady-in-waiting taps Michizane’s arm for a dance—and he’s made to turn away.
And you’re left alone.
With him.
Naoya stuck with some other lady-in-waiting as you put your hand…tentatively on the other man’s right shoulder. He lets out a shaky breath, as if your mere touch was replenishing his soul—and he doesn’t move away. Then you let your second hand get grasped - gently - in his own.
Backward with your right foot.
Sideways with your left foot.
Backwards.
Sideways.
Backwards.
Sideways.
It’s halfway into the song, pressed closed to his thundering chest, that you finally break the silence. “The crown suits you…Satoru.”
Gojo flinches, “You discovered-”
“You did not seriously think you could fool me?” You smile. He mirrors it- albeit sheepishly. “Gojo Satoru, how could I possibly be gulled? You have been my dearest friend since I was eight-”
He twirls you in the middle of the ballroom.
And you continue. “-and the one I hold closest to heart.” Looking deep into his blue, blue eyes.
Gojo sighs, “Words cannot describe how beautiful you are, my princess. The least this fool can do is but dress to impress.”
“You look particularly dashing this evening as well, Satoru. You always do.” Surprise makes his lips part—and you’re leaning in. Though they do not touch, you hear gasps from the onlookers. “You look like a Prince.”
“And you look like my dreams.”
The two of you dance for a second song, and a third, and a fourth. Without letting Naoya gain any entryway between you two - that non-existent space - you two dance the night away—dizzy with nothing but the proximity.
The realization that you could be so…close as long as no one found out. That you couldn’t be closer.
That you could.
That you needed to.
By the time that most of the guests had well and thoroughly indulged themselves in the bubbling champagne and wine, the clock had struck midnight—and you and Gojo disappear into the night once no one’s looking. Through the small passageway where the two of you had first met, then up a few flights of staircases, breathless and giddy, you’re lucky there were no guards stationed outside your bed chambers as the ball raged on.
And you’re opening the door and falling into the vast bed with him.
Your hands on his lapels. His hands on your waist.
You’re both letting out synchronized grunts as your back hits the springy mattress, and Gojo’s letting out a scorching breath that fans your face. That sets your skin searing.
“We ought not to…” You whisper- and then you’re pressing your lips down his neck. Illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows.
“I am of the same thought.” He responds, in an equally hushed tone - as if anything louder would shatter this fragile dream. It most certainly must be a dream, yes? This was all you’ve ever wanted- and him. “And yet—”
And yet, Gojo places a hand on the back of your neck, and guides your mouth to his.
He kisses you loooong and deep- and inexperienced. You both are.
You’re chuckling as you tug his lips open with yours - letting Gojo’s sultry tongue slide inside your wet cavern. He drags his tastebuds inside and moans—
And after kissing you and kissing you as if starved for eons—
Until your lips were buzzing.
Until his hot hips were crushing into yours.
—you let your fingers fall to his silver buttons. Rapidly undoing them.
“My princess.” The jester wrenches deep from his chest - guttural and gone. There was a crazed hint in his tone already. “Allow me…”
And before you know it, he guides your hips to rest back on the king-sized mattress. Sapphire eyes boring deeply into yours- Gojo hands you his crown to hold, as he hovers himself down and unravels the first few layers of your gown.
His fingers are quick- nimble.
And it takes him far shorter an amount of time to rid you down to your undergarments than it takes your careful attendants. Desperate. Depraved. Soon enough, you’re feeling goosebumps prickle across your skin at the bite of cold midnight air; your chemise and undergarments were much too thin.
And soaked.
Utterly, utterly soaked.
But Gojo’s face flushes - almost hard enough to warm your skin through sheer proximity. He admires your sopping cunt through your panties, he leans down and presses his nose right where your clit would be. And then he sniffs—
“Fuck.”
He almost jolts. Reaching in and tearing through your undergarments with his teeth.
“Fuh-fuck.”
The noise that expels from him is almost unbidden- and its primal tone is enough to make your toes curl. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he stares at your swollen folds. He stares at your glossy slit.
He stares and stares as slick beads out of you in a pretty stream—and before Gojo’s own mind seems to register, he’s muffling a hot moan between your naked legs. Immediately shoving himself nose-deep.
His chin thwacks! the top of your sopping slit, and his tongue wastes no time darting inwards.
Your entrance is so wet that he has no trouble easin’ his thick muscle inside- despite its impressive girth. And then immediately zig-zagging his sensual inches fucking in—aaaaaaall along your walls and driving the curvaceous tip of his tongue into every little ridge and cranny. Fat. Trembling with need.
“Yes, my princess.” Gojo’s managing between husky breaths- each scorched out against where you were most sensitive. “Yes, my princess-”
“S-Satoru—” Your hand’s reaching down to twist your fingers into his snow-white locks.
You’re giving him a particularly hard pull and he groans-
“My princess…” That ocean gaze of his is half-lidded and hypnotized, flickering right up to bore into your eyes as he gluttonously propels his tongue even deeper. “I cannot live if I do not make you mine.”
Your feet plant on either side of his shoulders- a steadfast pedestal. For you to buck your hips and shove your drivelling cunt against his mouth, “Then what deters you, jester?”
Gojo’s chuckle is dark and deepened with lust. “Nothing, Your Highness.”
He’s moving his tongue in and out of your hole at such a frenzy.
This was the night of your royal engagement, and you’re here getting eaten out by your jester—
“Does it vex you that this lowborn jester has finally gotten his hands on the princess’s pretty pussy?” He gurgles out into your arching core, the wads of your sap slipping between his lips—and then back out as he licks. “Perhaps not you…but surely those godforsaken ministers that must have hoped for a more…royal touch….”
And licks and licks and licks—“Y-you keep running that mouth, Sato-”
“Jester, remember?” He grins. “Pray tell, Your Highness, am I the first?”
He must know the answer. He surely must- he’s been at your side for the past eighteen years…and you yourself were aware that you were his first, too.
Yet you find your lips moving before your mind does. And you whimper, “Y-yes…”
“Pardon, my princess?”
“Yes-”
Gojo drags the doughy patches of his fingertips across your clit.
“Then you grant this lowly fool the deepest and most precious honor.”
It was an honor.
An honor to eat your pretty core—to press his puckered lips against your folds in such a sensual kiss- one that would make even the most scandalous of court ladies faint. To part those tender pussylips and dive his tongue inside- every single inch that thrusts away at a vigorous pace. Stuffing you from the hilt of his tastebuds, to that flexible tip that swirled to n’ fro-
Gojo had his face pressed up so closely - so deeeeep - that parts of his features were rubbin’ red. Covered in slick. Dripping with it.
And yet he was only scouring deeper- deeper- fucking deeper until your pelvis was crushed against his hungry maw. Crushed. “And this fool is grateful- so very, utterly grateful.” His tastebuds were going in nearly till those sweetened soft spots you loved so much in those solitary moments in the privacy of your baths, yet he flares his tongue till he’s stretchin’ you out even more. “I shall do anything for you, my princess- anything—I live to serve you-”
Gojo’s honed canines nip at your clit.
“And this pussy.”
And serving you, he is.
With every fibre of his being. With every part of him that could reach you—he’s eating you out like such an animal, as if he was going fucking frenzied on your cunt.
The tip of his nose massaging your clit. That left hand of his fastening to your waist and dragging you right back n’ forth even deeper.
“And th-this fool deserves not such a privilege-” He whispers, mostly to himself. Though his wide, lust-glazed eyes maintain contact with yours, “This fool deserves nothing. And yet…yet, I care not if they happened to enter this chamber right now- I would gladly get thrown in the gallows for this greed, for a second taste.”
Wide-eyed - almost crazed - he tugs his wet tongue uuuuup the middle of your slit, and almost up to your navel. “In fact, I beg of it.”
And his other hand…
Oh, Gojo’s other set of fingers smear the puddle of slick that spreads from your core- all along your inner thighs and making its way down your calves. He collects it all.
Every single drop.
And then, like the most precious of mead, he brings those wettened fingertips up to his mouth and sucks. Savors. Gojo’s eyes flutter closed and his Adam’s apple bobs with ecstasy - “She tastes like she yearns for more.”
“You understand?” You’re asking, half-bemused.
“I speak seven languages, Your Highness.” Gojo replies, “One of which is pussy—” Then with his flattened tongue, he laps up the rest of the satiny ribbons escaping you- before flicking his eyes to the mountain of pillows piled behind you. “My princess, might I request that you procure a little treasure I have left underneath your favorite pillow?”
“A little treasure…?” Almost dazed, you reach underneath and your fist closes around something soft and bell-decorated. One of his jester’s hats.
“A long, long night beside the princess left this poor fool forgetting—the hat bestowed upon me by the princess, I should be getting~” Gojo trills- whilst he still lavishes his heated, horny lips across your swollen cunt. “But if the princess puts it upon my head, she can be as pushy- as she wishes as I eat this royal pussy~”
Your jester is speaking rhymes between your legs?
“Oh, sometimes your mouth is overworked.” You’re harrumphing at the overjoyed jester - once you’re unceremoniously dumping the cap n’ bell onto Gojo’s head.
Grinning, he bites down on the expensive tip of his right glove and tugs it off.
He makes quick work fastening that behind his ears, before nudging your hands to grasp onto the floppy ‘ears’ on top. Your sole source of balance as he leans in and eases one of his long fingers inside- then two—then teasin’ a third.
As he shovels in oblong inches into your sopping cunt, pushin’ apart your tender folds and letting his padded tips find their way inside. And inside.
In and out.
“Please-” You breathe heavily as he quickens the pace after a few squelching thrusts. His middle finger was the longest, and it was spreading you apart the deepest—fuck, it was just so soft inside. So welcoming. So tight that you were clenchin’ around him almost hard enough to make his poor digits snap- and the mere thought makes Gojo hard enough in his trousers that he wants to cream them right away-
You’re clamoring onto your elbows suddenly, “Y-you cannot be serious, Satoru…”
Oh, had he said that out loud? It seems he’d said that out loud. And yet, without even a hint of regret in his grin- Gojo hums. “A jester shan’t ever lie to his princess.” Those kiss-bitten lips of his purse with a wad of spittle that lands gently between your pussylips, “Or his pussy.”
“Your pussy?” You ask- before the breath’s suddenly knocked out of you as he starts driving a third finger in this time. Properly.
Stretching you out to the maaaaaximum.
The globular ends of his fingers edging in, in, in—he doesn’t just remain pistoning them vertically. Gojo’s rude in the sense that he’s hooking them right below where you needed him the most.
Throbbing, thumping; your g-spot was most certainly aching for him.
But that was exactly the problem- and Gojo’s smile grows wicked as he keeps thrusting his three fingers into your cunt. “J-just the slightest bit…fuck, to the left, jester.”
“If the princess may still utter a sentence, then this poor jester must go harder on her entrance~” He croons. Swabbin’ into every good spot except for that one - your favorite - he suckles on your sensitive nub. “What deters you from claiming what you seek, hm? Use me, Your Highness.”
Your teary eyes snap open. When had you even closed them? “Use?”
“Use me.” Less of a demand- more of a live-saving plea. Gojo was so far gone by this point that his hardened hips were ruttin’ against the luxurious mattress with every swipe of his tongue, “Claim what you wish. Use me- use me—”
And as he wishes, you’re lightly tugging on the points of his jester hat to keep him pressed against you-
But that wasn’t enough for him.
“I beg of you—this lowly fool begs…” As his right hand shapes out the tight, tight channel of your cunt - Gojo reaches his other hand up to grasp your own- to make you clutch his cap n’ bells even tighter. Hard enough for his fingernails to leave marks- and he needs you to be just as rough. “Fucking use me like the princess you are. The princess that saved me.”
He ruts even more suddenly- he must be painfully hard now.
“Claim my lips. Claim my tongue- claim every fibre of my being to be used by you…” A low snarl snatches from the back of his throat. “-just claim me as yours, as I have claimed you, my princess.”
And then you’re knocking that stupid little hat off his head- and fisting your hands in his hair once more to crush Gojo’s pretty, pink lips against your cunt. Arching off the mattress, you were just bucking and bucking your treacly pussy all over his face.
Stringing yourself through the shockwaves of pleasure that kept pouring up your legs - like warm water. Gojo was just salivating in-between them.
He doesn’t even have the time to breathe—and you’re getting the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to. Couldn’t even make himself think of anything else but dragging four - now four - fingers between those swollen-shut lips and thud-thud-thudding into your g-spot. “Good princess.” He hisses between clenched teeth, “Gooooood princess-”
“Keep quiet, jester.” You’re feeling yourself get slowly overcome by primal desperation.
“As you wish, mistress~” And Gojo’s never been happier- lashing and lashing those ridged tastebuds inside until your walls buzzed with the texture. “Mmmm.”
And soon enough, you’re feeling your legs start to twitch- in the way they did whenever you had your fingers stuffed deep in the baths- “Oh.” By this point, Gojo was aiming to intrude four fingers and his slippery tongue between your pussylips.
Swirlin’ and swirlin’ it—tap-tap-tapping it over that first tight ring of muscle.
His greed sickened you- and made you even wetter. And with a forceful tug of those angelic strands of his, you’re staring deep into Gojo’s eyes - fluttering desperately as he fights not to detach himself with your wet pussy. He doesn’t.
And he’s accelerating his fingers hitting the bullseye—
“I-I feel I shan’t last very long, Sato- jester.” You’re hissing, eyes threatening to shut as the white-hot pleasure keeps wracking through you.
With his spit-glossed lips wrapped around your clit, he hums. “Mmm?”
“Oh.” You hunch into him. “Repeat that.”
“Mmmmm—” Gojo elongates his nearly-feline rumbles, and then his lips quirk up- into a grin you recognize as being a signature of when he gets a devious idea.
One sure to ruin courts and leave you amused - though you’re sure that you’re the sole one being ruined right now.
He’s nuzzling his face ever-deeper against your cunt, then muffles out an entire sentence - what you assume to be a rhyme - whilst he keeps his mouth sucklin’ on your clit. Making the sensitive bursts of pleasure explode twofold behind your eyes- you’re seeing stars as he repeats it—again, and again, and again and again and again—
Gojo often did love repeating a joke if it managed to make you laugh exceptionally hard.
However, now you were all but crying out for mercy. Your chin trembles as you keen out Gojo’s name in a lingering echo, “I-I really shan’t- oh…” No matter how many years of royal diction or elocution you’ve endured, it couldn’t mask the way your voice cracks on the tail end of your sentence.
Almost pathetically so.
And soon enough, Gojo’s finding his witty mouth stuffed full- fucking you through your high.
Tongue flicking in and out. Teeth grazing over your clit.
He alternates between letting his tastebuds enter your pussy as well—and then letting his doughy digit take over as he suckles on your clit. Like the sweetest thing in the world. “Mmmm.” Repeating his little rhymes over and over- interrupted only by the noisy slurps! of him sucking on your nub- and the embarrassing little whimpers as he was wrenched by you.
Side-to-side. Up and down.
You’re moving him wheeeeeerever you wanted- and he was in heaven as pain sears from his scalp.
You grip onto his braid, and another lock of his hair, as handlebars to prolong your wave of pleasure. The bliss stabs through you white-hot as he presses deeeep into your g-spot. “I haven’t felt anything like this- hah, before, Satoru…”
“Your jester aims to please.”
Your orgasm makes you shiver. It rattles past your walls - where the pounding was most prevalent - and then up your spine to make your head pound with pleasure—the curling of your toes, the fluttering of your lashes, the way you’re letting escape the sweetest soft moans; sweeter than any orchestra downstairs. Gojo memorizes it all.
Through peak after peak.
Through thrust after thrust.
And as the crescendo comes to a close, he parts with your pussy—a pointed squelch! emanates from the connection. “Though the back of this Princess’s pussy I did knock, Her Royal Highness still yearns for the jester’s cock~”
Your mouth gapes, “Do not tell me that was the rhyme you have been repeating this entire time?”
“As you wish, I shan’t.” He grins. And then Gojo’s raising himself to his haunches- shrugging off his cloaks and his coats. “Perhaps another? From all the princes and lords to pick, our beloved Princess yearned for the jester’s di-”
“Another word and you shall be turned out.” You warn him, albeit half-heartedly.
“Now that doesn’t rhyme, Your Highness.” Gojo faux-pouts. With a few more tugs and pulls - he really didn’t understand how you aristocrats wore this on every occasion - he’s ridding himself of his upper garments and his trousers.
Though you’ve seen the royal jester shirtless time and time again, his perfectly-toned body made your eyes bulge.
And then finally the linen undergarments that presented him—Gojo Satoru’s long cock, hot and rock-hard.
He was engorged till he looked fit to burst - with his mushroom-curved tip blushin’ an angry red, and his veins popping out down his shaft. So prominent that you could almost count every throb-throb-throb!
Gojo’s tip glistens wetly with precum, capping the top of his cock and just oozing like a lacquer down every inch. Almost eight inches, if you’re mentally counting correctly.
He wraps a single hand around his thickened base- rustling the soft curls decorating his pelvis. Spreading out in an alluring pattern—Gojo then uses his other hand to nudge your thighs apart. Hamstrings stretching. Toes curling. Making sure they’re pinned to the springy mattress before he inches his red-hot cock closer.
There’s a resounding squeeeeelch! as he smears the very first, readied inch down your opening crevice.
“Easy there, Your Highness.” Gojo’s breath hatches with a moan. “Easy- hah…”
“I am no steed, Satoru.”
“You speak the truth, my princess.” He shoots you a ravishing smile- hungry. He really did look ready to eat you. Ready to shovel his entire length in.
Ready to break—himself. Fuck.
He was breaking himself.
A mere few inches are entering past that first ring of muscle-
And you’re arching your back into his chiselled chest. “Oh h-heavens…” It leaves you and mixes with the broken grunts n’ gruffs that were leaving Gojo just as equally, just as desperately, as he keeps your hips pushed into the bed and siiiiinks his cylindrical length inside.
It’s like nothing your royal tutors had lectured you upon - down to the fact that all those awkward anatomical lessons were for your wedding night with a prince, no less.
You feel a pearl of red escape you—and you embrace him with weakened limbs. “Satoru-”
“H-heaven is correct.” Gojo hiccups out. Was he still stuck on that you’d uttered earlier- had he even heard anything more? And were there…tears twinkling at the edges of his lashes?
Before you can finalize an answer, you’re mewling at the slight resistance of your cunt. Gojo’s cock was oh-so-girthy—more than you might have expected, and seemed to be throbbing even bigger with every second he was mazin’ himself inside you.
And he feels the shift immediately- he’s affected by it immediately.
His handsome jaw grits. His chest caves with a sudden groan. He turns his half-lidded eyes downwards, and using both overlarge hands he grips each of your asscheeks.
Those pretty, princely features of his twist into something agonized- as Gojo arches his sculptured back and drives his cock inside. “Please-” Your best friend pants out. “Please, please, please, please—h-haven’t I served you well, Your Highness?”
“You would be correct…?” You’re answering him- head foggy because of the sudden flurry of semi-thrusts.
In and out. In and out. He was buried just a few inches past his sensitive slit - and the small tremors of your cunt meant that he was thrown to ecstacy every few split-seconds.
Gojo seemed to be growing longer than you remembered seeing him.
Gojo seemed to be pulsing even thicker-
“Th-then…shan’t this lowly fool be rewarded with a single inch…?” He mumbles- sounding utterly drunk. And it wasn’t just his slurring tone and his tapering sentences that gave you that impression - but Gojo had his face pressed into the crook of your neck, and his hot tongue gliiiiiding up your sweaty neck. “A mere inch, my princess-”
You buck- and even that seemed far too much for the pussydrunken jester.
For he’s digging his crescent-shaped nails into your soft flesh and dragging you back into him - hitting his hips with a resounding thwack! “No- no, please don’t leave, Your Highness.” He begs—fucking begs.
“I-I am not—oh.” Another blustering thrust that leaves your deepest innards probed.
“If you wish me to cease- then just say the word. And I shall heed every syllable.” Gojo murmurs, his sapphire eyes threatening to shut with the hypnotic squeeze. With his pure need. With the urge to feel himself from the outside- and considering how big he was, he’s sure he’d manage to. “But please- please, do not leave me. Th-this pussy has been my deepest, darkest desire ever for f-far too long.”
Your eyes widen, “How long…exactly?”
Those plump, rose-pink lips of his graze yours as soft as a feather. “Ever since I knew what it was…and I woke up with quite the ah- rock-hard situation. I had never left your chamber faster, Your Highness- what if the attendants witnessed it?”
You moan as one of his hands lifts off your ass to thumb aside your sultry pussylips. Lovingly full.
“What if they were aware how feverishly I desired you?”
They were just glued with sap- it makes him break off a moan.
“What if- hngh, what if they could see through me—a lowborn mutt- eager to dirty the precious princess?”
Gojo stares so long and lovingly at your slightly-ajar cunt—so lovingly, that his mouth ends up watering. He continues, “To dirty you…to corrupt you.” A stream of spittle leaks from the corner of his lips, and it ends up dapplin’ over your folds.
“To- hah, fuck you.”
Your jester roves his hips closer - smearing the translucent liquid using his hips. Aaaaaaall over as he nudges and nudges his rounded, reddened tip deeper inside - taking over your cunt little by little.
Stars flash behind your eyelids, and in that opportunity, Gojo had reached over to take the crown that he’d donned for the ball. Your engagement ball. And he was promptly caressing the top of your scalp with it, placing it atop your beautiful head—you suited his colors.
Gojo lets out something that sounded more like a prayer: “To fuck you with the crown on, has always been this fool’s most embarrassing wish.”
He’s finally bottoming out.
Finally. And it’s a sensation like none other.
Gojo’s cock was stretching you out in ways you’ve never felt before; managing to mold your channel to his measurements. And his hammers were just so sensual—slow, semi-thrusts so that he can fit himself inside. “Please-” Inside and inside. “Please, please- this lowly jester knows every secret and preference of yours, my princess.”
Your heels are digging into the gorgeous dimples at the base of his spine. “Yes, oh…”
“Every- single- inch—” And you’re being propelled in short jerks upwards- those ancient royal bedsprings protesting. As much as you were begging for more. Your hands drag down his creamy-white back, leaving bloodied marks- and that only leaves him pulsating even harder inside you. Gojo’s blossomed tip had contentedly filled you up till your cervix - “In ways those ministers would- hah, wring my neck over.”
“I would never let them.” You’re spitting out.
“And yet…” Gojo leans down to whisper. “That only made this fool yearn for it- more-” A few more pressurized thrusts, and every prominent vein of his massages your spots oh-so-perfectly. As he pushes n’ pushes he continues babbling, “Please let it fit inside-” His lips tremble with a whimper. “Please let it fit inside—”
Shock strangles your words, “S-Satoru, you’re already inside.”
“P-pardon?” He almost stutters his hips - before he likely realized that your syrupy-sweet cunt was far too heavenly for him to merely linger. And he’s thrusting away like an animal.
Nodding, “Satoru, I promise—” Eyes scrunching together at the incredible sensations of him stretchin’ you out, hitting into your every nook, letting his velvety tip glide across your tenderest area - that g-spot. “You’ve succeeded your fantasy.” Your legs tighten around his slender waist, “Promise.”
Gojo’s chin hits his chest.
And he’s staring down at where the two of you glossily connect—“O-oh…” Gojo’s mouth looked so delicious like this - you almost wanted to bite him - as an expression of cute surprise takes over him.
And all of a sudden, it’s as if he’s simply melting…
Into your arms. Into your cunt. Gojo’s honey-dipped tip probes into your cervix, and instead of even ramming away - he’s merely draaaaagging and swirlin’ the bulbous edge of him around. Again and agaaaaain. The texture of his flared ridge was something incredible, and it knocks n’ grinds against hidden spots of nerves. “I finally have you, Your Highness.”
You’re feeling your heart pound at his confession - oh-so-tender. Even when he was fucking you deep into the plush mattress.
“You have never not, my jester.” You’re admitting back up at him.
The most beautiful smile graces his face- and Gojo’s feeling quite unfairly about all this. So he’s slitherin’ his right hand between your legs and spankin’ your neglected clit.
Those slight brushes of his bushy happy trail weren’t enough—now he was twiddling and turning such dizzying patterns atop that sweet, sweet nub. Watching your every minute expression, he hums. “Beautiful through anger, happiness and shock, yet the Princess looks prettiest on my cock~”
“You fiend.” You’re swatting his chest.
Only for him to gather up those weak legs of yours and bend you into a mating press- a mating press. Muscular thighs against your thighs. Your knees against your tits.
Gojo keeps his forehead pressed against yours as he drills away, “Though this lowly fool may be poor with the manners of a pig, aren’t you happy to have a cock that’s actually big~?”
And that…you have to admit that that one actually draws a laugh out of you.
And just as soon as the bubbling noise emerges from your lips-
Gojo’s body seems to collapse. His hips seem to falter. His cock thunks at the back of your womb, sending your teeth chattering, and lets out a throb-throb so hard that you feel it louder than your own heartbeat.
Your eyes shoot open, “S-Satoru…?”
“I-I am quite alright, Your Highness. Naught to worry about.” Though there was something thoughtful behind his eyes, “It is simply…”
And only after a few more thrusts—after a few more rub-a-dubs of his thumb…fingers now so jittery on your cunt that he’s teasin’ you with his silver signet ring, too.
The smooth metal makes you keen-
“For all the horses and all the men, could not pull the fool out of his princess again.” He near-tentatively utters. It could be heard only slightly above the smacking of skin-on-skin, of his hips practically plastered onto yours, and you can’t help it - you’re startled into a laugh.
“P-pardon?” You speak through both moan n’ giggles.
“Oh…” Meanwhile, Gojo was absolutely shattering. He was drooling. He was—fuck, he was tearing up. And great globules of tears were hitting the edge of your shoulder.
Gojo’s rubbin’ himself raw- he’s wracking his brain a mile a minute just for a new verse to come up with.
Something that will make you laugh.
Something that will make you squeeze your tremoring thighs ‘round him.
Something that will make you clench—and it’s such a startling, tight sensation that damn-near sends him hurtling straight into his high. But he can’t cum before you - of course, he can’t. What good jester possibly ever could? Before his princess no less?
Gojo accelerates his hips until tears start clinging onto his long lashes, and his cocktip starts twitchin’ out of pure oversensitivity.
And so he keeps on repeating—rhyme after rhyme, botched whimper after whimper. Each one more ragged than the last. Your jester was making you whine with laughter as he fucked you- whispering in your ear in aaaaaall the dirty ways one perhaps shouldn’t to a princess.
He fucks you like an animal.
It’s the final note you’re hearing - ‘—no prettier princess than thee.’ - as your sudden high takes you by surprise. Legs shaking. Back arching. You’re squeezing him tighter than ever as the white-hot pleasure courses through you.
Thrumming your every vessel and vein.
Thrusted deeper into you with every one of his- they seem to burst pretty fireworks inside your now-emptied head. Nothing but lust inside it.
And it doesn’t take much for Gojo to topple into his orgasm, as well. He shakes- he stutters…“C-cumming…” Breathlessly. Large tears were puddlin’ at the crook of your neck, dampening your skin more than your perspiration. “And I cannot think of a more appropriate home.”
“Should you sire an heir, they shall have your head.” You’re whispering to him - a smile on your face.
“But you forevermore have my heart.”
“Rake.”
“For you only, my princess.”
That bawling divot atop his shaft keeps floodin’ out a constant stream of cum—hot-white and lacquering your insides. Every single burst of cum made him twitch- letting out the prettiest erotic whines. “My princess—solely for you.”
“More.” You murmur gutturally. “More- more.”
“More…deep inside.” Lovingly, he’s patting at your bloated pussy. “Just for my princess.”
Until your walls were almost heavy with the condensation of his sap, and after only a few thrusts of his shaft- it was pouring out of you almost like a waterfall.
Between the crevice of your puffy pussylips, you feel it drip-drip-dripping out of you. Eventually formulating a little froth of creamy white ‘round Gojo’s swollen base - a few globules that he’s smearing with a thumb and pushing right back into you. A thumb stuck right between your folds. “A-and where do you believe you are putting your hands, Satoru?”
“Simply giving my princess everything she deserves…” He leans down to nibble on your soft ear lobe. “And right on her engagement night, as well.”
You’re moaning as he tugs on your clit a few more times.
“Happy engagement, Your Highness.” The jester speaks, as he fucks his cum into you harder than ever.
You end up babbling for a few minutes longer, before the sudden sparks of your high start bating- and Gojo himself starts finally slowing his hips down.
“Mmmm…” You reach up and clasp him by the back of his neck, sweaty, with his hair curled at the name. You whisper into his mouth, “My greatest pleasure, to be engaged to you, Prince Gojo Satoru.”
There’s a long stretch of silence - still thrusting - before he mutters.
“I really do wish I could marry you…” Summer sky-blue eyes shuttering into the kiss—
“Satoru.”
“—my princess.”
.
.
.
“Zenin Naoya.”
The young man whirls around - and his nose crinkles in distaste as an older man enters the royal guests’ quarters.
No union had been announced.
The engagement ball had long since ended, and you had even long since disappeared with some prince- some jester, as he had discovered through ballroom gossip.
The fucking jester.
Naoya knew he should have gutted him after that dinner.
But alas, once he arrived outside your royal bed chambers to finish off the job- he’d been blocked by your personal guards from entering. That damned General Yaga had threatened that a single step closer could constitute an attempt at treason- treason?
Accusing him of treason? Did he not know who Naoya was?
General Yaga hadn’t budged. And thus, Naoya had no choice left but to retire to his own guest’s quarters.
Alone and angry until morning arrived.
He had just settled with the thought of enacting his own taste of justice today- he shall lure some of the ministers to your bed chambers, perhaps falsifying an ailment you’d befallen under, before Gojo can escape. And once they discover that that lowborn jester had sullied the Princess- dungeons it is for the fool.
And oh-so-generous Prince Zenin Naoya shall agree to marry even a ruined maiden.
Then comes the crown. Then the titles, the land, the power.
The woman shan’t be too bothersome, either, at least you were easy on the eyes. Even if the jester had gotten his hands on you first.
And ah…perhaps he shall throw out this court and your father along with it? That’s if he was in a good mood - and it was the original plan, after all…
Or perhaps he shall stage a coup of which your father had ‘led’ and enact justice as King- yes…a royal hanging should seem righteous enough. The jester shall be first.
This was justice.
Naoya had just been in the middle of writing a letter to inform his father of this change of plans, when a knock-knock-knock thundered from the door. The broad, bearded man on the other side of it hadn’t waited for him to answer before coming inside.
“May I…help you?” He stands. Had this seemed like any old guard or minister, then Naoya would not have hesitated to draw his sword- but this was clearly someone of high status. Of numerous battle accomplishments.
And his eyes dip down to the silver scabbard at his waist…
This was clearly someone potent.
“I have arrived with a proposition.” The bearded man invites himself to sit down on the very chair that Naoya had been at work at.
Naoya’s eyes narrow, “Of what kind? Do I look like an errand boy to-”
“Of the kind I am aware your family is quite expert at.” Those words held such a dark weight to them—and he doesn’t take his eyes off of the Prince for a single second as he utters. “To be frank, I must request the ah…removal of Prince Okkotsu Yuta from the throne.”
That makes the royal straighten. “Find yourself a common mercenary-”
THUNK—!
From underneath his coat, the visitor pulls out a hefty bag - so large that Naoya wonders just how it had remained obscured for this long. There is a weight to it that makes the polished desk rattle, papers flying. There is an overabundance of its contents—so that the burlap rim threatens to burst open.
Naoya gulps as he eyes the - albeit alluring - bag. “D-do you believe the Kingdom of Zenins to have plummeted so far that we hold the need for a single sack of gold?”
The other man chuckles, “Gold?”
And with a single flick at the rim—it’s opening to reveal…sapphires.
A miniature mountain of it.
Such a rare beauty. Naoya had never seen so many in all the treasuries he’d ransacked combined - and his hand it darting out to grasp it—
“This is, of course…merely the advance.” The man places his hand on top of the bag, and slides it discreetly away from the Prince. His fingers twitch towards it, but Naoya can’t do anything with the other man here. “Trust me when I claim that your kingdom will have no shortage of sapphires for the next hundred years. I simply request that you prove your abilities to me.”
That snaps the Prince out of his constant eye-contact with the expensive bag. “Prove?”
His now-client nods. “Prove it. I should hope that the eradication of Prince Yuta shan’t prove too daunting- and for that, I wish to know what other…deeds you have accomplished, Your Highness.”
“The burning of the Inumaki kingdom’s crops.” Naoya immediately blurts out—before he lists off his family’s proud accomplishments as though he was listing off a market list. The other man nods with an unreadable expression. “The…displacement of the Cursed rubies, the demotion of the Ijichi household, the framing and eradication of the Gojo family-”
“Oh?” At that last one, he looks more alert. “Kindly elaborate on that final one, it seems to have ah…piqued my interest.”
Naoya hesitates- before a single glance at the sapphire sack makes him talk once more. “It was prior to my birth, thus the details might not be as adequate. Essentially what happened had to be done- the Gojo royals were advancing their economy in leaps and bounds—far too rapidly, far too soon.”
As he continues, an almost proud smile twitches at his lips.
“It was ingenious- really.” He hums, “Just a few forged letters, just a single meeting with His Majesty-” Naoya gestures vaguely at this palace. “And he became convinced that the Gojos were planning battle over the borders.”
Naoya spits.
“Borders? Pah- what borders?” He’s pacing now, hands clasped behind his back—back turning to the other man as the Prince stares into the licking fireplace. “Come dawn, the palace was painted in red. Ministers. Mongrels. That King and Queen- the cowards begged for mercy, were you aware?”
Silence stretches.
It seems like an eon passes before the man’s answering - in a rough tone that punctures the silence. “I…I was not aware, no.”
Naoya huffs out haughty laughter.
“And what of their son?”
The Prince looks at the other man over his shoulder, brows pinched in confusion. “They had no son.”
“No.” The sword is pulled out of his scabbard. “They hid Gojo Satoru well.”
It embeds deeply in the junction between Naoya’s shoulder and his neck—and his scream is silent. Expression twisted into shock as those final words registered - Gojo Satoru. Even in death, he hears his name.
Much louder than Naoya’s scream was the impact of his cold, dead body hitting the carpeted floor - and almost instantly, Prince Okkotsu Yuta enters the chambers. “I have recorded the confession, uncle, and the troops are storming the Zenin palace as we speak.”
“Good.” Michizane pulls his sword out and watches as blood creates a painting across the brick fireplace and floor. He wipes it off using what would have been Prince Naoya’s engagement robes, and places it back in his scabbard.
Yuta takes a step closer to offer a clean wipe to his uncle, “Should I summon a court meeting at once?”
“No.” Michizane takes it and dabs at the beads of sweat on his forehead. Then he nods at Yuta to collect the bag of precious sapphires, “I have a far more important affair to attend to.”
.
.
.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
Both you and Gojo startle awake- and a single glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows reveals sunlight filtering in. A soft breeze rustles the sheer curtains…and Gojo’s beautiful locks right beside you.
It wasn’t the first time that you were waking up next to him.
But it was the first time it was…in such a manner.
You’re tugging on the satin blanket- of which you were wearing nothing underneath. Bare. Barely holding yourself back from him. And Gojo smiles to himself as the thought seems to occur to him, as well, reaching over to kiss you—before wincing at the red, red nail marks that twinged with movement.
You’re leaning in as well—
But then two things occur to you:
It must have been at least midday.
Someone was at the door.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
More insistent this time.
The two of you look at each other.
Then at the door.
Then at each other.
Gojo jumps to his feet, throwing off the blankets and attempting to dive underneath your bed- but you’re raising a hand to stop him. Shaking your head imperceptibly. “No…”
“My princess?” Gojo asks.
“I believe there comes a time where one must stop running.” You’re speaking, more to yourself. And in a quick fashion you cross the room to don your satin robe—Gojo manages to bunch up a few blankets that cover his bits. You shake your head and scour for one of his casual night garments from underneath your bed - throwing it at his head.
“For all the princess in the land-”
“Oh, perhaps I ought to hand you to the guards.” The guards that were surely outside. Perhaps waiting to accuse you of treason for shattering the Zenin union. Perhaps ready to embarrass you and your jester in front of the royal courts.
Whatever it shall be - whatever the price may be for loving Gojo Satoru - you’re raising your head high and taking it like a ruler.
You open the doors, and outside stands…
Michizane?
He looks just as startled as you, though he manages out a rough smile. “May I see the ring?”
You’re unsure what he means—and you’re considering telling your guards to escort him away, when Michizane peers inside your bedroom and locks eyes with Gojo. Gojo who seems to startle the instant that blue, blue gaze meets his. Perhaps…
And then he’s stepping forwards- pushing the door open ever-so-slightly further open.
And presenting his left hand - with the silver signet ring still upon it. A hollowed gasp leaves the older man, and he’s clasping Gojo’s hand in his own trembling, timid ones—holding it as though it was the most prized treasure in this world. Buried for eons.
Gojo’s voice sounds scratchy, “I-it is not my possession to don-”
Michizane shakes his head.
“I believe…” He looks between the two of you, bright eyes twinkling with tears. “-that there is much we need to speak of.”
.
.
.
There was to be a royal wedding.
There was to be a royal wedding.
There was to be a royal wedding.
The union between yourself and the long-lost prince of the Gojo kingdom.
After Michizane had explained to you both - let alone an astounded court - that he was the uncle of your beloved jester, that he was titled royalty, and that Gojo himself…was the sole survivor of a gruesome attack that the Zenin family had orchestrated…Gojo didn’t believe it. Not at first.
Not that someone knew his life before this life.
Not that someone had come to…save him. Because Michizane didn’t - to Gojo, it had been you. And it forevermore shall be.
But you could see the fearful hope - almost unwelcome on his face - as Michizane explained that he hadn’t known about the status of the Gojo heir, his nephew, before the engagement ball. He was so young, he must have forced himself to forget such a traumatic ordeal. Thus, it had always been assumed that he had perished along with his brother and his wife—though Michizane couldn’t find a small body amongst the carnage.
And so he had always hoped…always, always…
And it had been the signet ring (looted by the Zenins and gifted to your father, no doubt) that roused his suspicions. Then those eyes. That hair. That smile, like his mother’s.
It had to have been him.
Fearing such an attack, had the late Gojo royals not kept the birth of their son a secret, then his features would have gotten him poisoned before he even stepped foot into the royal court. The cap n’ bells masked more than one would think.
The scheme to expose the Zenins had been planned beforehand - being the only reason that Michizane even attended the ball in-person. And he’d thought that perhaps finding his late nephew’s look-alike had been a good omen.
Had been…
Oh, he just had to confirm it for himself. Especially after Naoya had affirmed that the Zenin’s hadn’t been aware of any son.
Michizane could see the Gojo name in the boy. And so he was right.
Acceptance had taken long hours cooped up in the numerous palace libraries—poring over history books, and rewriting ones that misunderstood.
During this time was when you’d iron-handed your ministers into changing the law that ‘only a prince shall marry a princess’. Of course.
Long days and longer conversations.
Gojo had finally accepted that he was the sole righteous heir to the throne of Gojo by the time he’d ascended to the throne. It had occurred during a coronation too grand for words - of which you were the honored guest, of course.
Michizane had accumulated vast sapphire mines during his time away, and the Gojo kingdom’s infrastructure was soon able to recuperate their losses. Though not all of it…certainly some wounds would take time.
But the first time that Gojo stepped through those familiar palace walls, he cried as if it were a dream. And he’d said as much—“I had believed it was a dream- oh, I believed this was all a dream. This is my home.” As he embraced you in the middle of the royal lobby, you could agree with the sentiment. “You are my home.”
The first portrait that one saw when they entered the palace - moved by Michizane from Gojo’s former chambers to the main hallways - was one of his mother, his father, and Gojo himself.
Just an infant with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile.
He had his father’s eyes, but his mother’s smile.
After Gojo’s crowning, the borders of the Gojo kingdom were reestablished - all territories and citizens that surrounding kingdoms (as well as yours) had absorbed were handed to their rightful ruler.
His kingdom was new…but building. And fast.
Then Gojo had gotten to work helping right all of the Zenins’ wrongs. He aided in expanding the Inumakis’ agricultural lands, he returned the Cursed rubies that had been embedded in Naoya’s coronet to lord Sukuna, he promoted the Ijichi household’s titles twofold.
And he rebuilt his own family.
Of course, the Zenins themselves met their rightful fate. Prince Yuta had attacked their palace and numerous fortresses, causing those family members to be impounded. Some fled but were quickly caught—in part due to General Yaga’s tireless assistance.
Gojo had insisted that the children grow up in his palace. And though you’d been befuddled at first - most certainly you wouldn’t allow them to be hurt…but as for raising them yourselves over placing them in noble homes - you quickly registered that Gojo simply didn’t want history to repeat itself.
Above all, he took in young Fushiguro Megumi as a ward.
The trials for the other family members were currently ongoing.
But, recently, there was a new event that shook your kingdom.
The wedding.
Not one of political nature…but rather love. No matter the class, position, or power the two of you held—you would always be his princess, and he your best friend- oh alright…your jester. But solely because Gojo still loved to act a-fool to make you laugh.
Your father had no choice but to approve your wedding to such a powerful young King. Why would he risk such strong political ties? Why would he risk your abandonment?
Your people throw snow-white petals of gardenia as the wedding carriage passes through the streets- on its way to a honeymoon voyage before setting down in a newly-built palace between his kingdom and yours. Megumi would live there, too, and of course you’d convinced your most-trusted attendants—Utahime and everyone else that had readied Gojo that night of the engagement ball - to reside there, as well.
Not as servers, but with titles. With General Yaga as your head of guards.
You couldn’t be happier.
Gojo holds your hand. Wedding band on his left ring finger, the Gojo signet on his middle.
Faces beamed and cheers soared as you two passed by in your dream-like carriage—upon a cloud. And though the kingdom had been decorated until one nearly couldn’t spot a single roof, Gojo only had eyes for you.
He’s unabashed as he leans down to publicly kiss you.
Now that he finally could, the boy that had once been jester.
“Satoru.”
“My queen.”
A/N. Ugh had just finished watching the animated Sleeping Beauty before I wrote that ending, can you tell??
ʚ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ɞ join me for a super special celebration! i recently hit a milestone that i'm super happy with and wanted to do something fun to celebrate. i had so much fun writing this for @jazzthatonewriterchick i've just been in the mood for more fantasy stuff :3 will be a selection of drabbles + a few oneshots featuring some of our favorite jjk characters <3
apocalypse - one
undergroundboxer!kuna x reader [soulmate au]
warnings [mdni] - angst | implied trauma | mean sukuna
wc - 7.3k
series masterlist
∞
ryomen sukuna knew three things about his soulmate.
she drank too much caffeine, she slept curled on her side whenever anxiety crawled beneath her skin and whenever she read for hours on end or colored, the noise in his head quieted enough to let him breathe.
it was fucking irritating.
the first time she got under his skin, it was in the middle of his first match.
he’d nearly put his fist through the guy, rage sitting ugly beneath his ribs as blood pooled in his mouth and sweat dripped down his spine.
then suddenly, he was overcome with serenity he’d never experienced before.
a calmness that wasn’t his own, never his own.
something soft slipped beneath his skin then, warm and quiet in a way he wasn’t used to. like somebody had pressed cold hands against the back of his neck after years of burning where he stood.
he’d won that match.
“again?” toji muttered from across the gym, cigarette balanced lazily between scarred fingers.
sukuna rolled his jaw once before slamming another punch into the heavy bag hard enough for the chains overhead to rattle violently.
“fuck off.”
toji smirked, tongue peaking out to lick at the scar against his lip.
the gym smelled like rust, sweat and the metallic ting of blood that both men were used to. it was a shitty set up buried beneath the city in the lower levels of an abandoned parking structure. it barely looked legal from the outside and the inside wasn't much better.
the concrete floors, flickering lights and men all too violent to exist comfortably above ground.
and it was the place ryomen sukuna felt alive.
sukuna had been fighting since he was fifteen and filled with a rage even he couldn’t understand.
toji found him bloody outside a convenience store after some older guys tried jumping him for gambling money.
it was clear they didn’t get the money but sukuna took that fire in his gaze out on them.
sukuna still recalled the way toji looked down at him, droplets cascading down his sharp features and dark hair, damp cigarette hanging from his mouth while blood dripped steadily from sukuna’s split brow.
“you fight like an animal,” toji began, taking a drag of his fading cig before tilting his head at the salmon haired boy, “what if i told you that you could beat the shit out of guys every day and get paid for it?”
a fucking dream is what that was. he gets to utilize his anger and he could finally get out of his father’s house.
how could sukuna even say no?
somehow, it turned into this.
years later, ryomen sukuna had become the name whispered through underground rings across the city. not because he was the biggest or the strongest, but because he was cruel.
there was something deeply unsettling about the way sukuna fought.
controlled, almost lazy sometimes. like violence came so naturally to him that he didn’t even need to think about it.
people feared men who fought emotionally.
they feared ryomen sukuna more because he never did.
most nights, he fought beneath screaming neon lights while crowds chanted his name loud enough to shake the walls.
they bet on him like he was a sure thing and fuck, did he get a shitload of money from it.
he’d leave each night, beaten and bruised with a duffel of cash hanging off his shoulder.
he was living the dream.
that was until he arrived home, in his apartment downtown, and sat in silence while somebody else’s emotions bled quietly into his chest.
a girl he’d never met yet somehow knew like the back of his hand, all too intimately.
he knew she liked coffee because of the bursts of energy he’d feel during mornings where he usually slept in because his fights usually carried into the night.
he knew she did yoga often because his muscles weren’t as sore as they would get when he was younger and god knows it wasn’t his doing. he didn’t stretch nearly as much as toji nagged at him to.
he also knew that she despised him.
that one was obvious.
their bond always sharpened after his fights. her irritation sat bright and hot beneath his ribs every time he came home bruised and bloody.
sometimes he couldn’t differentiate between his own rage and hers.
maybe they were more alike than he thought.
truthfully, sukuna didn’t know how to do things any differently and frankly, he didn’t care enough to.
he hated this whole soulmates shit. why would the universe ever pair two people together with the utmost certainty that they were perfect for each other?
and what fucking masacre did this girl commit to be bonded with him of all people?
violence was the only thing sukuna had ever been good at and he wouldn’t change that for anyone, especially some girl who was almost a mere figment of his imagination.
he did that sometimes. pretended that he was a non-existent and that he was merely hallucinating her.
non-existents made up a very small part of the population and they were essentially humans who didn’t have soulmates. like toji was.
lucky bastard.
sometimes sukuna believed toji was lying because he’d get this distant look on his face some days, kind of like himself when he felt his own soulmate torment him.
so maybe he was a late bloomer?
either way, he was in a better situation than sukuna was.
“your girl’s pissed again?” toji commented dryly from where he leaned against the boxing ring ropes, head tilted with a knowingness sukuna hated.
toji was the one sukuna had to confide in because who else did he have?
when he was overwhelmed as a young teenager about his soulmate, toji would be the one he would reluctantly go to. the older man had taken him under his wing, so yes, he did trust him more than anyone.
he also knew that toji cared about him in his own fucked up way.
sukuna’s knuckles ached tonight, phantom annoyance curling beneath his skin that didn’t belong to him. it was her.
probably studying somewhere in the city while silently wishing death upon him.
the thought almost made him grin.
throughout the years, pissing her off became a hobby of some sort, though he knew she didn’t find it nearly as amusing as he did.
“at least you know she’s got personality.” toji stated once more as sukuna finally stopped punching and turned to shoot the man a glare.
“shut the fuck up.”
toji huffed out a laugh, “god help you both when you finally meet.”
the thought made sukuna freeze momentarily.
it was almost sad.
usually, at least from what sukuna knew, people usually couldn’t wait to meet their soulmates.
then there was sukuna, filled with dread at the mere idea.
sukuna hated even talking about the bond.
he hated how aware he was of her.
because despite everything, the distance and never seeing her to begin with, she felt woven into him already, like a haunting.
some nights, when his insomnia clawed violently at his nerves after fights, he’d feel her wrap her arms around herself beneath warm blankets god knows where.
and sleep came easier those nights.
he couldn’t explain it and truthfully, he didn’t like to think about it.
he hated talking about her because the truth was ugly.
that he didn’t particularly hate her. which is exactly why he knew meeting her would ruin everything.
naturally, his solution was to sabotage everything which is why he started to sleep around with non-existents whenever he got the chance.
and he knew what it did to her.
good. he hoped it made her despise him enough to never want anything to do with him, whether they meet now or twenty years down the line.
sukuna didn’t want anything to do with her.
∞
you hated downtown on friday nights.
it was always too loud and all too crowded.
neon signs bled into rain-slick streets while bass-heavy music spilled from every open doorway along the block.
girls stumbled across sidewalks in tiny dresses and tall heels, drunken laughter cutting through the humid summer night air while taxis lined the streets endlessly.
the city looked beautiful after dark, but you still wanted to be everywhere but here.
“stop looking at people with that judgy look of yours.” shoko muttered beside you, nudging your shoulder lightly as the three of you crossed the street.
“i’m not judging, i’m just looking around…” you defended with a huff as you hugged yourself protectively, little kitten heels clicking against the pavement.
“you are judging,” utahime confirmed, “it’s your classic disgusted and glare-ey look.”
“well excuse me, you’re the ones who brought me to crackhead-ville.” you glared at the two girls as shoko rolled her eeys before hooking her arm through yours anyway.
she pulled you towards the entrance of yet another overcrowded building downtown.
apparently, tonight’s party was being held somewhere above an abandoned old bar. or beneath it.
either way, something you found entirely too ominous but you were too distracted when shoko was explaining to actually disagree.
your soulmate had spent the entire evening restless beneath your skin. not angry but worse.
aware.
you felt him constantly tonight.
a steady pulse of adrenaline humming through your bloodstream that didn’t belong to you.
your chest had felt tight since leaving the penthouse, some strange tension settling low in your stomach like your body was anticipating something before your mind could catch up.
it was unsettling.
you blamed the lack of sleep, or rather, you blamed him. you blamed him for it all.
“ew, ew…” you muttered as shoko pulled you through the door into what you could only describe as chaos.
warmth and noise hit you instantly.
bodies crowded wall to wall beneath flashing lights while music shook violently through the floorboards.
cigarette smoke lingered in the air despite the open windows somewhere deeper inside the space.
you physically recoiled.
“oh my god,” utahime muttered beside you, laughing softly at the expression painting your features, “you look horrified.”
“i am horrified!”
shoko snorted, “rich kids.”
you threw her a glare before the three of you squeezed through the crowd until you reached a quieter section tucked near the back of the room.
a curved leather couch sat half-empty beneath dim red lights, thankfully far enough from the speakers that your skull stopped vibrating the second you sat down.
you exhaled deeply, chest deflating as you blinked up at your friends who were looking at you with amusement.
“drinks?” utahime questioned as shoko nodded eagerly while you merely hummed, shoulders tense as you gazed around the sea of bodies.
utahime disappeared toward the bar while shoko took a seat beside you, the leather beneath you sticky in a way that had you shuddering, sitting at the very edge of the couch.
fuck, you hated this and you couldn’t explain why.
yes, you hated parties in general but you just felt wrong.
“you’re being weird tonight.” shoko observed, eyes narrowed on your tense figure.
you frowned faintly, “i know…i feel weird.”
your skin felt like it was buzzing, chest vibrating in a way it usually wasn’t.
it wasn’t necessarily bad, but simply off.
you felt your soulmate more than ever tonight, you were almost hyperaware.
he felt electric.
every emotion coming from him felt sharper somehow, close enough that you could almost mistake them for your own.
your pulse kept jumping for no reason.
fuck, you hated this.
“is it devils dick?” shoko casually asked as your eyes closed momentarily.
how would you explain that it was both yes and no.
yes, the bond felt different tonight.
but no, it wasn’t muscle aches or phantom pain you were feeling on his end, though you didn't want to speak too soon.
it was a friday after all. friday nights usually meant bruised ribs by saturday morning.
“oh my god, guys!” hime stood before you, handing shoko her drink before placing a water bottle in your hand, “everyone’s saying gojo and his crew are gonna be here!”
your eyes rolled gently, very much aware of utahime’s obsession with those random illegitimate fighters.
underground fights happened constantly throughout the city.
illegal betting rings buried beneath clubs and abandoned buildings, violent enough that respectable people pretended they didn’t exist despite everyone secretly knowing otherwise.
your father even told you how known politicians and well known figures even placed bets they hid from the public.
and lately, there was one name that everyone kept talking about-
“do you think sukuna would show up?” shoko questioned, eyes wide with excitement, taking a sip of her cherry vodka as you looked between the two girls.
ryomen sukuna.
you’d heard it constantly from utahime the past few months.
uathime, shoko, sora and percy often went on double dates to these underground fights you had zero interest in.
you were very much used to fifth wheeling alongside your friends, that wasn’t the issue. the issue was rooted in the prospect of spending the night in a filthy underground boxing ring riddled with people and violence alike. yuck.
still, amongst all the fighters utahime gushed about, ryomen sukuna seemed to be the most known.
the undefeated underground fighter with pink hair and a snake tattoo across his shoulders and collarbones.
people were terrified of him just as equally as they were obsessed with him.
“percy says sukuna knocked his opponent unconscious in under thirty seconds last week!” shoko stated, taking another sip as utahime nodded frantically.
“he’s insane!” utahime gushed, “like, gojo is obviously a show off and just cares about the clout he gets but sukuna? he’s terrifying…”
utahime continued, you were sure. you could see her mouth moving but you didn’t-couldn’t register the words she'd uttered.
the world around you turned hazy, just enough to feel like everything slowed in a way that definitely wasn’t normal.
your heartbeat stopped, not metaphorically, but physically.
a sharp wave of adrenaline crashed violently into your chest hard enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs.
you went still, every muscle in your body tightening instinctively.
you could see both of the girls leaning towards you, brows furrowed in concern, mouths moving and uttering words you knew were dipped in concern. you couldn’t hear any of it.
you swallowed hard, eyes darting up and around you, as if a siren was luring you towards the crowd, come to me, come, come.
fuck, were you drugged or something?
your heartbeat stuttered painfully beneath your ribs, once, twice then again.
you felt like you’d been dropped underwater while everyone else remained above the surface.
the bond felt raw and entirely too overwhelming.
it felt like standing at the edge of something life-altering, like your soul had recognized something before your mind could catch up to it.
for the first time since you’d first felt your soulmate, he didn’t feel far away.
you had grown used to the idea of him, something intangible and not truly real.
merely a ghost haunting the edges of your nervous system, phantom bruises in the middle of lectures and an adrenaline rush at three in the morning.
he was the deep-seated exhaustion that riddled your body but didn’t belong to you.
but this felt real. close enough to touch.
the sensation crawled slowly beneath your skin, winding around your ribs like invisible string being pulled tighter and tighter and tighter until you thought you might choke on it.
the realization hit your bloodstream like a drug.
he was here, you knew it. you could feel it in your bones.
your eyes darted towards the door that had swung open, summer air rushing inside alongside four figures dressed almost entirely in black.
the first thing you noticed was height.
they all carried themselves with the same dangerous sort of confidence, the kind that came from men who had never truly feared consequences before.
one of them had snowy white locks, the tallest of the bunch, bright enough to catch beneath the flashing lights, sunglasses balanced lazily across his nose despite the fact that it was nearly midnight.
another stood beside him, quieter with shoulder length black locks with stretched gauges in his ears and sharp eyes that swept across the room once before settling into bored indifference.
the third one was shorter than the rest but still tall, black locks in two spiked buns with a joint resting between plump pink lips, eyes hooded in a way that exposed that joint not being his first of the night.
they were all attractive in a way that felt almost unfair and dangerous.
people moved out of their path without being asked.
your eyes turned to the one trailing just a step behind them and your breath caught so violently, it hurt.
the salmon colored locks gave him away.
ryomen sukuna.
tattoos curled dark against tan skin disappearing beneath the collar of a black shirt that stretched across broad shoulders.
even from where you stood, you could see the dried blood and bruises across his knuckles.
he looked nothing like what you’d imagined from shoko’s descriptions.
and simultaneously, exactly like it too.
something deep inside you snapped taut, your stomach dropping.
you could tell he was dazed too, jaw locked and eyes blinking at a slow pace, eyes looking around the sea of bodies.
the soulmate bond surged so hard beneath your ribs, you physically recoiled, fingers gripping the edge of the leather couch.
oh god. no, no, no.
oh my god…
“oh my god,” utahime whispered beside you, though unlike you, she sounded impressed rather than horrified.
shoko looked moments away from passing out entirely.
“that’s him!” she breathed out quietly.
you couldn’t answer, breath stilling and hands trembling.
because sukuna had stopped walking.
fuck, the realization came slowly enough to feel cruel.
maroon eyes met your own and the room around you dissolved entirely. the music became muffled noise, lights blurring and the crowd disappeared.
all you could see was him. him. him. him.
he was all you could see, feel and you knew all he could see was you.
sukuna felt it the second he stepped through the doorway.
you.
the bond snapped violently alive beneath his skin hard enough that his entire body locked for half a second mid-step.
he almost thought someone had drugged him until he remembered he hadn’t even drank anything yet.
then what was this feeling?
his eyes locked on yours and he felt the most alive he’d felt in his life.
something even the ring and the violence couldn't offer.
there you were, all too pretty and wide eyed.
he barely heard gojo speak beside him anymore, the lanky man rambling on about some idiot from last week’s fight who apparently called him out on twitter after.
sukuna ignored him completely because across the room sat a girl staring at him like she’d seen a ghost.
and in some ways, he was your ghost.
he haunted you and lived under your skin in ways he was sure you didn’t appreciate in the slightest.
his soulmate.
years of phantom feelings crashed together all at once so violently, it almost made him sick.
because the realization hit him harder than he’d anticipated and yes, he had anticipated this.
the moment he’d meet his soulmate.
well, he dreaded more than anticipated it.
it hit him hard because he realized that he knew this girl.
sukuna had never met you, yet, he bet he knew you more than the two girls hovering over you. more than fucking anyone.
you were the girl whose stress bled into his bones during finals week, the girl who wrapped her arms around herself at night and somehow lulled him to sleep from miles away.
you were real.
and you looked soft.
that was the first thing he took note of.
soft skin, soft wide eyes, soft pink shimmery gloss coating your plush lips he recognized only through phantom warmth he’d felt against his own skin before.
his soulmate was a pretty little thing, so pretty it almost made his chest ache. in your tiny skirt and halter top.
far too fucking pretty to belong anywhere near him.
“sukuna?”
choso’s voice cut through the haze faintly and sukuna snapped out of it, gaze finally leaving hers to glance at his friend who tilted his head towards the other side of the room.
sukuna resisted the urge to glance at you as he made his way across the room.
fuck, fuck, fuck!
this couldn’t be happening, this was a fucking nightmare.
just as he made it across the room, he felt it.
warm fingertips brushing his own skin despite his hands at his sides.
his pulse stuttered once.
his gaze snapped to yours once more and your eyes widened instantly when you noticed his hand drift to his neck where your own hand was resting.
slowly and carefully, sukuna lifted his own hand.
his fingers brushed lightly against the side of his jaw, a barely there touch.
yet, across the room, your breath hitched sharply as warmth bloomed against your own jawline seconds later.
not imagined or coincidence. it was all real, so so real.
your stomach twisted violently.
oh no. no no no no.
shoko was gazing at you, “what’s wrong?!”
you couldn’t answer, eyes stuck on a pair of crimson that held you hostage.
her eyes narrowed as both her and utahime followed your gaze before catching sukuna’s eyes on you.
then they both looked between you both a total of five times before realization hit.
“wait,” shoko whispered harshly, hand shooting out to grip your arm, “WAIT.”
utahime’s jaw physically fell open, “holy shit…”
your heartbeat pounded so violently, you thought you might faint right then and there beneath the flashing red lights.
what you despised most is that it made sense.
of course it was him. a violent and dangerous underground fighter, fuck, that explained everything so perfectly.
if fate was a person, you’d have her by the neck right now.
because sukuna was still staring at you, as if he knew you already and perhaps, he did.
then horrifyingly, he smirked.
and suddenly, you understood exactly why the entire city feared ryomen sukuna.
sukuna moved before he could really think about it, jaw clenched but determined.
one second he stood on the other side of the room and the next, his body was already weaving through the crowd toward you like the bond itself had wrapped invisible fingers around his spine and dragged him to you. you. his soulmate.
people moved instantly to let him pass.
you took note of that immediately.
you noticed the way conversations died around him, the way bodies shifted out of his path and nobody dared touch him, even accidentally.
it was fear, you realized. people feared him.
the recognition made your stomach twist.
“oh my god,” shoko whispered harshly beside you, nails digging into your arm, “he’s coming over here!”
“i can see that.” you hissed back faintly, though your voice barely sounded like your own.
fuck, you should leave. you should absolutely leave.
except, you couldn’t move, body drilled to where you sat, frozen in place while ryomen fucking sukuna rossed the room toward you like some predator chasing prey.
closer and closer and closer.
until suddenly, all his 6’4 glory was towering above you.
your breath caught embarrassingly hard.
up close, he was worse.
taller than you’d imagined and broader too.
there were faint bruises scattered along his jawline beneath the dim lights, on the very spot that you woke up feeling sore. fresh cuts healed across his knuckles.
and his eyes, god, they looked at you with the same recognition burning through your own chest.
sukuna looked down at you for a moment too long.
fuck, you were even more ethereal up close.
that thought hit him first and annoyingly hardest.
his pretty little soulmate sitting curled into the edge of a leather couch looking at him with wide doe eyes, almost expectantly with a mix of fear and restraint.
“hey.”
his voice slid down your spine like smoke.
low, dangerous and rough in a way even your mind couldn’t conjure up.
fuck, was this really happening?
your throat tightened instantly, “hi.”
the word left you horrifyingly softer than you’d intended and sukuna’s lips twitched at the sound.
your voice was his favorite sound, instantly.
“um,” shoko hummed, eyes wide as she shared a glance with utahime, “we’ll give you two a second.”
you almost wanted to yell in protest, but the two girls were already shuffling away, shooting you encouraging looks.
as you glanced up at the dangerous man once more, you felt your heart still in a way you hadn’t ever felt before.
not in fear or apprehension but calm.
he made you feel calm, your body stilling and quieting in a way you hadn’t expected.
regretfully, fuck, you despised it, but when that gentleness overcame you and you looked up at him…
his disheveled pink locks, his handsome rugged features and his dark eyes, all of it was him.
and you felt stupid for trying to deny that this man was your soulmate.
who else would it be?
“i’m sukuna,” he stated lowly, moving to take a seat beside you, leaving an appreciative distance between you, “ryomen sukuna.”
your name left you softly with a nod.
as you gazed at each other, the same realization overcame you both.
even with barely an introduction, you knew each other.
while sukuna had only fond memories of what you’d done for him, your mind was riddled with poisonous ones.
this was the man who often trained in the middle of the night, filling you with soreness and a rush of adrenaline that left you sleepless most nights.
he was the one who fucked other girls knowing what that put you through.
your heart clenched.
beyond all those things, he was the one who hugged himself to sleep after that one night of utter hell.
he was the one who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps left you nauseated and pained in bed.
as much as you wanted to forget those things, to snap yourself out of the sad patheticness that riddled you, how could you?
how could you when those were the only memories that kept your hope that he wasn’t a total monster alive?
your eyes travelled along his bloodied knuckles, “you get those a lot.”
sukuna’s fists instinctively clenched at the attention.
“and you burn yourself with whatever you do your hair with at least twice a week.”
your eyes widened instantly.
“and you get punched like every other day!”
sukuna’s mouth twitched and you hated how your eyes drifted towards the movement and your heart stuttered.
“barely.” sukuna stated cooly, a small smirk painting his features.
your eyes drifted toward him again before you could stop yourself.
and then you remembered.
every phantom feeling, every sleepless night and every ache.
all attached to him.
the violence, the pain, the girls.
your jaw tightened, "you’re not exactly the best person to be connected to, you know.”
sukuna’s expression didn’t shift much, still cool, but you felt it.
the hollow drop in your stomach that wasn’t yours. guilt.
real and immediate, it almost made you laugh in disbelief.
of course he felt guilty, he had to know he was a fucking nightmare.
sukuna leaned back slightly, jaw working once as his gaze flickered away from yours for half a second, “yeah, i bet.”
your brows lifted, “that’s it?”
his eyes returned to yours, low and indifferent.
you scoffed, anger bubbling up so quickly, it nearly startled you, “that’s all you have to say?”
sukuna let out a breath through his nose, “what do you want me to say?”
“oh, i don’t know,” you let out a sharp little laugh that held not an ounce of humor, “maybe sorry would be a good place to start?!”
sukuna’s head tilted, “sorry.”
you stared at him in utter disbelief before a laugh left you once more, this time softer and dripped in something worse than anger, “wow…”
sukuna’s eyes borrowed, “what?”
“you’re unbelievable is what!”
“you asked for sorry.”
“not like that!” you nsapped, voice rising just enough to have your cheeks flushing, “not like you’re apologizing for stepping on my shoe!”
his expression hardened slightly and you felt it immediately, the irritation beginning to curl beneath his skin.
ugh, you hated how the closeness made both your emotions so heightened.
“you have no idea what you put me through,” you continued, voice trembling despite you rbest efforts, “none.”
sukuna’s gaze darkened, “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“act like i wasn’t there too.”
you blinked at him, something hot and ugly twisting in your chest.
was he for real?
“you were there?” you repeated quietly, “you were there?”
his jaw clenched, “don’t-”
“no, please,” you leaned forward slightly, anger sharpening every word, “explain it to me. because to my knowledge, you were the one making my life miserable while i was the one trying to keep us both sane!”
sukuna looked at you for a long moment, jaw clenching and unclenching.
the lights washed over his face in flashes of red, making him look even more unreal than he already did.
“you think i wanted this?” he stated more than asked and your heart clenched.
hurt shot through you, your eyes growing glassy against your will because you knew he wasn’t referring to the pain he’d put you through.
he meant the soulmate thing in general, fate as a whole.
he didn’t want you.
you bit the inside of your cheek, willing your tears to stay in your eyes before breathing out, “no. but neither did i.”
silence settled between you then, not peaceful but loaded.
sukuna could physically feel your hurt and his eyes dropped briefly to your hands where they trembled in your lap.
your fingers curled instantly, too proud as you hid the movement.
it was too late. he’d seen it.
even worse, he’d felt it.
“i didn’t know.” he stated lowly and you froze.
your eyes flickered up, “what?”
his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, expression unreadable.
“at first,” he clarified, “i didn’t know what it did to you.”
your chest tightening, knowing what he was referring to and his words didn’t soothe you in the slightest.
“and after?”
in fact, it made it all worse.
especially as he said nothing.
your face fell slightly, all the anger in you cooling into something quieter and melancholic.
“after, you knew.”
his gaze remained on you as his fingers flexed once against his thigh, “yeah, i knew.”
your eyes burned and you hated yourself for it.
you hated that it still hurt despite knowing already, you hated that hearing him say it aloud made it real in a way the bond never had.
“why?” you asked, the one word absolutely humiliating as much as it was devastating.
sukuna looked away first and somehow, that hurt too, “because it was easier.”
your lips parted faintly, “easier?”
he lout out a grunt, “if you hated me, you wouldn’t look for me.”
the words settled between you like something deadly.
for a second, you genuinely couldn’t speak.
then you did, “that is the stupidest, shittiest thing i’ve ever heard.”
hsi eyes snapped back to yours, scowling, “careful.”
“oh, fuck you!” you hissed lowly, “you don’t get to do that! you don’t get to hurt me on purpose and then act like it was some noble sacrifice.”
his jaw tightened, “it wasn’t noble.”
“yeah, no shit.”
“it was necessary.”
you laughed once, incredulous, “necessary? well, congrats, you got what you wanted, i absolutely fucking despise you.”
sukuna’s jaw clenched, eyes glaring at you, “good. because you don’t know shit about me, this saves us both the hassle.”
“i don’t know you?” you shot back, “i know you more than anyone, probably. i know your body hurts more often than they don’t. i know you clench your jaw when you’re mad. i know you can’t sleep because of your nightmares and unless somebody practcially forces your nervous system to shut down, you could go days without it. i know you’re so angry at the fucking world, it makes you so hateful.”
sukuna went still, too still.
you swallowed hard, eyes burning once more, “and i know that for years, i was the one cleaning up the damage you left behind.”
his eyes darkened, “cleaning up?”
“yes,” your voice cracked despite yourself, “me. i was the one hugging myself to sleep because you wouldn’t. i was the one stretching every morning because your body always felt like fucking concrete. i was the one coloring like a goddamn toddler at three in the morning because it was the only thing that made your anger stop choking me!”
sukuna said nothing and you hated that even more.
you wanted him to argue back, to answer, to fucking care.
“do you know how pathetic that feels?” you whispered, “taking care of someone who kept hurting me?”
his expression shifted, barely, but you felt it again.
the guilt, even deeper this time.
sukuna looked at you like he wanted to say something cruel and couldn’t quite manage it, settling with, “you didn’t have to do all that.”
your laugh came out watery, tears now trickling down your heated cheeks.
fuck, you felt nauseous, you felt so fucking sick.
“yeah, i know that now.”
something passed across his face then, a flicker of pain so quick, you almost missed it.
but the bond didn’t allow you to miss anything. you felt it bloom in your own chest, sharp and unwanted. his.
for one terrible second, you almost let it soften you.
almost.
because there it was again.
that tiny, stupid sliver of hope you’d spend years nurturing because it was the only thing that kept you mildly sane.
the one that whispered that maybe he wasn't all cruelty. maybe there was something beneath all that violence and pain.
maybe the boy who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps got bad had to exist somewhere inside the man sitting in front of you.
you looked at him then, through your blurry vision, really and truly looked.
the hard line of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes and the casual arrogance sitting across his shoulders like armor.
and that hope crumbled quietly inside your chest.
not dramatically or all at once, but piece by piece, like something old finally accepting it had been dead for a long time.
utter disappointment filled you then. you should have known better.
this shouldn't be surprising.
sukuna had spent years telling you exactly who he was, painting you the worst image of himself and you had hoped it was just that.
the worst of himself.
except the worst was all of him.
sukuna was cruel. not because he didn’t know better but because he did.
because he’d known what hurt you and decided hurting you was easier than wanting you.
you swallowed around the ache in your throat, suddenly exhausted in a way a thousand years of sleep couldn’t fix.
all you wanted was to be home now, cuddled up with ani in your room alone.
“right,” you whispered, nodding once to yourself.
sukuna’s brows pulled together slightly, “right what?”
you pushed yourself to your feet, smoothing trembling hands over the front of your skirt because you needed something to do. anything that didn’t involve looking at him.
“this was enlightening.”
his eyes narrowed, “sit down.”
the command sparked something sharp beneath your ribs, the thorn twisting in your heart.
you let out a hollow laugh, “fuck you.”
his jaw flexed, “don’t make a scene.”
your name left him then and you hated the way your stomach fluttered at the melody of it in his voice.
fuck, your heart hurt.
because he was your soulmate. yours.
because some sick, twisted part of you had expected the universe to redeem itself when you finally found him.
you expected the first moment to feel like every story you’d grown up hearing, witnessed amongst your friends.
warmth, recognition and relief.
instead, you were standing in front of the man who had turned your body into a battlefield and your heart into collateral damage.
“i hope i never see you again.”
something flickered across his face then and you didn’t stay long enough to decipher it.
you turned around, the crowd swallowing you almost immediately as you walked away.
music slammed back into your skull, bodies pressing close as you pushed through them with shaking hands and blurred vision.
your chest felt too tight, lungs too small for the oxygen your body ached for.
behind you, you felt sukuna rise before you saw it. the immediate pull.
his presence growing closer and your heart stuttered stupidly.
some miserable, pathetic part of you sparked alive at the thought before you could kill it.
maybe he did care.
maybe he was going to take back all the words he regretted, that he would stop you and apologize properly this time.
he would say what you’ve been waiting years to feel.
the thought was so humiliating, it almost made you sick.
“fuck are you lookin’ at?!”
you heard his voice aimed at the crowd of people that were watching you both, probably since your conversation on the couch.
you shoved through the door and stepped into the narrow hallway outside the main room, the music muffling instantly behind you.
the air was cooler here, damp with rain and cigarette smoke, blue neon bleeding through the cracked windows at the end of the corridor.
you took in a breath like you hadn’t breathed in days, eyes shutting as your heart hammered against your chest, trying to simply process everything that had taken place.
“hey.” his voice followed you out and you froze, heart stilling.
stupid, traitorous thing.
you turned slowly, eyes fluttering open.
sukuna stood a few feet away, tall and shadowed beneath the hallway light.
away from the party, he seemed even more dangerous. less like a person and more like a warning your body had spent seven years failing to understand.
he was an enigma.
for one breath, neither of you spoke.
your hope stood there too, fragile and shaking, fucking pitiful.
waiting.
sukuna’s gaze dragged over your face once, catching on the wetness beneath your eyes and his expression tightened faintly.
say it, you thought bitterly.
say sorry! say you didn’t mean it!
say something!
his jaw worked once, “no one can know.”
your brows furrowed, the hope dying cleanly.
“excuse me?”
sukuna stepped closer, voice lower now.
his mouth opened to clarify when his gaze met your own once more.
your wide glassy eyes. your pretty face that was streaked with tears, your plump bitten lips.
the little sniffles that left you, making his ribs ache.
and suddenly, he froze, the words stuck in his throat.
fuck, he had to get it together.
“about this.”
your lips parted faintly, “about us?”
the word us felt absolutely pathetic in your mouth.
all too soft and hopeful. undeserved, even.
something in his eyes shifted at the sound of it but it was gone before you could hold onto it.
“there is no us.”
oh. you actually felt that one.
not through the bond, nor as some phantom ache borrowed from him.
the pain was yours, all yours.
you laughed once, quiet and disbelieving as you took a small step back, “wow…”
sukuna followed you, taking one step forward as his jaw clenched, “listen to me-”
“no,” you shook your head slowly, voice trembling, “no, i think i understand perfectly.”
sukuna’s eyes darkened, “you really don’t.”
“oh my god,” you shook your head, “i can’t believe i thought-”
you stopped, humiliation burning up your throat.
sukuna stared, taking a step closer, his chest now brushing your chin, “thought what?”
his voice was almost desperate and you swallowed, blinking hard, “nothing.”
his face tightened and he felt it anyway, of course he did.
the hope and hurt.
the fact that some tiny, unbearable part of you had wanted him to come after you because he simply couldn’t let you leave.
sukuna looked away first as you took a step back. fucking coward.
“it’s dangerous.” he stated as you stared at the side of his face.
“dangerous?”
“yes.”
“for who?”
his gaze cut back to yours, “for you.”
you almost laugh but he continued before you could.
“people know me and if they know about you, they’ll use you. you make me weak.”
the words landed colder than you'd expected.
sukuna watched you closely, as if waiting for the fear to register and maybe it did.
somewhere deep, deep down, but anger got there first.
“so that’s what this is?” you whispered, tears leaving you without you noticing, “damage control?”
his silence was answer enough and you nodded faintly, tears burning hot once more.
“right.”
“you need to keep your mouth shut about it.”
you flinched before you could stop yourself and sukuna paused, regret flashing through instantly.
“don’t talk to me like that.” you stated lowly and his jaw clenched.
“i’m trying to keep you safe.”
“oh, how big of you.”
the hallway seemed to shrink around you both.
outside, rain tapped gently against the glass.
inside, bass thudded like a second heartbeat through the walls.
you looked at him then, this man that fate had tied to you with an invisible string and cruelty dressed up as destiny. and for the first time since you’d felt him at sixteen, you stopped wondering what it would be like to find him.
because now you knew and god, you wish you didn’t.
it felt like losing something you’d never even had.
“is that all?” you questioned lowly, clearing your throat once.
sukuna stared at you, nose flaring and throat bobbing once, “yeah.”
another piece of you gave out as you nodded, “okay.”
the word was so calm, it made his eyes sharpen.
you turned away, walking past him but his hand caught your wirst before you could take full step.
skin met skin and the bond went silent, completely and utterly silent.
no buzzing or aching or distance.
just him, all warm and real. terribly real.
your breath hitched at his touch. it was the first time he’d ever touched you.
sukuna froze too, fingers wrapped around your wrist like he’d touched fire and couldn’t make himself pull away.
for one second, just one, all the cruelty fell quiet.
and you felt him beneath it, scared and lonely, wanting and waiting.
you felt it and you hated him for letting you feel it now.
slowly, you looked down at his hand then back up at him, “let go.”
his grip tightened by a fraction, “this is the best thing for the both of us.”
your face crumpled before you could stop it.
you pulled your wrist free and this time, he let you.
“oh, trust me, not having to be stuck with you? i couldn’t agree more.” venom laced your words as sukuna’s expression changed, tightened and you felt the hurt then.
sharp and immediate and you were glad for it.
you turned and walked away then, tears streaming down your cheeks and a sob left you as soon as you were out of his vicinity.
for the first time, the bond didn't feel like a thread pulling you closer…
it felt like noose.
∞
an | was so late with this but had the worst past few days so SORRY! anyways PLSSS lmk what u think cuz i'm iffy abt the direction of this BUT this is lowk my fav thing i've written omg! this is kinda like a prologue pt2, next chapters will deffo be longer! i cannot wait to write more of these two and sukuna's a dick but bear w him ! also each chapter in the masterlist will be titled a song and i recommend listening to it while reading for the vibes 🫡
also lowk need toji BAD i wanna give him some lore so lmk if u want a one-shot of him in this au!
i love.. i love her..? (chest pains by malcolm todd)
gojo realizes that he’s in love with you.
it’s my birthday hueheuehe
gojo satoru who never really grasped what the word ‘love’ is. he never had time for it, it never caught his attention either. but what caught his attention, is you.
gojo satoru who unknowingly fell for you at first sight, so he decided to stick to you in every single place you go. training grounds? he’s there. a convenience store? what a coincidence, he’s also hungry! yaga’s office? he was JUST about to hand over his report from his really tough mission! buying some desserts? now it’s his treat, he has to be a gentleman, right?
gojo satoru who doesn’t give a damn when he gets weird looks from shoko and geto for openly staring at you.
“what? i like the view.”
“you mean.. y/n?” shoko deadpans.
“yep.”
“..simp.” geto whispers, but gojo just rolls his eyes, shooing the two away. despite that, he doesn’t take his eyes off you while doing so.
“how perfect,” he sighs into his palm. you were struggling to swat a fly.
gojo satoru who never thought that he treats you wayy differently. sure, he pays for your food all the time. sure, he buys every single craving you speak of. sure, his eyes soften every time the both of you talk. sure, he carries everything for you. and sureee, he always talks about you. but! it’s just a really good friendship though.
gojo satoru who feels his chest hurting whenever he sees you laugh with someone else. he thought it would fade. it never did.
gojo satoru who feels overwhelmed and lonely, not knowing where to go he comes to you, and lays his head on your lap.
“why are you here again?”
“dunno.” he mumbles, burying his head in your lap with a content sigh.
gojo satoru who’s jaw drops once geto tells him that it’s not normal to do those things for just a friend.
“what do you mean?”
“i mean, those are the things you do when you like someone.” geto sighs, explaining something about emotions to gojo is a huge challenge.
“well yeah, i like y/n. so obviously, i’ll do everything i can for her.” gojo scoffs as if he’s stating the obvious.
geto facepalms, and before he walks away from gojo’s stupidity: “you’re in love. that’s all i’m telling you.”
gojo satoru who stands there, processing geto’s words. “i love.. i love her..?” he blinks a few times, his brain running through all his memories with you.
gojo satoru who realizes that he is in love with you! in fact, he’s been in love with you this whole time.
gojo satoru who barges in your dorm, unable to deny what he feels. he knows he could hide it (he can’t), he could just brush everything off as always, he wishes he could lie. but he can’t, never to you.
gojo satoru who says your name as he approaches you who’s curled up in your bed, doomscrolling.
“yeah?” you look up from your phone, your pretty face illuminated by its light.
gojo satoru who immediately forgets what he’s supposed to say and just blurts out, “i think you’re perfect. i’ve been in love with you ever since we first met. i can’t stand the thought of someone taking something precious away from me, which is you. i love you. i love you so much. please give me the chance to court you, to win you over, and if possible.. be your boyfriend.”
gojo satoru who’s now kneeling on the side of your bed as you stare at him in shock, your face heating up so much that it could proxy as the sun.
gono satoru who feels the heat of your face radiating close to him, and despite the embarrassing (in his words) confession he just did, he smirks slyly. “cat got your tongue?”
gojo satoru who’s last words were “i know my looks and love confession are too much for you to take in—” before (almost) getting hit by your pillow.
gojo satoru who catches the pillow effortlessly and buries his face on it, inhaling your scent like an addict.
“creep.”
“y/n, you put my head on your lap just now.” he teases, then gets smacked by you.
gojo satoru who turns serious once you start talking about how you thought he never felt the same since you heard him talk to geto and shoko on how he’s just treating you like any friend would.
gojo satoru who’s eyes soften, he stands then sits beside you. “i just never realized what i felt, stupid. wait no—i’m stupid. i’m sorry, y/n. now you know, at least! sooo what do you say?”
gojo satoru who panics when you don’t say anything so he starts begging, until you burst out laughing. you cup his face and gently press your lips on his.
“you’re so easy to tease,” you murmur, your breath fanning against his lips.
gojo satoru who lets out a whine and wraps his arms around you. “better be grateful that i love you,” he huffs, burying his face on the crook of your neck. “i am.”
gojo satoru who lets out a sigh of relief as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders.
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ you spend three years convinced your academic rival sukuna hates you back, only to find out he’s been hopelessly in love with you the entire time.
✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, college!au, secretly soft!sukuna, academic rivals to lovers, forced proximity (paired final project), sukuna wears glasses, miscommunication is the villain, competition as flirting, first kiss, oblivious idiots in love.
the thing about hating ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision.
you couldn't point to a specific day, a singular moment where you looked at him and thought, yes, this is it. this is the person i will dedicate a concerning amount of my emotional energy to despising. it just happened, the way moss creeps over stones or rust eats into metal — it happened slowly, quietly, and then all at once.
maybe it was because you were always neck-and-neck for the top of every class, your names sitting side by side on ranked assignment lists like they were married to each other against both of your wills. maybe it was because sukuna had this infuriating habit of leaning against your shared locker bank every morning, arms crossed, watching you approach with that half-lidded expression that managed to convey how utterly beneath him he found you without him having to say a single word. maybe it was because sukuna never let you win at anything — not group projects, not debate club, not even the stupid karaoke contest at utahime's birthday party last semester where he absolutely butchered a journey song and still somehow got a higher score than you.
whatever it was, the hatred was there. it lived in your chest like a second heartbeat, hot and familiar, something you could always count on when everything else felt uncertain.
you hated ryomen sukuna.
and you were pretty sure he hated you too.
this was simply the natural order of things, as stable and predictable as gravity — you walked into a room, sukuna was there, the air got thicker, you glared at each other, and the universe continued spinning.
it had been like this since freshman orientation when you accidentally took the last chocolate chip muffin from the dining hall cart and sukuna had been reaching for it at the exact same time; your fingers had brushed, and sukuna had looked at you like you'd personally insulted every single of his ancestors, and then he'd muttered something under his breath about how he 'should have known'.
from that day forward, you were locked in.
so when your professor announced the paired final project for advanced literary theory — a fifteen-page analysis of narrative unreliability that would make up forty percent of your grade — and then proceeded to assign partners alphabetically, you felt the universe's cosmic joke land squarely on your shoulders.
"aizawa is with burnham, carlson is with davis... nakamura is with park, and (l/n) is with sukuna."
the room didn't go silent, but you wouldn't have heard it if it had. all you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears as you turned your head, slow and dreadful, like a defendant watching the jury file back in.
sukuna was already looking at you.
he sat two rows over, sprawled in his chair like he'd been poured into it, all sharp angles and lazy menace. his pink hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that made you want to push it out of his face just so you could see him scowl more clearly. his jaw was set, his mouth a flat line, and his eyes — those stupid, arresting eyes that shifted color depending on the light, red one moment and almost brown the next — were fixed on you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
you glared at him.
sukuna raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to be annoyed with you.
"great," you muttered, slumping in your seat. "just great."
the thing you didn't know — the thing you couldn't know, because nobody tells you these things, because love doesn't announce itself with trumpets and flashing signs — was that ryomen sukuna had been in love with you for three years, two months, and approximately eleven days.
it had started with the muffin.
not because of the muffin, exactly, but because of the way you'd looked at him when your fingers touched. everyone else in the dining hall flinched away from sukuna — he knew how he came across, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the kind of person who looked like they'd bite if you got too close. but you hadn't flinched. you'd looked at him, and there had been something in your expression that wasn't fear or deference or any of the other things he was used to seeing.
you'd simply looked at him like… he was just some guy who wanted a muffin.
and then you'd taken it anyway, which was either deeply stupid or deeply brave, and sukuna hadn't been able to decide which, but he'd known, suddenly and completely, that he needed to figure it out.
so he'd started showing up at your locker, not because he wanted to intimidate you but because sukuna wanted to see if you'd look at him like that again. he'd started competing with you for grades not because he wanted to beat you but because sukuna wanted you to notice how hard he was willing to try, how he sharpened himself against you like a blade against a whetstone. he'd challenged you to the karaoke contest because you'd laughed at something utahime said — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled your nose — and sukuna had wanted to be the reason you made that sound, even if it was because he was singing badly on purpose.
none of it had worked the way he wanted.
somewhere along the way, the wires had gotten crossed so completely that sukuna didn't even know how the hell to untangle them anymore; his attention had curdled into something you perceived as hostility. his proximity had become a threat instead of a hope.
and ryomen sukuna, who had never been good at explaining himself, who had spent his whole life building walls instead of bridges, had no idea how to tell you that every time you glared at him, he felt like he was swallowing glass.
so he didn't tell you.
sukuna just kept showing up, he just kept competing, he just kept finding reasons to be near you, and let you believe whatever you wanted to believe.
it was easier that way. really, it was easier than admitting that he thought about you constantly, that he had a folder on his phone full of screenshots of your discussion board posts because he liked the way you structured arguments, that he'd memorized your coffee order from watching you get it so many times (oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top, which was objectively an incorrect way to drink coffee but he loved that about you anyway).
it was easier than saying; i don't hate you. i never have. i think i would burn the world down if you asked me to, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.
so when professor okamoto announced your pairing, sukuna's heart did something violent in his chest, and he had to physically stop himself from smiling. he raised one eyebrow instead, giving you his most unreadable look, and watched your face crumple with displeasure.
god, you were beautiful when you were annoyed.
yeah… sukuna was so, so fucked.
you agreed to meet in the library on tuesday afternoon, mostly because you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. the sooner you started, the sooner you'd be done, and the sooner you could go back to pretending ryomen sukuna didn't exist at all.
he was already there when you arrived.
this was infuriating because you were fifteen minutes early, specifically to avoid this exact scenario — walking in to find him already settled, already comfortable, already looking like he belonged in a way that made you feel like an intruder in your own study space.
sukuna had claimed the corner table by the window, the good one with the natural light and the extra outlets, and he was bent over a laptop with his reading glasses on.
you stopped dead.
sukuna wore glasses.
you had never seen this before, you had no idea sukuna even needed them, and the sight of them — wire frames, simple and unexpectedly kind against the boy’s sharp face — made something in your chest do a strange little flip.
he looked way softer like this, less intimidating, and you hated that you noticed. you hated that you noticed that the sleeves of sukuna’s sweater were pushed up to his elbows, exposing the lean lines of his forearms. you hated that you noticed the way his hair fell when he was concentrating, how he kept pushing it back with an absent hand.
you hated that you noticed anything about him at all.
"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up.
you bristled.
"i'm not staring. i'm assessing the enemy's territory."
now sukuna looked up, and the glasses made him seem almost approachable for half a second before his expression settled into its usual mask of mild disdain.
"the library is not enemy territory. it's simply a library. with books. which we both really need for this project we're both required to complete."
"don't sound so excited about it."
"i'm not excited about anything involving you."
that stung more than you wanted it to.
you told yourself it was because you were proud, because you hated being dismissed, because sukuna's opinion shouldn't matter to you but it did, it always had, in the same way a splinter mattered — small and sharp and impossible to ignore.
you dropped your bag on the table with more force than necessary and sat down across from him, pulling out your laptop and notebook and pens with aggressive efficiency.
"let's just get this over with."
"eager to escape my company?"
"desperately."
something flickered across his face, there and gone so fast you couldn't name it. he looked back at his screen.
"okamoto wants us to focus on unreliable narration in gothic literature. i've pulled some secondary sources. there's a reading list in the shared document i started."
"you started a shared document already?"
"i'm not an idiot."
"i never said you were."
"you were thinking it."
you opened your mouth to argue, then closed it because he wasn't wrong, and also because there was something in his tone that didn't sound like his usual condescension. it sounded almost... tired. like he was exhausted by this dance you two did, even though he was the one who kept leading.
the silence stretched between you, strange and unfamiliar.
you'd never spent this much time alone with sukuna before; your interactions were always in crowded hallways or full classrooms, always brief and barbed, always with an audience. now it was just the two of you and the soft sounds of the library — pages turning, keyboards clicking, someone's phone buzzing somewhere in the stacks.
you could smell his cologne; something woodsy and warm, nothing like the sharp, cold scent you'd imagined he'd wear. it made him seem closer than he actually was.
"so," you said, because you had to say something, "gothic literature. fun."
sukuna looked at you over the top of his glasses.
"is that a genuine statement or are you being sarcastic?"
"do i ever not sound sarcastic?"
"no," sukuna said, and then, quieter, "i know."
you didn't know what that meant, and you didn't ask.
the first week of working together was exactly as miserable as you'd expected.
you disagreed about everything — thesis statements, source selection, whether or not to use first-person in the analysis, the correct way to cite a multi-volume work.
sukuna was methodical to the point of obsession, wanting to outline every paragraph before writing a single word, while you preferred to write freely and shape the chaos into something structured later. he thought your approach was inefficient. you thought his approach was suffocating.
"you can't just write without knowing where you're going," he said on thursday, staring at your laptop screen like it had personally offended him. "that's how you end up with a directionless argument."
"it's not directionless, it's exploratory. there's a difference."
"there isn't."
"there is if you have any imagination at all."
sukuna’s jaw tightened. "i have imagination."
"huh. could've fooled me."
the words came out sharper than you intended, and you saw something shutter behind sukuna’s eyes. he looked away first, which he never did, and when he spoke again his voice was carefully, deliberately flat.
"just write the outline. we can argue about methodology later."
you wanted to push. you wanted to know why he looked like you'd actually hurt his feelings, which was ridiculous because ryomen sukuna didn't have feelings, not ones that could be hurt by the likes of you. but something about the set of his shoulders stopped you, something about the way he'd gone very still, like he was bracing for impact.
so you wrote the outline.
and sukuna was right, which made it worse.
by the end of the second week, something had shifted.
you couldn't point to exactly when the hell it happened, but somewhere between arguing about the reliability of jane eyre's narration and debating whether rochester was a gothic hero or just a guy with too many secrets, the edges of your interactions had started to soften.
you still bickered constantly, but it felt less like warfare and more like... a game. a familiar rhythm you'd both fallen into without meaning to.
sukuna started bringing you coffee.
not every day, and not in an obvious way either; he'd just show up to your library sessions with two cups from the campus cafe, one black for himself and one that smelled like cinnamon and oat milk, and he'd set yours on your side of the table without a single comment.
the first time it happened, you stared at the cup like it might explode at any moment;
"what is this?"
"coffee. it's a beverage. people drink it to stay awake when they're doing academic work."
"i know what coffee is. i meant—why did you get me one?"
sukuna shrugged, not meeting your eyes. "you always look like you haven't slept. figured you needed it."
it was such a strangely considerate thing to say, so unlike the person you thought you knew, that you didn't know how to respond. you just wrapped your hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into your palms, watching sukuna over the rim as he settled into his chair and opened his laptop like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
the coffee was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
you didn't think about what that meant.
you definitely didn't think about how sukuna would have had to pay attention to know your order, how sukuna would have had to remember, how sukuna would have had to deliberately choose to get it for you even though you'd never asked and never thanked him properly.
you just drank the coffee and tried to ignore the way your heart was beating.
on the third week, you caught sukuna staring at you.
not the usual staring — the kind where he was waiting for you to finish a thought or watching your face for a reaction during an argument. this was different; this was soft, this was the way people looked at things they wanted to keep.
you'd been reading a passage from wuthering heights aloud, doing the voices for the different characters because you were a huge nerd and because it made sukuna's lip twitch in a way that was almost — almost — a smile. you were in the middle of heathcliff's "i cannot live without my soul" speech, and you'd gotten dramatic with it, leaning forward with your hand pressed to your chest, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, sukuna was just... looking at you.
not at the book, not at the table, but at you.
sukuna’s expression was naked in a way you'd never seen before. all the usual armor was completely gone — the sneer, the boredom, the casual cruelty he wielded like a shield.
instead he looked almost... awed. like you'd done something miraculous just by existing in his general vicinity.
your voice caught in your throat.
"sukuna?"
he blinked, and the mask slammed back into place so fast you almost believed you'd imagined the moment before.
"what?"
"you were staring."
"no, i was just listening."
"you looked—"
you stopped, not sure what you'd been about to say. you looked like you loved me, maybe, but that couldn't be right because ryomen sukuna didn't love anything, certainly not you, certainly not like that.
"you looked weird."
"i always look weird."
"you don't," you said, before you could stop yourself. "you look, you know, normal? i mean, not weird. usually."
sukuna's eyebrows went up.
for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the library's heating system kicked on with a low rumble, and somewhere across the room, someone laughed quietly, and you were acutely aware of every single inch of space between you, of how easy it would be to reach across the table and touch sukuna’s hand, of how badly you wanted to.
you didn't. of course you didn't. but you wanted to, and that was new, and that was terrifying.
"finish the passage," sukuna said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "you were at 'i cannot live without my soul'."
you looked down at the book, at heathcliff's desperate words, and felt heat rise to your cheeks.
"right. yeah. okay."
you finished the passage, but you couldn't look at sukuna while you did it.
the confession happened on a thursday, and it happened because of a paper cut.
you were both hunched over a stack of printouts, cross-referencing quotes, and you were tired — the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from too many late nights and too much caffeine and the slow, creeping realization that you didn't actually hate the person sitting across from you, that maybe you'd never hated him at all, that maybe you'd been wrong about everything for three entire years.
you reached for a page at the same time sukuna did, your fingers brushing against his, and you both froze.
his hands were warm.
you'd expected them to be cold, because everything about sukuna seemed cold, but no, they weren't. his hands were warm and broad and surprisingly gentle when he pulled back like you'd burned him.
"sorry," you said, and meant it.
"don't be sorry for touching me," sukuna said, and his voice was strange, tight, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "i don't—i don't mind."
you looked at him.
really looked, the way you hadn't let yourself look in years; his hair was messy from running his hands through it, his glasses were slightly crooked, and there was a tension in his jaw that you'd always read as anger but now seemed like something else entirely. something held back, something waiting.
"you always mind," you said quietly. "you always mind when i'm near you."
sukuna's breath caught, and you saw it, the way his chest stopped moving for just a second, the way his fingers curled into fists on the table.
"is that what you think?" he asked. "that i mind?"
"you act like you do. you've always acted like—"
"i know how i act." sukuna cut you off, and there was something raw in his voice now, something that made your stomach drop. "i know exactly how i act. do you think i don't know? do you think i haven't noticed that you flinch every time i walk into a room, that you tense up when i stand too close, that you look at me like i'm something you stepped in?"
you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
"i know," he continued, and now he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking at the table, at his hands, at anything but your face. "i know you hate me. i've known for years. and i don't—i don't blame you. i'm not good at this. i'm not good at people. i don't know how to be anything other than what i am, and what i am is someone who makes you uncomfortable, apparently, which was never—"
his voice actually cracked, and you felt something splinter inside your chest.
"that was never what i wanted."
"sukuna—"
"just let me finish."
sukuna pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was muffled.
"i need to say this. i've been trying to say this for three whole years, and i just keep messing it up, and i don't care if you hate me after, i just really need you to know so i can stop—so i can stop pretending—"
he dropped his hands and looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bright, and all the air left your lungs.
"i don't hate you," sukuna said. "i have never hated you. not once. not even when you took the last muffin at orientation, which was a crime against humanity and i'm still not over it. not when you argued with me about romantic poetry in sophomore lit. not when you told professor tanaka that my interpretation of frankenstein was 'reductive and borderline misogynistic', which, for the record, it wasn't. i don't hate you. i've never hated you. i—"
sukuna stopped, swallowed, and looked at you like you were the scariest thing he'd ever seen.
"i love you," he said, and the words came out small, almost bewildered, like he was discovering the truth of them in real time. "i love you so much it's embarrassing. i love your laugh and the way you argue and how you do the voices when you read out loud even though you think nobody notices. i love that you're competitive and stubborn and terrible at asking for help and you always push your hair behind your ear when you're thinking. i love that you took that muffin even though you knew i wanted it because you don't back down from anything, including me, especially me, and i—"
his voice broke again, and he laughed, a short, helpless sound.
"i've been in love with you since freshman orientation. i've been in love with you for three years, and i've been so busy trying to get your attention that i didn't notice i was just making you hate me. and that's—that's on me. that's entirely on me. but i needed you to know. before we finish this project and you never have to talk to me again. i needed you to know that none of it was hate. not on my side. it was never hate."
the library was silent.
you could hear your own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your hands, every part of you that had suddenly come alive.
sukuna was looking at you like a man awaiting execution, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands shaking slightly where they rested on the table.
you thought about three years of mornings at your locker. three years of competitive grading. three years of him finding reasons to be in your orbit, even when you made it clear he wasn't welcome at all.
you thought about the coffee, the glasses, the way he knew your reading voice and your coffee order and the fact that you pushed your hair behind your ear when you were thinking.
you thought about how you'd actually never hated him either; at least, not the way real hatred felt cold and dead. your feelings for sukuna had always been hot, always been alive, always been demanding your attention when you wanted to focus on anything else.
you thought about the muffin.
"you're an idiot," you said.
sukuna blinked. "what?"
"you're an idiot," you repeated, and your voice was shaking, and you couldn't stop the smile that was spreading across your face, wide and disbelieving and probably ridiculous. "three years. three years of fighting over grades and arguing about literature and competing in karaoke contests, and the whole time you were just trying to get me to look at you?"
"to be fair, it worked. you looked at me constantly. just—not in the way i wanted."
"because i thought you hated me!"
"yeah, i know! i realize that! i'm aware that my communication skills are—"
"abysmal?"
"i was going to say 'deeply flawed', but yes, abysmal works."
you laughed.
you couldn't help it; it bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been wound too tight for too long, and suddenly you were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down your face, and sukuna was staring at you like you'd lost your mind, which honestly you might have.
"i don't hate you either," you managed, between gasps. "i never hated you. i thought i did, but i don't think i know what hatred feels like anymore because every time i tried to hate you, i just—i just kept noticing things. like the way you tap your fingers when you're reading. and how you always hold the door for people even though you pretend not to. and you helped that freshman find their classroom last week even though you were late to your own class. and you look at me like—"
you stopped, swallowed, and looked at him.
"you look at me like i matter," you said softly. "and i didn't know what to do with that, so i called it hatred. because it was easier than admitting that maybe i wanted you to look at me forever."
sukuna made a sound, something wounded and hopeful all at once, and then he was moving — not dramatically, not the way they do in movies, but slowly, carefully, like the boy was approaching something that might spook.
he reached across the table and took your hand, his fingers sliding between yours, and you both looked down at where you were connected like it was the most incredible thing either of you had ever seen.
"so," sukuna said, and his voice was unsteady, "just to be clear. we both wasted three years being convinced the other person hated them, when actually—"
"when actually you have the emotional intelligence of a brick and i'm apparently blind."
"i was going to say we're both complete idiots, but yes, that's also very accurate."
you squeezed sukuna’s hand, and he squeezed back, and the smile he gave you was nothing like the ones you'd seen before; this one was real, this one reached his eyes, softened all his sharp edges, and made him look so sweet and so hopeful and so terrifyingly beautiful.
"what now?" you asked.
sukuna looked at your joined hands, then at your face, then back at your hands.
"well. i have a fifteen-page paper due in two weeks, and my partner is very distracting."
"your partner is sitting right here."
"i know." sukuna lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, feather-light, his eyes never leaving yours. "trust me. i know."
you spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, but you didn't get any work done.
you talked instead — really talked, for the first time in three years. you told him about the muffin, how you'd only taken it because you'd seen him reach for it and wanted an excuse to touch his hand, how you'd spent the rest of the day convinced you'd imagined the whole thing. he told you about the karaoke contest, how he'd picked journey specifically because he'd overheard you say it was your guilty pleasure, how he'd sung badly on purpose because he wanted to see you smile.
"i can't believe you can actually sing," you said, propping your chin on your hand. "and all this time i thought you were just terrible at music."
"i have many hidden talents."
"like secretly being in love with me for three years?"
sukuna’s ears went pink.
"that's not a talent. that's a crisis."
you reached across the table and touched his face, just because you could now, just because he was yours to touch. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, and he closed his eyes when you traced the line of his jaw, leaning into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.
"i'm sorry," you said quietly. "for all the times i was mean to you. for assuming the worst."
"don't be." sukuna turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "you gave as good as you got. it's one of the things i like about you."
"one of the things?"
sukuna slowly opened his eyes, and the look in them made your chest ache.
"i could give you a long list. it would take a while. we might need to order dinner."
"we're still in the library."
"the library has a cafe."
you laughed, and he smiled, and when he kissed you for the first time — soft and slow and a little awkward, both of you smiling too much to do it properly — you tasted coffee and cinnamon and something that felt like coming home.
the thing about loving ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision either.
it just happened — it happened the way spring follows winter, the way flowers naturally turn toward the sun, the way your hand found his under the library table and held on like you'd been doing it your whole life.
frat!sukuna, who first insisted that your relationship was strictly sex, nothing more—with some flimsy excuse about how he doesn’t have the time for a relationship, doesn’t have the time to commit to something that serious, and about how a relationship would only drag him down.
so he does what any good friend situationship?would do—he shows up to your place, fucks you until you can’t remember your own name, and leaves before something in his chest convinces him to stay.
frat!sukuna, who has to have you facing him to cum, something about just looking at your face contort in pleasure while you take him in, the way tears rim your eyes while he thrusts into you languidly—he simply can’t bring himself to cum if he isn’t look at you and your pretty face drunk on his cock.
frat!sukuna, who tries to walk out of your apartment the second he’s done with you, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. so he lingers, hovers around your sleeping form until you finally drag him back under your sheets, calling him ridiculous while he presses soft kisses to the back of your neck.
frat!sukuna, who has your drink order memorised to perfection, always leaving your sugary concoction of a drink on your desk before each class begins with a scrawled on note that says ‘don’t get any ideas.’
frat!sukuna, who never denies anything when his frat brothers start calling you his girlfriend—it’s too much work to correct them, he says, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks tinge the same shade as his hair every single time one of them pats him on the back and calls you his girl.
frat!sukuna, who always has to have you close to him, with his arm slug around your shoulders or wrapped around your waist when he’s near you.
“it’s to make sure you don’t run away.”
“now, why would i do that?”
frat!sukuna, who almost decks toji in the face when he sees him flirting with you, his split lip curled into a girl while you laughed at his stupid jokes and for one second, sukuna’s afraid he’s going to lose this, that he’s going to lose you.
frat!sukuna, who starts tiptoeing around the idea of a relationship, insisting he takes you on dates—taking you out to fancy restaurants and late night bike rides when he knows exam stress starts to take over your brain. he’s spent enough time around you to know everything there is to know, but what sukuna doesn’t know is how to handle a relationship.
frat!sukuna, who’s been treating you like his girlfriend since the start, never skipping aftercare, always being there at your every beck and call—and avoiding every girl that had eyes for him like the plague since he met you.
“good god, did she neuter you, kuna?” toji slurred between drinks while sukuna tried to dodge the sorority girls coming his way.
“shut up.”
frat!sukuna, who’s softer during sex now, worshipping your body endlessly, covering you in soft kisses and bites marks before he eats you out like a man starved.
frat!sukuna, who’s basically a guard dog around you, glaring at everyone who so much as shows even mild interest in you, clinging to you like a needy puppy every second of the day that he possibly can.
frat!sukuna, who has words stuck in his throat every single time he tries to ask you out, always stuttering out nonsense he didn’t mean to say because, what if you turn him down? and what if there’s someone better?
frat!sukuna, who gets you a massive bouquet of your favourite flowers, showing up to your apartment in the dead of night, flowers scrunched in his hand, his chest heaving when he finally asks you out.
frat!sukuna, who tries to hide his flustered face when you finally say yes, spinning you around in his arms while he kisses the top of your head—because after all the mental gymnastics he’s done to have you in his arms, he finally gets to call you his girl.
eek.
all works belong to @lilithkleii do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI, lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
between a smug academic rival, a masked hero you cannot stop thinking about, and a symbiote threat getting closer by the day, your life is quickly becoming unmanageable. gojo satoru keeps ruining your peace, spiderman keeps stealing your heart, and neither of them seems willing to tell you the truth. as secrets pile up and the city tips further into danger, you begin to realise the person breaking your heart and the one trying to save it may not be two different people at all.
pairing: nerd!jo + spiderman!jo x reader
content: mdni, fluff + crack + angst + smut, academic rivals to lovers (a bit), college slop + coffee slop, a little miscommunication, secret identity reveal, friends with benefits kind of, satoru and reader are bad at feelings, satoru makes bad choices, foot job, p in v, cunnilingus, angst (?) with a happy ending !!, some action scenes 55k+
note: the old title was “the end of the world” or smth so take a shot everytime the world ending is mentioned in the fic! thank you for reading and i’ll see you at the end for more yap :3
Some people say the world ended December 12th, 2012 and that we’re all living in purgatory. The dead internet theory, Trisha Payta giving birth every time a significant member of society dies, that triangle in the middle of fuckass nowhere, there are pointers that this can’t be the reality we live in.
Not that you care because for all you know, the world ended for you on March 15th at 10:12am when you first met Gojo Satoru.
It was impossible to not know him beforehand, not when he’s friends with your friends. And that distinction matters, their friend rather than your friend because you don’t associate with him, not willingly. In fact, you would have been beyond overjoyed if he remained that unnamed face sitting back row of your neuropharmacology tutorial class, and not the persistent nuisance that he’s grown to be.
Because ever since the world has ended and you’ve matched the elusive name to face, Gojo has managed to worm his way into your life. He’s there, slinging his arm over Shoko’s shoulder as if you both aren’t glaring into the side of his head for it, dragging his friend Geto over too, the long haired boy at least having the decency to smile apologetically though not enough decency to leave.
Shoko never tells him off, which you originally assumed was her one and only tragic personality flaw until you eventually learned they’d been childhood best friends for almost twenty years. After that, it became easier to file her reactions away as a chronic, lifelong exasperation, the kind that slowly builds over decades until the only move left is to sigh and let the idiot sit down.
But did that idiot have to be Gojo?
Ever since he entered your orbit that horrible day in March, you can’t seem to ignore his existence. You see those irritating thick-framed glasses around every corner on campus, his messy white hair sometimes tucked beneath the hood of his university jumper sometimes not, but always ruffled like he has just rolled out of bed. His laugh follows you around, a persistent soundtrack bleeding into every conversation you try to have with your actual friends. He’s always there, hands in pockets, bulky backpack slung over both shoulders, slippers padding lazily against the pavement like he’s just walked straight out of his apartment and into your line of sight.
“Relax.” Shoko tells you one afternoon as you aggressively wiped down a table, the cafe quieter now the day was slipping into that evening quiet. “You won’t have to see him ever again now that the semester is over. You can unclench.”
Her advice only makes you snort, giving the table one last swipe before straightening to look at her busied behind the counter. “Not true if you don’t stop inviting him to everything. What made you even think of bringing him with us to the club last Friday?”
Your best friend opens her mouth as if to defend him and that alone is enough for you to gag.
“Shoko, he showed up in a dress shirt. And a messenger bag. To the fucking club!”
“Not too much on him, he was coming straight from night classes.”
Like that helps his case. Like being top of the cohort, effortlessly breezing through the same exams that require endless all-nighters from you, isn’t enough to satiate his greedy appetite. Like the universe hasn’t already gift-wrapped him with endless talent, now he has to go above and beyond and take night classes too.
“Yeah, well. You need to separate your personal life from your work life. Work-life balance.”
“I don’t see how that makes sense,” Shoko retorts drily, speaking more to the sink than you as she washes up the last of the cups. “Clubbing and Gojo are both my personal life. If anything, you’re the one bringing him into our work life right now.”
“You’re the one that said being his friend is a full-time job.”
She sighs. “Minimal wage, too.”
You weave through the tables and duck behind the counter, tossing the rag into a discarded pile for the night staff to deal with, and squeeze Shoko’s shoulders as you pass behind her in the cramped space.
“Hey,” you start, voice sweet. “Let’s cut him off.”
She shoves you off good-mannerly, pushing you again in the direction of the apron rack to help you with the knot. “Cut him some slack, won’t you? Or don’t. Just forget about him. Like I said, now that the semester is over, you won’t have any reason to see him ever again.”
“That’s honestly up to you. Sure, I won’t see him in classes anymore but are you going to spontaneously invite him to lunch again? He’s not coming to our Saturday cheese tasting plans, is he? What about that aquarium we wanted to check out?”
Her hands pause before she loosens the knot and turns so you can untie her apron in return. “I’ll tell him no to both.”
“Oh, so he asked?”
“You have no idea.” As if sensing the rant already bubbling up your throat, Shoko quickly hands you your phone from under the counter. “By the way, your phone’s been buzzing the entire shift. You’re not still talking to that guy, are you?”
You take it, dragging the screen down to scroll through missed notifications. “Who?”
“The double texter.”
There’s the typical ones you’d expect, some Outlook emails about irrelevant study tips, some random Twitter notifications from the many inactive accounts you’ve abandoned but never bothered logging out of, and miscellaneous app alerts you swipe away without reading. Buried beneath them though, is the familiar little red icon from that forum app you absolutely should have deleted months ago, a fresh reply sitting under the thread that’s been irritating you all week.
Your mouth tightens and you swipe it away before you can be sucked away into the ragebait.
“Y/N?”
“Hm?” You look up, realising Shoko is still waiting for a response. “Oh, no. This is… a guy from Hinge.”
The hesitation isn’t lost on her but she gives you grace and doesn’t press for the truth. “Right. Just be careful, alright? I don’t know what is going on in this city anymore but there’s been way too many incidents on the news about people going missing. You know it’s bad when all the news channels are all suddenly interviewing men in tight spandex suits.”
You snort, tucking your phone away to finish clocking out of your shift. “‘Men’ like there’s multiple. You mean that one spider guy, right? His superhero name is uncreative as hell.”
“He shoots webs from his wrists and climbs walls, what else would he call himself?”
“Anything but the first thing a five year old could come up with. That’s like pointing to a man who can fly and calling him Flying Man.”
Shoko locks the cafe doors behind, the metal click satisfying after a long shift. She gives the handle two firm tugs just to be sure because the city is a mess apparently, then steps back so she can flip the sign to CLOSED, the glass catching a smear of gold from the streetlights outside.
“Superhero names are hardly creative these days.”
“We’re losing the ancient texts.”
By now, evening has settled in properly, the campus washed in that dusky blue-orange light that makes everything look prettier than it is. You stop to take a few photos of the sunset, then slip your phone away and breathe in the cool breeze as Shoko falls into step beside you, the two of you cutting across campus out toward the busier street.
“What ancient texts? There’s literally someone called Superman because he’s super.”
You roll your eyes. “That is so not helping your case.”
“It is helping my case because it proves people like straightforward names. Also, it helps with making merch.”
“How can you be so confident and be so wrong?”
Shoko bumps your shoulder lightly as you walk, enough to make you sway half a step before you right yourself and return the gesture.
Cars hiss past at the intersection ahead, headlights briefly washing over the footpath. Somewhere behind you, someone shouts a name across the road and is followed by a burst of noisy laughter. There’s a kind of peace at this twilight, a sense of calm that feels despairing.
“Are you sure you don’t want a lift?” Shoko asks as you both slow to a step, effectively dragging you out of a potential spiral. “I can’t imagine the bus being your favourite form of transport.”
You blink at her before shaking your head, reorganising your thoughts. “It’s fine. Besides, I know you have that thing with Utahime later.”
“It’s not a thing. We’re just going to a jazz bar.”
“Sure, okay. But just the two of you.”
“We did invite you,” Shoko reminds you with an unimpressed look. “You’re the one that declined.”
“I wasn’t going to third wheel again.”
“Utahime would kill you for saying that.”
“I’d be more worried that she’d kill herself if she found out you’re not labelling it as a date.”
Shoko kicks a loose rock on the pavement, avoiding your eyes. “That’s because it’s not a date. It’s a jazz bar outing.”
“Jazz is like, inherently romantic. Haven’t you heard ‘Careless Whispers’?”
“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day. ‘Careless Whispers’ is about a man cheating,”
“Wait, are you serious?” You shake your head to dispel the song from playing in your mind, reining in the conversation before she can successfully deflect. “And I doubt that’s the dumbest thing I’ve said all day. I think I’ve had some better bangers.”
“True, the dumbest thing that left your mouth was probably Gojo. You know, for someone who claims to hate him, you sure do talk about Gojo a lot. Don’t groan at me, I’m just saying.”
“I’m complaining about him. That has to be different.”
Shoko tilts her head, studying you up and down as she considers your words. She ends her evaluation with a hum. “I don’t know, people usually don’t spend that much time thinking about someone they actually don’t care about.”
The implications are so frankly absurd the only thing you can do is wish her well. “I’m going to kill you.”
She raises her hands in surrender, already backing away in the direction of the parking lot.“Anyway! There’s no reason to complain about him anymore. Live a little!”
“Please,” you scoff. “Like I’d ever willingly think about Gojo ever again. You don’t need to tell me that.”
She laughs softly, catching the words just before they disappear with the wind. You watch her back for a few seconds longer before blinking out of your thoughts. For some reason, the sound follows you all the way to the bus stop.
Realistically, Shoko’s words have some truth to them. It is rather easy to forget all about Gojo and his crimes against humanity (you) when you don’t see him over the two-week break. Instead, you go to concerts with Utahime, visit art museums with Nanami and gossip and giggle over brunch with Shoko.
There's a peaceful monotony as days blend into each other, until one morning when your alarm rings at an hour once familiar to you and you get up to start another semester.
Checking your timetable one more time, you sigh at your misfortune. It was inevitable that your courses wouldn’t always align with the rest of your friends. In fact, it was a miracle that you even had classes with Shoko last semester considering she wasn’t even doing the same degree. You shouldn’t be too disappointed after all, when you posted a story asking if anyone else was taking this course, a few people you vaguely recognised had swiped up. They're mostly acquaintances, people you’ve met once from parties and events, but it’s miles better than being alone.
You double-check the lecture hall number one last time outside the building, hoping the extra second will magically give you the cure to the brewing headache at your temples, before you finally push open the door.
The buzz of conversation hits you immediately. Rows of students fill the lecture hall, voices overlapping as people reunite after the break, bags dropping onto chairs and laptops snapping open performatively. A few heads turn when you walk in, not unusual unfortunately, but you pretend not to notice, adjusting the strap of your tote as you scan the room.
You spot some familiar faces sitting toward the back, relief loosening the tight knot in your chest as you begin to climb the steps.
The smile on your face drops the moment your eyes drift—those traitorous things—to the front row.
Gojo slouches in his seat, the tiny fold-out table already pulled out in front of him, bag resting on top. He’s the only one sitting front row and centre, and considering how immersed he is with his phone, you doubt he has any plans to share the space with anyone else. He causally lifts his glasses with his finger in a way you thought perfectly suits his pretentious personality.
His hood is thrown over his head, feet stretching out in front of him. One of his hoodie strings is kept between his lips as he absentmindedly chews at it, so relaxed, so casual, so oblivious to the world ending around you.
You freeze.
Someone tries to enter the hall and almost bumps into you, and it’s this near collision that finally jolts you into motion. Your instincts kick in and you hastily duck your head, climbing up the stairs where your friends are waiting.
Nobara waves you closer, tucking her feet closer to her chest to let you into the row. “Hey, Y/N! It's been a while.”
“Hey,” you say, hoping it comes off casual and not dripped in fear. “Yeah, I didn’t think you were doing this course too. What a coincidence. Hey, can you give me a second?"
When you sink into your chair, you whip out your phone and frantically type away.
you: no fucking way
im going to kill myself
shoko: ik u have some crazy attachment issues but u’ll get over it i promise
utahime: aww i think its cute u miss us so much if not a little pathetic
you: i dont give a gaf about that anymore
u wouldnt believe who else is taking this course
shoko: we’re not the fucking akinator guy y/n
utahime: i could be if u gave me more hints
guy or girl?
are they a youtuber?
you: it’s gojo
utahime: wtf spoilers??
wait gojo oh my god LMAOO
shoko: oh ure definitely gonna tweak
Your eyes only tear away from Gojo when the lecturer enters the room and when the door closes behind him, you feel the sudden, irrational urge to bolt for the exit. Because was it just your imagination or was there a sense of finality to that door slam? Gojo was meant to be a nightmare for one semester, a pain in the ass for one chapter of your life and yet here he is, the back of his head just as infuriating as the front.
“Welcome to neuropharmacology3211.” When the lecturer begins the lesson, you watch as Gojo barely sits up to listen. “I’ll pass along the attendance sheet now. Just for everyone’s sanity I need to let you know that these lectures aren’t compulsory, however we do encourage you to attend.”
You panic. An attendance sheet. With your name on it. For all to see.
You watch in despair as it begins its slow journey across your side of the lecture hall. Mournfully, you tick off your name with Nobara’s pen and pass the paper along, trying not to imagine the inevitable moment it reaches the front row.
Around and around it goes until it stops at the last person, the only person sitting in the front row on the left side of the hall.
Gojo absentmindedly spins his pen, flipping the paper to the other side when he can’t find his name. He runs a finger down the list as the lecturer drones though you doubt either you or Gojo are actually paying attention.
From this distance you can’t make out his subtle movements but at one point, he stops spinning his pen and looks up, glancing briefly around the room.
You immediately duck down, finding something immensely interesting about your laptop. You don’t look up until Nobara elbows you gently and asks if you need any ibuprofen. You shake your head, daring to cautiously peek over the edge of your laptop.
Gojo continues to face the front and you let out a small sigh of relief, straightening just enough to give off your best impression of someone who has been paying attention the entire time.
It's the usual mandatory assessment outline, a rundown on everything that actually mattered in the course: midterms, finals, biweekly quizzes. You mindlessly add the dates to your calendar until the professor highlights the missing 20% of the final grade.
“And finally, there is a pair presentation due in week 7.” Your eyes twitch and you cast your gaze back to the front. “The details of the assessment will be explained during this week’s lab so ask your questions then.”
A group project. Even worse, in pairs. Your eyes slide instinctively toward Gojo and the dread in your stomach collapses in on itself, condensing into something dense and horrible.
“Your pair and topic will be emailed to you later today.” The professor continues and when groans echo across the room, they only chuckle, undeterred. “Diversity is good for group work. Your colleagues won’t always be your friend.”
You glance around the room. How many people were in this class? Many, so many. What are the chances you get paired with Gojo? Slim, at least you hope so.
The moment the lecture ends, you shove your laptop into your bag, and flash Nobara an apologetic smile as you book it for the door. You keep your head down, both hands clutching your tote as it digs into your shoulder while you weave through the crowd spilling into the aisle.
Freedom appears as a bright light before you, and you almost think you’re safe when—
“No way.”
Your pace stutters and against every instinct in your body screaming at you to keep walking, you freeze.
“Y/N?”
Someone knocks into your shoulder on the way out and before you can use the momentum to slip out with the rest of the crowd, a hand grabs your arm and pulls you to the side.
You glare up at Gojo’s stupid face. He peers down at you, all ego and cocky exterior, like he’s discovered something entertaining. He sniffles, rubs his nose and pushes up his glasses all in one making you grimace at his apparent lack of hygiene.
“God, why did it have to be you?” you grumble, more to yourself than him. You shake off his hold, pressing your arm to your side to prevent any further contact. “Don’t touch me.”
“I knew I saw your name on the attendance sheet.” He smirks down at you, taking in the familiar sight of your frown. “Come on, smile a little. You’re making it look like I'm extorting you.”
“Don't talk to me like we’re familiar, Gojo.”
“Aren’t we?”
“We aren't.”
“We talk though.”
“You talk, I try my best to ignore you.”
“We have mutual friends.” He points out next as if this hasn’t been the sole reason for your pain and suffering. God bless Shoko’s kind, patient heart for putting up with him, but if you had to see his face at another outing you might decide to wrap your fingers around your neck and squeeze instead of staying.
“Unfortunately.”
His lips only curl into that irritating and carefree smile, worse when you decide begrudgingly that it could also pass as charming. Any potential compliment dies immediately when he speaks again.
“What crawled up your ass and died?”
“Don’t talk about my ass.”
“Come on, are you still being a sore loser over finals? You had two whole weeks to get over that.”
That gets you. You exhale sharply, eyes narrowing dangerously as you lean forward to poke at his chest.
“First of all,” you begin, “I am not being a sore loser over finals. The one making a big deal of things is you so if you’re trying to get my attention, there are far less tedious ways.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I'm trying to get your attention?”
“Is there another reason why you won’t leave me alone, Gojo?” You sigh like it’s the most obvious thing. “Look, you’re not my type and that’s okay. Not everyone can be. But seriously, sticking to me like an annoying bug isn’t going to fix that. If anything, it worsens your chances, not that you had any to begin with.”
He waits and when you only seethe, he prompts you, “And?”
You blink, temporarily off guard. “That’s it.”
“Then why did you start with‘first of all’?”
Your eyes narrow. “It’s like talking to a genie with some of you people.”
His grin is too easy, too casual as if you weren’t fighting for your life to restrain from murdering him, as if he isn’t standing between you and your only exit from this hell.
“Hey, I just wanted to clarify,” he says, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender that only grinds your gears further. “No need to get so pissy. It’s not a good look on you.”
You grit your teeth. “No defense for the allegations though, I see.”
Gojo looks around with a hum, eyes doing a lazy sweep of the emptying lecture hall, hands lowering slightly. “You’d think after all this time, you’d finally get the hint.”
He casts his gaze back to you expectantly, failing to elaborate on his cryptic message and you take a moment to think.
There were many things he isn’t exactly subtle about:
flaunting his academic prowess
how much he seems to thrive off your annoyance
You pick the second. “What, that you get off to a pretty woman telling you to kill yourself?”
He presses his lips together, as if giving it serious thought. Your face immediately twists into something that can only be described as a grimace, and he laughs.
“Do you usually spend a lot of time thinking about what gets me off?”
“Do you always have to ask me stupid questions?”
“Only because you always find a way to make the answers fun.”
“I'm telling you this now, Gojo. You’ve outgrown the age where teasing the girl you like works,” you shoot back with a snarl, unable to hide your frustration.
For a moment, something in his expression shifts.
Gojo’s eyes drop and you feel his gaze burn down your neck and drag from your top to your shoes. You can’t help but shiver at the intensity of his stare and maybe he notices because he scoffs, looking away. “That hurts my reputation. You’re not my type.”
Your eye twitches. “Bat for the other team, do you?”
“How egotistical. You think just because a guy doesn’t like you he must be gay?”
“Well, there’s definitely a higher likelihood."
“You must have tested that with a small sample size because that doesn’t sound statistically significant.”
You roll your eyes, shifting your weight to edge closer to the door. “Of course you can’t help but be a fucking nerd about everything."
“Whining doesn’t exactly help your side of the argument."
“No, but it might stop me from reaching over and punting your head in.”
Gojo whistles low, the noise sharper now that most students have left. “Are you purposefully testing me? I thought we established that I liked girls who keep me on my toes.”
You wrinkle your nose. “There’s a difference between keeping someone on their toes and wanting to throttle them.”
“You better be careful because it's a thinner line than most for me.”
“You are disgusting.”
“That doesn’t explain why you keep talking to me, though.”
“Like I have a choice. You’re the one who grabbed my arm. If I miss my bus because of you doing whatever this is with me, I will put you in the ground.”
“You’re still here though.”
You sigh, exasperated. “Because you’re standing in the fucking doorway, you idiot.”
“Oh,” he says, but makes absolutely no move to step aside.
You inhale slowly through your nose, channeling a calm you most certainly do not feel. “Move.”
“Say please.”
Your smile turns dangerously sweet. “I said move.”
“Still not hearing the magic word.”
You give up, sensing you’ll only continue to lose. Before you can suck it up and brush past him, dreading even the brief contact of his shoulder against yours, he steps closer. His gaze flutters down for a moment, something foreign passing over his face as he clears his throat.
It makes your heart seize at how unfamiliar he looks, though that fades quickly when his eyes snap back up, that irritating grin firmly in place.
“Actually, I was thinking. Are you free this—” Before he can finish, a loud tune sounds from his pocket and he groans, abandoning his words to pull out his phone. The smile that had been on his face scrunches up, and he absentmindedly types a response with one hand before looking back up at you. “My bad. I was going say if you’re—”
But in the few seconds his attention is elsewhere, you’ve already bolted.
“Hey, wait!” His voice chases after you and you press on, echoing faintly against the tiled floors as you round the corner at a pace that’s just shy of running. “I’m going to count this as my win if you run away from me!”
You jam your airpods into your ears with unnecessary force, scrolling blindly until music floods your head and drowns him out completely.
If the world was going to convince you it wasn’t about to end, it better start looking up for you soon.
Unfortunately, the world really doesn’t give a shit about what you think because your karmic debt piles high.
Shoko had abandoned you in your time of need, leaving you to tackle the shift alone. You close the cafe door behind you, turning the key so that the handle doesn’t rattle under your palm, and sniff when the cold air immediately bites at your face. Your scarf comes up instinctively, burying your nose and mouth as a harsh wind cuts through the street now that you’re no longer protected by the warmth of the cafe.
What a long day.
You clutch your scarf as it flutters wildly until the wind settles, the evening air growing still enough that it stops stinging your cheeks.
Nothing particularly bad had even happened today.
It wasn’t overly busy though it was far from quiet. You even managed to pass the long hours when some old friends showed up, though the conversation had only lasted as long as it took to make their coffee.
But when it’s still or in the moments when you wait for a customer’s order, you feel something unpleasant settle in. The air feels too stale, time clicking by too slowly and the sensation of the ground moving beneath is unnerving. Your eyes refuse to move at times and you find yourself zoning out at nothing, hands moving in autopilot as you make drink after drink after drink, the repetition slowly pulling you apart one seam at a time.
Your feet find their way to the bus stop and you breathe out slowly, mist curling into the cold evening air as you look up to watch it dissipate.
How freeing would it be to be up there? The wind in your hair, biting cold against your nose and the tips of your ears, the rush of air in your lungs, and that terrifying exhilaration that comes from rising and falling and rising again. You imagine being weightless, being untouchable, being above it all and finally free.
You shake that nonsense thought away.
It’s just one of those bad days.
The bus pulls up, blowing exhaust and humid air, and you’ve only just placed a foot onto the bus when a loud crash sounds to your left.
You look over just as something flies past and slams into the bus stop, the metal denting under the immense weight. It’s not your finest moment but you duck, covering your head, and let out a scream as the loud noise deafens you.
The bus drives off in the chaos, certainly breaking several traffic laws, and you curse the driver when you realise you’ve been abandoned.
Peeking an eye open as the dust settles, you lower your arms and come face to face with the heavy object that had slammed against the stand.
Slowly, you ask, “...Spiderman?”
The blue and white figure coughs, hitting his chest with his fist. “You called?”
Spiderman looks up and freezes. It might be your imagination but he looks even more winded when his eyes lock on yours. Actually, you’re certain it’s your imagination because his mask completely obscures his facial expressions, save for the slight widening of the white parts indicating his eyes.
You crawl forward a little. “Shit, you went down hard. Do you have a concussion?”
The superhero runs a battered hand down his face, stopping only when it slides down to cover his mouth, and lets out a muffled groan. “You have got to be fucking kidding.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
Before he can say anything else, a wet, splintering crack sounds from across the street.
You look over your shoulder as he tilts to look around you. A man staggers out of gate five beside the university-run pharmacy, though stagger might be too human a word for it. Something black and shining writhes over his body, swallowing him from the neck down like spilled tar, except tar doesn’t pulse. It stretches over his arms in twitching strands and thickens into jagged unnatural muscle, back hunching with a sickening pop as he lurches forward.
You rub your eyes and stare again.
“I know the feeling,” Spiderman says, pushing himself upright with a wince. “That’s my exact review too.”
The thing’s head jerks in your direction.
Spiderman notices before you do, wringing out his hands and doing some jumping jacks on the spot. “And that’s my cue to ask you very calmly to start running.”
When the thing charges at you, there’s no time to pretend to be composed. You let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek and fling yourself backward as the thing barrels forward. A web shoots from behind you and lands on the bus stop-frame, yanking Spiderman into its path just in time to take the hit instead.
He gets absolutely bodied.
“Jesus Christ,” you blurt as he falls back further down the road.
Spiderman slings to grab onto a nearby, and luckily deserted car, and slams it into the side of the villain, picking himself up in the few seconds he has to breathe when the figure crashes into a nearby building.
“I know,” he wheezes, dusting off his suit. “Everyone says that when they see me. I’m basically the second coming of that guy.”
“Are you okay? Do you need… backup?” You look around at the site. Cars have started swerving and backing away to avoid the scene and bystanders are ducked somewhere safe. You alone remain inside the heavily damaged bus stop a few metres from where the figure is now pulling itself onto his feet.
Realistically, you should do the smart thing and hide, too. But one feeble attempt to get on your feet tells you what you already know; that you’ve managed to fuck up your ankle in your panic.
Spiderman has his hands thrown up. “Why are you not running? I told you to run.”
“Why are you losing?”
“I’m not losing,” he snaps, affronted. “Are you always this difficult? Listen to the city’s superhero and get out of here.”
“If this is my superhero, then I’m already cooked.”
The creature roars and charges again, much alike a bull seeing red and you’re the unfortunate sole on the ground in its path.
Spiderman seems to have enough sense to conclude there’s something wrong with your body and not your head as he swears, shooting two webs in quick succession, one to a traffic light pole and the other to the creature’s arm, trying to stabilise himself to swing the heavy villain sideways. It works for maybe half a second before the pole lifts off the ground and Spiderman sighs before being the one flung away.
You watch as Spiderman hits the ground hard, again. Thankfully, it’s enough distraction for the figure to leave you alone but you can only grimace especially when he picks himself up.
Spiderman pushes up on one knee, clearly trying to buy time, and calls, “Hey, big guy, quick question before you maul me. Is this like, a skincare thing? Because I think whatever routine you’re on is clogging your pores. There’s a pharmacy right over there. Want me to get you some pimple patches?”
The figure ignores his provocation by charging forward again and it’s you that looks back over your shoulder at the pharmacy. Frankly put, your trust in the masked vigilante is at an all time low and if there’s any chance of living beyond this encounter, you need to do something.
Despite the throbbing pain in your ankle, you pull yourself up against the dented wall of the bus stop and edge closer to the campus. Then, you break into a valiant attempt at a sprint.
“That’s it, get out of here!” he calls out after you.
You grit your teeth both from the pain and general annoyance. “I’m not running!”
“What the hell are you doing then?”
“Something useful, unlike you!”
Spiderman finally looks up from wrangling with the figure. “Huh?”
You manage to limp to the pharmacy and wrench its fire extinguisher free from its bracket, using more effort than expected especially as you’re already winded and nearly fumble with the weight of it. You spin back around just as the creature grabs Spiderman by the throat and slams him into the side of the bus stop again. You hobble back to the scene with a sympathetic wince.
My God, the thing is already gone, leave it alone.
The figure looms over the fallen superhero, the goo oozing off solidifying into a slimy tendril that sharpens. It slides along Spiderman’s jaw and tilts his head up, cutting right through the fabric of his mask before stopping at his throat.
The figure opens its mouth as if to say something but is cut off when you yank the pin with shaking hands. For a moment, nothing happens and you’re all about ready to apologise and excuse yourself from the scene when the extinguisher goes off in a violent burst of white foam that manages to encapsulate the figure despite the distance.
The black mass recoils with a horrible screech, the sound sharp and inhuman, like nails scratching against metal. It peels back in frantic, rippling waves, twitching and writhing away from the spray. The man underneath the goo drops to one knee, gasping as his eyes roll back down from the back of his head, and shudders before collapsing on the ground.
What remains of the gunk ripples along the pavement before slithering down a gutter and leaving nothing behind, almost as if nothing had ever happened. If not for the battered bus stop and the hole in the wall.
You lower the extinguisher slowly, breathless. “Maybe I should give this superhero thing a shot.”
“Nah, I don’t think you have the guts for it.”
Before you can even turn properly to defend your case, strong arms hook around you and the ground disappears.
The sound that leaves you is less scream and more pure, humiliated terror as gravity tilts sideways. You catch a flash of white, the sharp snap of a web latching somewhere high above, and then he’s hauling you up with it, body lifting clean off the pavement.
“Wait—”
The city drops out beneath you in dizzying blurs of orange streetlights and rooftops, your stomach left somewhere back by the ruined bus stop. Spiderman carries you like you weigh nothing, one arm locked securely around your waist whilst the other shoots webs with impossible precision, each swing smooth despite the fact that he had been getting his ass kicked mere seconds ago. Wind tears at your scarf and shoves tears from your eyes.
You clutch at him with both hands “Hold on, we need to go back and help that guy!”
“I’m a superhero, not a paramedic!” Spiderman calls back, voice steady despite the speed. “He’ll be fine, help is already on the way. But there’s an unconscious guy on the ground, a destroyed bus stop, at least six insurance claims, and I’m pretty sure your bus abandoned you ages ago. You cannot stay there.”
“And that’s the reason why I’m up here?”
“Superhero, my ass,” he might have said but your attention is pulled in far too many directions to be sure.
You make the fatal mistake of looking down. The road below is a smear of headlights and moving colour, terrifyingly far away.
“Oh my God,” you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut again. “This is how I die. I’m going to become roadkill. I’m going to go splat.”
“That is so hurtful after I literally just rescued you.”
“I would still be grateful if you had left it there.”
His laugh is snatched by the wind, warm and infuriating and entirely too amused for someone who had looked so pathetic sprawled out on the ground. He adjusts his grip slightly when your fingers knot tighter in the front of his suit, and if he notices how hard you’re shaking, he has the decency to not make anymore comments, swinging you both up in a smooth arc.
“Okay,” he relents. “Deep breaths, I’m not actually going to drop you.”
You give your most valiant attempt of a snort. “Telling me to breathe deeply as I’m not already trying.”
“Would you prefer shallow, panicked ones then?”
“I would prefer to be on the ground!”
“Your wish is my command.”
After another swing and a sharp turn that nearly rips your soul from your body, Spiderman descends toward the quieter edge of campus and lands in a narrow pedestrian lane beside the university security office. It’s bright here, washed in fluorescent light, and close enough to the main road that you can already hear the traffic and voices navigating the post-chaos.
The second your shoes touch concrete, your knees threaten to fold. You grab his arm on instinct, digging your fingers in as you glance at him. “You do that every day?”
You can almost hear the smugness in his voice, and something else. “It’s basically my 9-5.”
It’s most definitely just your imagination but you feel as though his gaze softens, looking at you trembling like a newborn bird. He watches as you regain sensation in your legs though your hand remains on his arm. He doesn’t make any move to remove it.
A baffled laugh escapes you, more air than sound. “I can’t believe I’m still alive.”
“Do you need to sit down?”
You shake your head softly. “I’m fine… thank you for saving me, Spiderman.”
“I should be thanking you. I was getting my ass kicked out there.”
“I know, I saw.”
He tilts his head. “I thought you were thankful?”
“Both those things can be true at the same time.” Then, you go on your tippy toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “But I’m definitely very thankful.”
You feel the superhero stiffen under your touch and the white fabric of his mask widens before he jerks slightly backward, free hand flying up to hover over where you kissed. “Did you just—”
There’s something about the tone of his voice, pitched higher now in surprise, that has you blinking. “You sound…”
If you weren’t sure about his tension before, he most definitely freezes now, his hand pulling back down to rest over your hand on his arm and pull it off. “Oh, uh—you should head back, injured and stupid civilian. I know the people in the office. They should be able to get you home.”
“No wait, hold on.” You narrow your eyes, taking a step forward that he immediately responds to by stepping back. “Do I know you?”
He points at himself, backing away slowly. “Me? You might have seen me on the news or seen one of my promotional posters.”
“No, because you were weird the second you saw me.”
“I was bleeding out and on the verge of death,” he says. “Let’s not pathologise me.”
“You looked right at me and said something like, ‘you have got to be fucking kidding’.”
He tilts his head and takes another step back. “Did I say that? Hm, no, not ringing any bells. Your ankle is injured, maybe stop walking towards me. You’re freaking me out and I don’t do well with girls.”
You open your mouth to say more when he suddenly points at something over your shoulder. “Oh shit, is that a bird? A plane?”
You turn instinctively. There is no one there, of course, but it’s a realisation seconds too late. Because by the time you whip back around, he’s already two steps away, web fired high above, body coiled to launch.
“Oh, you asshole—”
“Get home safe!” he calls, voice cheerful in a way that irks you.
“Wait—”
He shoots upward before the word can properly leave your mouth. You hobble forward, outrage momentarily stronger than the pain in your ankle.
“You can’t just dump me here and leave!” you yell after him. “I’m literally injured! Jerk!”
“Ma’am, can we help you?”
You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart.
You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart.
It’s only when the sun has lowered into a splash of pink and orange in the sky that you finish tolerating the endless questioning from both the security office staff and the police. Thankfully, they’re kind enough to drive you back to your apartment though you’re slightly annoyed the rest of the day had been wasted on telling them ‘I don’t know’ over and over again.
The moment you step back into your room, your phone buzzes with multiple notifications. There’s an Outlook email from your neuropharmacology course and three texts from an unknown number.
unknown: looks like you lucked out and we’re partners
it’s gojo btw
lets meet tomorrow @ uni library
And because you genuinely cannot feel even worse than you already do, you turn your face to bury into your pillow and groan.
You don’t end up confirming Gojo’s plans until halfway through your morning tutorial the next day when he double texts.
DO NOT ANSWER: ?
don’t leave me on read
you can hate me all u want but the project is worth 20% yk!!!!!!
you: ok
time?
DO NOT ANSWER: ohhh so now u respond huh
id hate to think im forgettable
you: time
DO NOT ANSWER: (╥﹏╥)
i’ll get on campus at 12 ish so like in ten minutes
you: done
DO NOT ANSWER: >⩊<
You push the thought that as a grown man, he really shouldn’t be texting like that away, and flip your phone back down on the table just as the class ends.
“Want to check out this new bingsu place near the station?” Utahime chatters as she shoves her iPad into her tote and picks up her coffee, watching you follow behind albeit slower with dread. “They have this new Thai tea bingsu and it looks crazy good. Shoko swears by it but—and you can’t tell her I said this—it’s crazy that she went out for lunch without us. Does she not fuck with us anymore? Who did she even go with?”
You smile wistfully at her. “I wish I could, Utahime, but I already have plans after this.”
“What the fuck, et tu?” She processes your words with a frown. “Did you take on a shift today? I thought you only had this one class today.”
“No, it’s even worse. I need to lock in for my neuropharmacology assessment.”
She pauses, cup halfway to her mouth before her lips split into a wide grin. “Oh my God. With Gojo?”
You groan, zipping your bag with more force than necessary. You sling it over your shoulder and try to hurry away from her, but it’s too late and she follows quickly after.
“Don’t remind me.”
“You’re choosing to hang out with Gojo over me?” Her voice peaks at the end, and you hate how happy she looks at the thought of you ditching her.
“This isn’t a choice I want to make at all so don’t say it like that. And don’t look so happy, freak.”
“Oh, this is rich. You were bitching about him all of last semester and now you’re choosing him over me?” Utahime giggles, pulling out her phone with her free hand. “Shoko is going to love this.”
You raise an eyebrow, catching the opening. “I thought you were mad at her for getting lunch without you? You’re so fickle.”
She hums absentmindedly, already outing your situation to the group chat, no doubt. “Our friendship runs deeper than one betrayal.”
You grin as you approach the library stairs, looking back over your shoulder. “Friendship, huh?”
She whips her head up at you, eyes flickering down to her cup where the red words written across the side spells out a cute reminder to have a good day. A flush creeps up her face. “What? Don’t say that like it’s something to point out! We are friends!”
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You’re giving me that look again. I’m not a blind masochist, Y/N. I can tell when you have something to say, and I’m not taking it lying down.”
“You’re just lucky I haven’t said a word to Shoko yet.”
Utahime grumbles, crossing her arms. “If you do, I’ll kill myself.”
You laugh, glad to get the last word. “I’ll see you later, Utahime. Go say hi to Shoko for me!”
“I will see Shoko, but only to tell her that.”
“Sure,” you say, and enter the building.
The library is busy, bustling with students as they lean over textbooks and clack away at their laptops. It’s not quite midterm season yet, so the fact that the library is so full should be concerning. With so many heads bent down, there is little chance you’ll find Gojo.
You swallow your pride and pull out your phone.
you: i’m here
where are you?
DO NOT ANSWER: not her eyet wa it
wait
smth came up
You frown. He’s the one who set the time and has the audacity to be late? Typical for someone as inconsiderate as him, you decide, and choose a table near the back of the library just so he can struggle to find you when he finally arrives.
You take out your laptop and start a new document, opening the tab for the marking rubric, the assessment notification, and some articles you found doing a quick search on PubMed. You even get around to dot-pointing one of them when someone dumps their bag on the table next to you.
You jump. “Fuck.”
“Did I scare you?”
The voice alone is enough to make you freeze though you quickly snap out of it to glare up at the culprit. Gojo stands beside you, panting slightly, running a hand through his messy hair like it’ll fix his disheveled appearance. The buttons of his shirt are mismatched and one side of his collar is tucked inward.
“Hey,” he greets with a lopsided smile.
“How are you late when you’re the one who said to meet at twelve?”
Gojo shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal and flops into the seat next to you. You had intended for him to sit across the table but you didn’t have the time to slip the words into the conversation before he starts talking.
“Didn’t I tell you? I had something to do. Did you read my texts with your eyes closed or something?”
“If you think I could have deciphered that from what you said, then you’re dumber than I thought. Did you run into an electric fence or something?”
He smiles at you like your words had been an inside joke. “I told you after that part.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously? This is worth twenty percent of our grade. You can’t just mess around and expect to still do well.”
“Can’t I? It’s always worked before.”
And because you don’t doubt that, it only serves to piss you off even more. He catches onto your scowl, smirk widening.
“Relax, you’ll pop a blood vessel. We still have weeks to get this done so who cares?”
You roll your eyes and force yourself to be satisfied with just that, turning back to to your laptop in an effort to calm down. “Me, obviously. Look, I’m only staying on campus until two, so let’s just get this done quickly so we can both leave. I’m sure you don’t want to be here either so let’s just be adults and get this over and done with.”
You take a deep breath and prepare yourself to look back at him and point out what you’ve already planned on the document but stop short when you find him already watching you.
You grimace and edge away slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.” He shifts to pull out his laptop and then a wired mouse.
You eye the chunky device with disbelief, wondering if perhaps his bag is bigger on the inside than the outside and then at its corded pet. It’s only when he pulls out yet another accessory, a mouse pad, that you blurt, “Do you seriously carry a whole gaming laptop setup with you every day for class?”
Gojo holds down the power button for a couple of seconds, the fans whirring to life and filling the library with insistent static.
“Yeah, I love this thing. It can handle all my programs and I can play League on it too so what’s not to like? It can run Sims 4 and all my CC’s without any lag, it’s literally my baby. It’s only right that I give it everything it needs in return.”
You scrunch your nose. “You play into the stereotype way too much.”
“What stereotype?”
“What else? The nerd stereotype.”
He huffs, apparently offended. “I’m not a nerd.”
“Aren’t you?” You eye him up and down. “You tick off all the boxes. The glasses, the smartass attitude, the gaming laptop—”
“You wear glasses.” He starts listing, holding out his hand to count.
“I wear contacts.”
“But you wear your glasses in the morning. For morning tutorials and lectures and stuff,” he continues, undeterred. “You carry yourself like you’re better than everyone else—”
“I do not—”
“Though you’re probably too broke to buy a gaming laptop so I guess it’s better to be a nerd than whatever you are.” He finishes with a smug grin that makes you want to curl your fingers into a fist and throw that right into his pretty face.
“I don’t carry myself like I’m better than anyone,” you decide to clear up.
He makes an unconvinced sound. “You do.”
“I don’t.” You press your lips together and sigh, breaking the eye contact though not without effort. “Stop trying to waste my time.”
“You found me out. “Through the whirring of his laptop, you can make out his slight chuckle. He leans onto the table with his elbows, voice almost a childish whine. “Let’s talk. Why do you hate me so much?”
Your fingers stutter on your keyboard. Sucking in a deep breath, you turn your head and face him on. “”I don’t hate you. Obviously.
“Obviously,” he repeats, the curl of his lips an obvious indicator that he doesn’t believe you. “But you’re always frowning when we talk.”
“We don’t talk,” you emphasise again and against your attempt at nonchalance, your brows pinch together. “And I don’t hate you.”
“Right? I haven’t even done anything to you.”
Your eye twitches at that. You rein it in, rein in that explosive feeling in your chest as if another word from his mouth will send you spiralling. You know it will, as inevitable as the crash-out you’ll be having to Shoko later at the cafe.
“Gojo,” you start calmly. “We have four weeks to do this assessment and frankly, I still have a life to live outside this so let’s just get this over and done with, okay?”
He looks at you a little longer and you would have asked what exactly he was searching for on your face, but something tells you that opening this can of worms will only confuse you more so you only stare back.
“Alright,” he says finally. “Add me to the document.”
You hit share and tilt your laptop towards him, watching as his long fingers dwarf your keyboard. He slides it back over and you nod, satisfied. “I already looked at some sources so you can just start off one of those.”
Gojo glances back at his gaming laptop, clicking on the document. You watch as a new anonymous user hops onto the page: Anonymous Snow Leopard. He’s already typing away and when you click on the animal to find his cursor, he’s finishing off a second sentence notably not under one of those articles you had found. You frown as you read.
“Hold on.”
He sighs, fingers pausing. “What now?”
You point to your screen at where he’s stopped typing. “You can’t just say things like this without a source.”
“I’ll cite it later.”
“That’s now how you research. You’re meant to find an article first and then write your own interpretation afterwards based on it.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Potato, potahto.”
“Okay, no. We are not doing this.”
“See, this is where your pretentiousness kicks in.”
“What, because I know how to research properly?”
“Because you’re trying to control every little thing.”
“I’m not being controlling, This counts to my grade too so I have a say.”
“And where’s my say?”
“You’re thinking too far, maybe focus on actually saying something useful first.”
“See? Pretentious.”
“Pot calling the kettle black.”
“So you admit it?”
“Maybe, do you?”
He leans in, sneering. “I’ve gotten top marks doing it my way and I’m not going to change it now just because you have some inferiority complex over me.”
You flush, leaning back. “Well, I’ve gotten high marks doing it my way! And I don’t have an inferiority complex, much less to you.”
“Then you can use your method and I’ll use mine. We don’t have to collaborate any more than we need to.”
You hate to admit that he might be right. Outwardly however, you grit your teeth and summon an inner peace. “Gojo. Find an article before you start talking out of your ass.”
He groans as if deeply inconvenienced and though the sound makes you tense as if he might spit out another remark, he only turns back to his laptop and clicks open a new tab with exaggeration.
“Fine, fine. Geez. You’re really annoying, you know that?” he grumbles, slouching in his seat.
You’re about to drop another snarky response when something on his screen catches your eye, a tab peeking out in a red tab folder titled self indulgent. You lean forward slightly, catching the title when his cursor flicks by. It seems like an impossible task to read the words in the split second when the pop-up shows, if you hadn’t been stunlocked on that tab yourself earlier that week.
hoping there’s a modification of kumamon’s line, r/digimon.
“Wait,” you blurt, placing your hand on his arm.
He freezes under your touch, though you pay no attention to the sensation. “What?”
“Was that a Digimon Reddit thread?”
Gojo doesn’t say anything for a while, and you have to look over at him to check if he was paying attention. His shoulders seem visibly tense, eyes flickering to the tab and then over at you. “…No?”
You don’t wait for permission, sliding your own laptop to the side to take a hold of his. He makes a brief noise of protest, hands coming up as if to stop you, but they pause right before touching. The hesitation gives you the chance to click on the tab.
The screen that loads confirms your suspicions. Your eyes widen, taking in the familiar Digimon forum, open to the exact post you’ve spent the last week arguing in the comments. “You’re in the Digimon subreddit?”
“Don’t do this. You already give me enough shit about carrying a gaming laptop. Don’t ruin this nostalgia for me,” he mutters, looking away, and you finally realise that his tense shoulders might be because he’s bracing for an impact that isn’t coming. You find yourself, somewhat absently, marvelling at the sudden quietness of him. Maybe this is what people see when they talk about Gojo like he’s the second coming of Jesus.
You laugh in disbelief.
He only stiffens more until you exclaim, “Gojoverrated?”
“Look, I made that username when I was twelve and it just stuck, alright? I’m sure your usernames at twelve were much worse—”
“So it was you that wrote that stupid rant about Kumamon’s evolution! It was like, a thousand words!”
Gojo whips around to face you immediately. His eyes take you in, sweeping up and down your appearance as if trying to associate you with your words. “You pronounced Kumamon right. You know about the post? You read it?”
“Are you questioning my reading comprehension skills now?”
“No, I—” he stutters, actually tripping over his words in front of you which only makes your smile widen. He clears his throat and tries again. “I just meant—you read this?”
“Read it? I responded to it, smartass.”
There’s a long pause, and you wait for recognition to dawn. He straightens slowly, eyes opening wide. “There’s no way. You’re not—”
You beam. “I’m Digimonlvr3000!”“Surprise aside, you should not be saying that username with so much pride.” But then he stares at you like the ground beneath him has just fallen through. “But shut up, there’s no fucking way.”
“You seriously hate the transition from Grizzmon to GrapLeomon?” you start, elbows resting on the table as you lean in. The same banter falls from your lips, but you refuse to acknowledge how it lacks venom.
“You can’t just go from a bear cub to a bear, and then to some mechanical lion-man, and then a unicorn-panther-headed half-nude dude.” He blinks at you even as he talks, eyes still wide as he struggles to comprehend saying these words to someone other than Suguru, considering his best friend is the only person who would at least pretend to listen.
“I mean, this is Digimon, not Pokémon. You know, digital monsters? They’re allowed to be crazy.”
“Yeah? Well, I want bears.”
“Then Pokémon might be the franchise for you.”
Gojo flinches like you’ve insulted him personally, more than any of your actually hurtful insults have ever managed to make him flinch. “Don’t even joke, Y/N. It’s not a crime to like coherent evolution lines.”
You shrug. “The randomness makes it fun. It’s Digimon’s whole brand.”
“And yet, the most iconic Digimon evolution lines come from coherent ones. You know, ones that make sense and have a consistent visual theme from Rookie to Mega. There is nothing that ties Grizzmon to GrapLeomon.” His lips quiver as he talks, eyes still wide, shock lingering. He can’t help letting his gaze sweep over you again and again. He thinks then that maybe the person who said never to judge a book by its cover had actually been onto something.
You raise a finger, drawing him out of his daze. “Um, actually, there is, though. The whole theme of grappling and fist-fighting? Does that ring a bell?”
“That’s the same argument you used in your comments.”
“The same comment you have yet to respond to.” You pause, thinking. “Just like right now, actually.”
“Yeah?” he starts, and you know you’ve got him again. He presses on regardless. “Well, you’re the one who made that post about disliking Rhinokabuterimon more than Daipenmon.”
“And I stand by that.”
“Oh my god,” he says slowly, taking you in. “You’re worse in person.”
“Your Kumamon rant got locked by a mod,” you remind him. “Somehow that makes sense. You’re as annoying online as you are in person.”
“It was locked for too many off-topic replies, which is partially your fault.”
“I wasn’t going to let you have the last word.”
“Last word, huh. Great segue to—”
“No, don’t bring that up, stop—”
“—to your Digimon fanfiction account that you have linked in your bio.”
You groan, long and low, covering your face with your hands. Warmth creeps up your neck, burning against your cheeks when you hear him laugh at your expense. You try to gather your dignity, peeking between your fingers to accuse him as you say, “How would you know? Did you read them?”
“Of course I did,” he says without shame, and any thought of turning the tables back on him dissipates. He watches you suffer from embarrassment for only a second longer before resting his chin on his palm, leaning away as if to act casual. “So. Do you play the TCG?” he asks, despite the fact that he knows he’s seen your username floating around in the Digimon TCG subreddit.
You pull your hands away with a start. “Do I play? Is the sky blue?”
Gojo’s lips quiver upward. “Duel me.”
“Okay,” you say quickly, too quickly, and you clear your throat in an effort to reset yourself. He doesn’t seem to notice, already digging through his bag for something. “Oh, you meant right now.”
He pauses, looking up. “Yeah. Do you not have your deck?”
“I don’t carry it on me, no.” For some reason, the thought that he does brings a small smile to your face.
He visibly deflates, and a thought tries to enter your mind, though you’re not quite there just yet. Instead, you laugh softly. “Next time then,” you say, enjoying the way his smile returns to his face. “What colour do you play, anyway?”
“Purple, obviously.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course you’re a purple player. You saw the post about how purple wins just about every big event in EX7, didn’t you? Let me guess. Leviamon?”
“Actually, I play DexDorugoramon. You?”
You hum as if that makes complete sense. “I play yellow. Not for any particular reason, I just like the Digimon in the decks.”
“Yellow, huh? So you’re a feelscrafter.” He bites back a goofy smile, but it shows.
“Don’t say that word like it’s a slur.”
“Do you even play the meta?”
You scoff. “Of course I do. But playing good isn’t even fun anymore.”
Gojo laughs, and from behind him, you catch a few students looking over with narrowed eyes. He pays them no mind, leaning in. “See? Pretentious.”
You lean forward too, reply on the ready, the only thing missing is the exact wording you want to use to shoot him down, when his phone goes off. Is this the second time now? Just how popular is this guy?
His gaze falters before he pulls back to wrestle his phone out of his pocket. You’re left facing him, and you draw back too, clearing your throat as you turn to your laptop.
What the fuck was that?
Your fingers type gibberish into the document, then drag your finger across your trackpad to erase it only to type another string of incoherent letters and symbols. Your mind races through the conversation, noting the genuine joy in your voice, the amusement when Gojo responded just as enthusiastically. There’s a warmth in your stomach that’s hard to get rid of.
What the fuck.
You’re not eavesdropping. That’s simply not what you’re doing. Though it isn’t your fault if you happen to hear Gojo as he talks into his phone, his voice low out of respect for the library but not so low that you can’t make out the conversation.
“Alright, yeah, I got it. I’m not, so don’t even start. God, shut the fuck up, Suguru. I’ll be over, give me ten minutes. Ten minutes. Yeah, probably, but you’re pissing me off, so I’ll be there in ten. I’m already doing you a favour, man, so quit it before I change my mind.” You catch him rolling his eyes, his freakishly long eyelashes lifting and falling. “You owe me.”
Gojo hangs up and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, sorry about that. I have to go.”
You look up at him with a start. “Go? You just got here! We’ve only been working for…” You glance down at the bottom right of your laptop screen. “An hour and a half?”
He grins, though it’s small. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“Neuropharmacology is hardly fun.”
“No, but the company is,” he says, unplugging his mouse and rolling up his mouse pad. As he stuffs his enormous gaming laptop into whatever space remains in his bag, he continues, “I’ll text you when I’m free next.”
“We hardly got anything done today,” you find yourself saying. “No thanks to your distraction.”
“Mine? You continued it. If you really cared, you would have told me to shut up.”
“As if you ever listen.”
It’s far too easy to fall into a rhythm with him, you think begrudgingly. He’s grinning lazily, lifting his glasses with his knuckle and otherwise unmoving beside your table. You huff, turning back to your laptop.
This feeling, at least, is familiar and comforting. “Whatever, Gojo. I’ll do my part as long as you do yours.”
He watches you for a second longer before taking a step back. “I’ll text you.”
You give him a half-hearted wave. Only when you’re positive enough time has elapsed for him to have cleared the building and maybe half the courtyard do you exhale, slumping in your chair. Your eyes flick to the library doors. No sign of white hair.
You tell yourself you’re pissed, that that’s what is currently sitting in your chest and the reason for your sudden restlessness. I mean, really, who arrives late to a meeting they scheduled and then leaves early?
It’s a Friday afternoon, and he has you losing your mind over reports and Digimon, of all things. You should be at a bar. Or at home, in pajamas, catching up on backlog episodes of that new trash reality TV you’ve been binging, or having that bingsu Utahime mentioned earlier. What you should not find yourself doing is thinking about Gojo and how pretty his genuine smile is, especially when it’s directed at you.
You scoff at your screen, type out a line, and then delete it.
What a joke.
academic freak: jumping on !! let me know if u can work on our project now :3
you: sorry I'm out rn
i can hop on at eight tonight though if you’re still free then?
academic freak: no worries
let’s do a video call then >< (6:43pm)
You stare at his last text, have been staring at his last text ever since you left your friends, hovering your thumb over the screen, unsure. And now it was almost eight pm and you were still staring.
It's not like this is the first time you’ve ever video called someone, and it’s not like he matters, but something akin to nervousness settles in your stomach. He's just your annoyingly good-looking, annoyingly smart project partner. Shoko’s childhood best friend. The guy that embarrassed you last semester. Nothing more.
Still, you keep blinking at the message, at the double exclamation marks and all his stupid emoticons.
academic freak: can i call u now?
You flinch when the typing bubble pops up but you fail to swipe out before the message is sent, and the read receipt lights up immediately.
academic freak: ?
waiting for me?
You groan aloud, running a hand down your face. There’s no dignified way out of this, so with a sigh, you hit call. The screen rings once, twice, and you suddenly jump up, nerves—or whatever the hell you want to call it—causing you to sweat.
You should change, brush your hair maybe, fuck, you took out your contacts already. One time in third grade, someone said you looked different with glasses compared to without. What did that mean? Was the difference that extreme? Why couldn’t you see it? Would Gojo be able to tell?
Before you can answer any of those questions, your phone flickers to life.
“Hey,” Gojo says, grinning as his camera turns on. He’s a little too close at first, but after seeing your surprised face, he leans back and settles into view. His hair is slightly tousled, glasses perched low on his nose, the logo of the university peeking just into view on his jumper.
“Hi.” You clear your throat, adjusting your phone so it sits upright on your table. “I wasn’t waiting for your text, by the way. You just messaged me just as I was about to message you. That’s all.”
He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face. Thankfully, he doesn’t push. “Sorry for ditching you earlier, but I’m here now.”
You nod, opening your laptop on the table. As it hums to life, your eyes flick back over to your phone and trace what you can see inside his room. He has a lamp on, warm light washing over his face as he leans back into view, a lollipop in his hand, and there’s an assortment of plushies on his bed behind him. You narrow your eyes.
“Is that Agumon?”
Gojo glances back, then shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He guards my bed.”
You stifle a laugh. “Still getting nightmares at your big age?”
“Don’t tell me you’re too cool for plushies.” He rolls his eyes, though his face quickly splits into a grin when you pull out your own plushie, placing it comfortably on your lap, its head peeking into frame. “There we go. That’s more like it.”
His praise does things to you that you don’t dare put into words. You squeeze your plushie tight.
You busy yourself with opening the document, taking extra long to fiddle around with opening and closing random tabs. It’s hard to focus on one thing, you see, not when Gojo is staring at you unabashedly, cheek smushed against his hand like he has nowhere else to be.
You don’t look up right away, clicking through your email, Spotify, the university site, waiting for him to get bored and finally free you from his gaze, but he doesn’t.
Clearing your throat, you finally drag your gaze up to his face. “We should—” you start, but cut yourself off. “What?”
“Hm?” He blinks when your eyes meet.
“Why’re you staring at me like that?”
Gojo lets the silence drag on for a little longer until he chuckles, dropping his head to look down at his own laptop screen. “Who said I was looking at you?”
You arch a brow, glancing over your shoulder, then around your room. “Is there someone else in the room with me now?”
“Ask that question again when we have a Ouija board.” He types something, and you watch the words pop up on your screen. “I was just thinking how different you are when you’re not on campus. You’re quieter, for one. Less teeth-baring.”
“If you want me to insult you, you only have to ask.”
He grins, eyes lazy with amusement. “See? Even that lacks any bite.”
“Says you. I’m surprised you haven’t made a comment on my glasses or something,” you say, unwilling to be outdone.
“And what, your messy desk?”
You shove your textbooks out of frame. “I knew it.”
He shrugs offhandedly, returning his attention to his laptop. You follow his lead, blinking in surprise when he doesn’t continue with another snarky comment. It’s silent again for a while.
“It suits you. You look nice with your hair tied back.”
Your hands fly to the back of your head and close around your claw clip, mouth hanging open as you stare at him. Gojo keeps typing like he didn’t just casually compliment you, as if he hadn’t just thrown a curveball into your carefully built defences. You swallow hard, blinking as heat creeps into your cheeks.
“I… you look nice too?”
You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth, though you can’t completely regret them, because they’re what finally cause him to look up at you, his hands frozen over his keyboard. Then he’s laughing, and you take back that last thought just as quickly.
“Alright, alright, let’s just work on our project,” you mumble, ducking your head. He’s still laughing, and you grit your teeth with effort. “If you keep laughing, I’m going to hang up on you.”
Gojo’s laughter lingers, soft and amused, as he savours the heat on your face for a second longer before nodding. “I’ll stop, I swear.” His fingers return to the keyboard, but you catch the flicker of something like warmth—or maybe surprise—in his eyes before he lowers his head too.
You take a breath and refocus on your document, with only the sounds of shuffling and keys clacking disturbing the space between the two of you. Every now and then, he asks a question about a point you’ve made, or corrects something you’ve written. His criticisms lack any heat, and you find yourself accepting his words without the usual spike in blood pressure.
Every now and then, his attention slips and he starts scrolling on Twitter in another tab, his snickering making you lift your head. Gojo immediately catches the movement and flips his laptop around to show you, letting you share a laugh with him.
He tells you about the Discord server he runs for hosting Digimon TCG games. You listen, asking for an invite when his voice quietens near the end, and the smile he beams at you makes your stomach flip.
You tell him about your hobbies, how you’ve had to let go of piano because of your academic pursuits. He tells you he wants to hear a piece, your favourite piece to play, and you think for a moment that you might want to pick it up again.
At one point, light floods across the screen and you watch as he grumbles, lifting an arm to block the sudden brightness. A voice sounds through your phone speaker distantly, and you recognise it as Geto. You hadn’t realised they were roommates.
“You free tonight, Satoru? Haibara’s having a get-together in a few hours. He asked me if you wanted to come along since you ditched halfway through the—oh.” Geto’s voice trails off, as if he’s only just noticed Gojo’s pinched expression. “You’re on the phone to someone. Who? Let me see.”
“It’s none of your business!” He throws you a frantic glance and you shrug. “And knock first!”
“You never knock.” You hear the shuffle of someone entering the room. “And you have three friends, and I’m one of them. Is it Nanami? Shoko?”
You hear Gojo’s protests as something hits the phone and it swirls, landing face-up toward his ceiling. You notice he has light-up neon stars stuck haphazardly across it. Your heart squeezes. Cute.
Then a hand covers the screen and it’s a blur of black and red.
“Back off, Suguru, I’m not going to Haibara’s party—”
“Is that a girl?”
“Hey!”
There’s a whirl, and then you blink, biting your cheeks at the face suddenly staring back at you. Hesitantly, you raise a hand. “Hey, Geto.”
Geto stares at you for a second before laughing, a low melody that has you shifting nervously in your seat. “Y/N? I didn’t know you and Satoru were so close. I always thought you two had this rivals thing going on—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence because Gojo snatches his phone back, and you watch a tilted view of the interaction.
“Tell Haibara I won’t be showing up.”
“Something more important to do, Satoru?”
The world shifts again as Gojo flops back onto his bed, placing you upright on his table once more. He glances sideways at his roommate, directing his words at him even as his hands work to steady his phone. “It’s not what you think. We’re working on our group project. It can’t just evolve past Rookie stage on its own.”
You watch as he shoots a quick glance at you, eyes searching as if to ask, Did you catch that?
You can’t help but grin a little, biting back a laugh.
“Sure, that’s all. I’ll go tell Haibara you’ll come to the next one.” The light dims slightly and you assume Geto is closing the door. “You owe me.”
When the light finally fades, Gojo turns back to you with an apologetic smile. You’re thrilled to see him glance at you, then away, his hands coming up to run through his hair, an uncharacteristic shyness that makes your heart squeeze again.
“Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s okay. You guys seem close.” You absentmindedly rub at your chest, wondering if this is a sign of cardiovascular disease. “You two dorm together?”
“We moved out together at the beginning of second year. He lived, like, three hours from campus and needed a roommate. He asked me and I said yes.”
You rest your cheek on your palm, watching him through the small screen of your phone. “I never knew you two had so much history. I guess that makes sense, considering I never see you two apart.”
“Hey, it’s not that bad.”
“Isn’t it? Gojo and Geto, Geto and Gojo. There’s even a name for you two. Goge, though I prefer Gego.”
He frowns, brows pulled together. “There’s a difference?”
“Yeah,” you say, and leave it at that, unwilling to explain the difference. Reading over his last few words, you highlight them with your cursor. “Gojo, this doesn’t make sense. The rebuttal team will definitely have something to say about this.”
Gojo huffs, and you watch as he backspaces the sentence. “You know, I almost miss the days when you were comfortably mediocre. Now it’s like I’m back to being ten years old and getting taught long division by my dad.”
You snort, reaching for something to snap back with. Instead, you feel that sticky ball of unease in your stomach. Clearing your throat, you settle for, “What a universal experience.”
He looks up at that. “What, not going to tell me to kill myself for comparing you to my dad?”
“Was that an insult? You’re losing your touch.”
“Says you. You don’t even seem mad.” He squints at you, and you wish your Wi-Fi would give out so he could count the pixels on his screen instead of the thoughts threatening to burst free. “You okay?”
You pause, bracing for the usual deflection to leap off your tongue. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, something about the warmth wrapping around your shoulders, something about the brief glimpse into his private world that has you fidgeting to say something else.
You let out a thin laugh, eyes fixed on the words on your laptop screen. “Guess I didn’t really care for grades back then.”
He snorts. “Seriously? And you still beat me on that quiz that one time? You make fun of me for being a prodigy, but I fear the call is coming from inside the house.”
You don’t move. “It was just luck.”
“And all your nineties since then? That all luck too?”
You shrug, but your mind screams the answer.
Gojo frowns, as if sensing that this goes deeper. “What is this really about, Y/N?”
For once, you’re thankful for his directness. When he says it like that, you find that you can’t as easily hide behind an excuse. A part of you aches to be seen, to tell someone else something that might otherwise follow you to the grave. “It’s nothing serious. I guess I’m just a little worried that I’m too late to be good at this for real.”
His head tilts on-screen. “Huh?”
Heat creeps up your neck. “You know, neuroscience. I never cared about my classes until last semester because I never cared for science. But then I realised how much I liked neuroanatomy and I started trying, and it paid off. But we’re in our last year. I feel like I’ve wasted too much time.”
When he doesn’t immediately say anything, you barrel on. “You’ve always been…” You gesture vaguely at him, still not meeting his eyes. “Good. Effortless. And I’m just now cramming to keep up. Like, what’s the point, you know? Maybe I’ll never catch up. Even if I do, it’s too late for it to matter. Maybe that’s why I was always annoyed at you. I wish I started caring like you did way back in first year or whenever it was that you decided you knew what to do.”
You try to laugh it off, but it comes out small and brittle.
Gojo doesn’t answer right away. His usual smirk is gone, replaced with something more thoughtful. Finally, he leans forward, chin resting on his palm.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You really think you’re behind me?”
“Well, aren’t I?”
He snorts softly, but there’s no bite to it. “You’re the one who wrote the outline to this report. You’re the one reading through and correcting everything. Half of this project looks as good as it does because of you.”
Your stomach flips. “You’re exaggerating—”
“I’m not.” His tone sharpens just enough to make you stop fidgeting and look up at him. His mouth is curved as if to soften the words, but his gaze is sincere, coaxing you to take in every one. “Look. Who cares when you started? You’re here now. And you’re good at it, like ridiculously good. Not because you lucked into it, but because you put in the effort. You work hard because you want this, and it shows. That’s more than most people ever figure out, even if they’ve been trying since day one.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Don’t I?”
“It’s easy for you to say. You’ve got it all figured out.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious about catching up to me?”
The heat creeps back up your neck, hot flushes spreading across your back. “Forget it. Just forget everything.”
“No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” He runs a hand through his hair, forcing the surprise back. “I thought you knew the feeling was mutual, that I’m making sure to catch up to you. If anything, you’ve been making me work harder than I ever have. If this is you ‘too late,’ then I’d say you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
Your stomach knots at that, a mix of disbelief and something warmer curling under your ribs. You force your gaze back to the words on your screen, blinking against the sting building at the corners of your eyes.
“…You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, more to your laptop than to him.
Across the screen, his grin slips back into place, lazy and self-assured, but not mocking. “Ridiculously right, you mean, since you know I always am.”
You shake your head, biting back the urge to argue—and to smile. This time, the silence stretches comfortably, neither of you rushing to fill it. Your cursor blinks steadily on the half-finished paragraph, but your focus is caught on the strange buoyancy in your chest, the faint echo of his words playing on repeat.
When Gojo finally speaks, it’s in his usual drawl. “So, am I supposed to fix the discussion section, or are you going to keep having an existential crisis about being secretly smart?”
You let out a shaky laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Shut up and start writing, Gojo.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, already clicking away, but the small smile tugging at his mouth lingers longer than his usual jokes.
You pretend not to notice how your chest feels lighter than it did a minute ago.
The weekend has slipped through your fingers quickly, leaving much to be desired, and before you know it, you’re waking before the ass crack of dawn to shuffle to the university café. The streets are empty this early out, with only the hush of the wind and the distant hiss of a bus pulling away filling the campus.
Not for the first time, you regret picking up the opening shifts, and you haven’t even clocked in yet.
When you look up to behold the café in all its glory, you freeze. There’s someone standing just outside, leaning against the brick wall and absentmindedly kicking a pebble along the footpath. At first, the figure is just a silhouette.
But then you walk close, and the picture clarifies.
Spiderman kicks another loose stone, both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie that hides the bright blue and white design of his tight-fitted suit. He’s leaning against the wall of the cafe and you hope you’re not misunderstanding that he’s waiting for it to open.
“It’s you!” you exclaim, walking faster. “You jerk, you ditched me!”
Spiderman pushes off the wall in a heartbeat, body snapping upright with practised reflexes even before he lifts his head. He looks at you in silence and you take the chance to close the gap.
Before he can make the smart move and leave, you’re already grabbing his hand.
“You left me to talk to the police for hours after that day! Do you know how many questions I answered with ‘I don’t know’?”
“Oh, great,” he mumbles, voice low and muffled by his mask. “Just what I needed. What are you doing here?”
“That’s my question. I didn’t think our cafe was famous enough to be visited by a superhero. Are you checking out the student discount or something? Are you a student here too—”
He cuts you off. “Guessing my identity kind of defeats the purpose of the whole masked hero thing.”
You squint at him. “Can you even breathe in that?”
“I’m still standing here, aren’t I?”
You raise your hands in surrender. “So, what, you’re here to sightsee?”
“Do you think I have the luxury for that?” When you only raise your eyebrows pointedly and shrug, he continues. “I was supposed to meet someone here.”
There’s only one other person who works morning shifts.
“Shoko?”
Spiderman seems to pause. “The answer isn’t no.”
“Shoko’s doing closing shifts now so I’ll be taking over the morning shifts. Also, you know Shoko? And she didn’t tell me?”
“Secret identities will do that to you,” he groans. “I can’t believe you tortured that information out of me.”
“If anything, you confirmed it out of your own volition.”
He shrugs, taking a step forward as if to leave. You look over at the cafe door beside him.
“You’re here for a drink, right? Give me a couple minutes to open and I’ll get started on your order for you.”
He shifts, almost imperceptibly shrugging. “Forget it. You really shouldn’t be involving yourself with me.”
Before he can take another step, you reach out and grab his wrist. The movement is firm enough to make him pause, though if you thought he couldn’t pull away, you’d be sorely mistaken. “Don’t be shy. Come on, get in here. I’m not letting you leave that easily again.”
He lets out a small, embarrassed noise, half sigh and half grunt, as if caught somewhere between annoyance and resignation. You tug him gently towards the door again, though the look in your eyes is nothing if not fierce.
Finally, the steadiness of his stance gives way into a reluctant step and you’re able to pull him inside. The warmth of the cafe hits you immediately, a stark contrast to the brittle cold outside. Your breath stops leaving your lips as mist, the windows already dewy from the lack of ventilation inside, and the air smells like yesterday’s coffee grounds.
Spiderman hovers awkwardly by the door where you’ve abandoned him, rocking on his feet. You pretend not to notice how he’s poised to bolt the moment you turn your back and for that reason, you never do.
“You can sit, you know,” you say lightly, switching on the espresso machine. “You’re allowed to touch the furniture.”
“I’m good here,” he mutters.
“Where did all your spark go, Spiderman?”
He shifts at that, his weight rocking between his feet. “You make me sound like a rescue dog.”
“You’re acting like one,” you note with amusement. “You’re all twitchy and skittish. Should I put out a bowl of water? Or, better yet, you can tell me your order and I’ll get started on that for you.”
He pauses. “Iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup. And a caramel rim. That’s the best part.”
Your mouth hangs open, ink bleeding into the side of the cup as you try to process his words. “Are you kidding? That’s literally just pure sugar. Are you insane?”
“Someone has to protect the city, sweetheart.” As if emboldened by your surprise, Spiderman walks up to the counter and leans against it, watching you reluctantly write the shorthand for his order on the cup. “And whoever is doing it needs something to keep the sleep away.”
You shoot him a look as you cap the pen and get started. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Two nights ago. For, like, four hours.”
“You know, you should be sleeping seven to eight hours every night otherwise your brain isn’t able to clear proteins. When those accumulate they turn into the amyloid plaques and tau tangles they talk about in neurodegenerative disease.”
“Oh my God,” he groans, waving your clinical concern away. “Does this cafe only hire worrywarts? Shoko never shuts up about that.”
You look up sharply. “So you do know her.”
His hands come up in a placating gesture. “I thought you already came to that conclusion.”
“No, because you dodged it. How the fuck do you know Shoko? And why the hell has she never told me?” You let out a thoughtful hum as you create his disgusting drink. “Maybe she was embarrassed to know you.”
His hands come down slightly as if baffled. “I saved your life and the only thing leaving your mouth is criticism. The public loves the suit, I’ve gotten no complaints until now.”
You narrow your eyes as you reach for the syrup bottle. “So you are dodging.”
“I’m protecting the innocent. I hope you know that you also need to keep a tight lip about me.”
“Spare me, Spiderman. You’re really not all that.”
“You’ll be surprised.” He makes a show of stretching and flexing his muscles in the tight suit. “I’m irresistible.”
You bark a short laugh despite yourself, setting the cup down harder than necessary. “One of these days you’re going to look at yourself in the mirror and reconsider why exactly you chose tight spandex as the go to material for your suit. You know what people are doing on the streets these days? Catching print.”
“What’s that?”
You swirl whipped cream on the top of his drink and drizzle it in caramel before forcing a dome lid on top. Plucking a straw from the dispenser, you slide that and the drink over to him. He catches it easily enough, eyes not yet looking away from you.
“Here’s your drink. Next time, just get more hours of sleep instead of torturing your local barista.”
He lifts his mask just enough to sip, bunching it up under his nose, and you catch the barest flash of his grin before it’s covered again. His shoulders relax, like he’s settling in despite himself.
“Still good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, louder: “At least you didn’t mess it up.”
“That’s the thanks I get?” You rest your elbows on the counter and lean in, your eyes narrowing at him.
“This is your job, isn’t it? Why should I thank you?”
“I thought since you did unpaid labour for the city, you’d know just how good a thanks feels.”
He chuckles, reaching into his pockets to pay. His fingers close around his phone before freezing, the faint weight of realisation settling in. He doesn’t carry cash, and he can’t pay contactless like he usually does with Shoko, because then you’d recognise his phone case.
You notice his hesitation. “Unpaid labour indeed.”
“Caught me,” Spider-Man admits easily, leaning against the counter. “So, what are the chances you put this on my tab?”
You laugh under your breath. “Just make sure to bring cash next time.”
There’s a beat of quiet before he tips his head, considering. “Next time, huh?”
You shrug, busying yourself with a rag on the counter. “Didn’t you say you needed that sugar bomb to stay awake?”
“Touché,” he says, lifting the cup to take another long sip.
The room falls into a quieter rhythm, the hum of the machines filling the silence. You watch as he lingers by the counter, fingers drumming against the cup as he enjoys his drink. It’s surreal seeing him so close, joking like he’s just any other person and not some masked figure who swings through the city on webs.
You speak up again when the silence drags on a little longer and you begin to worry that the moment might get interrupted by another customer. “You gonna stand there all day or actually do some superheroing?”
He makes a thoughtful noise. “Depends. Doesn’t seem like there are any damsels in distress right now.”
“Oh, really? Well, I still need some floors mopped and napkins restocked, so—hey!”
Before you can blink, he’s already tugging his hood back up and slipping towards the door, the same restless energy in his shoulders that he came in with. “And that’s my cue to leave.”
“Don’t forget,” you call after him. “Cash next time!”
He lifts a hand without turning, a half-wave, half-promise, before opening the door. He flicks his wrist towards the nearest streetlight and, with a tug, shoots forward with a burst of speed that leaves you blinking, impressed.
“Show-off,” you mumble fondly, a small smile tugging at your lips as the door swings closed behind him. His presence is quickly forced to the back of your mind as another customer walks in, and you fall back into the familiar rhythm of your work.
The opening shift quickly becomes the bane of your existence. The grumpy customers clicking in for their own early mornings, the rush of orders that arrives before you’ve even fully woken, the relentless beep of the espresso machine—it all feels like a punishment for having the audacity to leave your warm bed before the sun has even risen. And yet, despite the predictable chaos and your own bleary-eyed resentment, you can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your lips as you hop off the bus.
The front of the cafe is quiet when you step up and shove the keys in, though you know that calm won’t last long. A sudden movement behind you makes your stomach tighten, and a voice murmurs close to your ear.
“I thought the cafe opens at six.”
You turn to see Spiderman hanging upside down, both hands holding onto his web, feet pressed together to keep balance.
“It does,” you say in lieu of greeting.
“Really? So why did you only get here at 6:13am?”
You roll your eyes and turn back around to let you both in. The masked vigilante lets go of his web and smoothly drops down, sauntering in behind and catching the door when you let go.
“I could report you for tardiness, you know. And being mean to your customers.”
“I didn’t know you were a snitch,” you tease back.
“What can I say? I care about the university’s upkeep,” he says as he leans against the counter to watch you start up the shop.
Ignoring his gaze on your back, you begin to multitask, one hand grabbing a cup to get started on his drink while the other flicks on switches. The whir of grinders hum to life, filling the space between you.
“Another deathly sweet drink for you I’m assuming?”
“Someone has to keep this city up and running.”
There’s a brief silence as the espresso machine whirs and you do your job. You recall the first few times this unexpected customer had dropped by, the tension between the two of you neither friends nor strangers, and how his face had seemingly dropped when you slid his drink across the counter the moment he walked in.
“Oh,” Spiderman had started, the whites of his mask flicking from you to the cup. “You already made this for me?”
“Yeah. Unless you’re planning to grab something new today.”
His fingers had curled around the cup, mumbling something that sounded like, “No, that’s fine. This is fine.”
He had hesitated by the counter until you urged him to pay. He did, albeit slowly, and when he even stalled after the money had passed into your hands, you giggled.
“I’m not going to kick you out just because you have your drink now. You can stay. I like talking to you when I open.”
His face had immediately brightened, or at least you assume so from the way his head shot up and the grip on his cup tightened almost imperceptibly.
Since then, Spiderman has taken it upon himself to stay throughout the duration of making his drink, and thirty minutes after that too.
“You know,” he muses now, conversational and casual. “I feel like you know more about me than I know about you. You know how I like my drinks, my work, my name. Which is terrible because I’m the one with the secret hidden identity.”
You roll your eyes, lifting the steamer to pour into a cup with his superhero name on it, something he had insisted you do when you once poured his drink into an empty, unmarked cup, saying the true cafe experience included a named cup. So, in order to give him said full experience, you spell his name wrong every time. Today, it’s ‘Spy x Derman’.
“You also know where I work,” you say, topping his disgusting drink with cream and another drizzle of sweet sticky syrup. “And my name. But honestly, it’s your fault for being so naive and open.”
“I’m trying to say I want to know more about you.”
“And I’m trying to tastefully deflect the conversation elsewhere.”
He chuckles. “What harm is there if you tell me something? It doesn’t have to be anything crazy. This isn’t a first date.”
“Hey, that’s my line.” You stick a paper straw into the lid and slide his drink over the counter. He catches it with ease, not breaking eye contact to take a sip.
“Fine, I’ll bite. What do you want to know?
He shrugs, looking around the place. “Surprise me. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
“Well, first of all, I’m a normal person. Which means my coffee order isn’t diabetes in a cup.
“Tell me your order, then.”
You’re surprised to see him so interested in something so mundane and useless. “I guess I usually get a vanilla soy latte. Oh, but if they have matcha or something, I’d get that instead.”
He hums. “Personally, I usually get an iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup with a caramel rim.”
You laugh, wiping up the counter after yourself as you’ve been trained to do. “I never asked, and yes, Spiderman, I know. Trust me, it hurts my pure barista hands to make your drink every time.”
He chuckles softly with you, eyeing you, toying with the paper straw in his mouth. You know that in about ten minutes, if he stays that long, he’ll start complaining about how the paper has already begun to deteriorate in his mouth, and you will be his unwilling recipient for the venting. When he opens his mouth to speak next, you brace yourself for an onslaught of surprisingly childish whining.“So, any plans this week?” he asks, leaning over the counter. You wonder if it would be a workplace hazard to invite him to the other side.
You catch onto his words after a few blinks. “Not really? I guess I have an assessment due next week so I’ll be grinding for that.” You pause, assuming the silence that follows after is because he’s waiting for more. “You?”
“The usual. Saving cats from trees, escorting senior citizens across pedestrian crossing, the typical.”
“Does that actually happen? Cats getting stuck in trees?”
He shrugs. “Not really. If anything, it’s usually street poles they find themselves in. Anyway, so you’re otherwise free this week? Say, super random day that means absolutely nothing—Tuesday?”
You pause, taking in his faux innocence. He even makes a show of looking at his nails as if he could see them through the fabric of his white gloves. “I mean, I guess I am, for the most part. Why?”
He straightens a little, looking over at the dessert display. “No reason.”
You narrow your eyes at him, a little wary. “Are you sure? I feel like you wouldn’t ask that question unless there was something going on.”
“No, I’m just wondering what the average citizen’s schedule looks like.”
“Oh, really?” You clean off the steamer with an unimpressed look. “Verdict?”
“Boring!” He stretches out the word, loud in the acoustics of the near empty cafe. “Do you even know how to have fun?”
You scoff, wiping your hands on a nearby towel before leaning against the counter to talk to him. Somewhere along the way, the distance between the two of you has shrunk and you find yourself gravitating towards him. He stays on the other side, lifting up his mask as he usually does to take a sip.
“It’s not my fault the exam period is coming up,” you say, trying to subtly memorise the bottom of his face without seeming weird. “And I definitely do know how to have fun.
“Right, sure you do. What do you do for fun, then?”
You bite the inside of your cheeks. “You first.”
“Need time to think?”
“This is so unfair, you can literally fly! Obviously what I do for fun isn’t going to be as fun as leaping through the air and shooting webs from your wrists!”
“Not with that attitude you won’t. But come on, humour me a little. Tell me what you usually do in your free time.”
“Are we on a bad first date right now? What’s happening?”
“Deflect all you want but I’m immune to it by now. Come on, just tell me,” he coaxes you with a grin, straw between his teeth. “Do you, again super random and means nothing at all, go to anime related events?”
You narrow your eyes at him slightly. “I guess I do.”
“Okay.” He looks around as if inspecting the interior design. “Have you heard about that thing that’s happening at the main city library?”
You, in fact, have. “Sure. I saw the post on their Insta.”
“Was that something you wanted to check out?”
“With… you?”
Spiderman laughs like you’ve said something particularly funny. “You’re joking right? Obviously not with me. Spiderman doesn’t do outings, sweets.”
“Forgive me for assuming that when you literally asked me when I would be free mere minutes ago.”
“I told you, I’m just curious about what normal people get up to.”
You eye him, noting how relaxed he now seems and how there’s a silence that drags out after his last words. “Were there any more questions you wanted to ask, or just the one about when I’m free and if I wanted to check out the shounen showcase at the library?”
“No, that was it.”
You nod, slowly. “Right.”
The quiet stretches, just the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft drumming of his fingers against the counter as he muses over your previous words. You roll your eyes and straighten, turning to fiddle around and move forward with the transition of shooing him away.
Just as you’re about to tell him to go do his job or something, the doorbell chimes and you look up instinctively like an activated sleeper agent, plastering a smile on your face to greet the customer. It hasn’t been long since you started morning shifts but it was rare for anyone to show up within the ten minutes you open.
You spare Spiderman a glance as if to tell him to leave, but he’s not looking at you.
A man stumbles in, unsteady on his feet, eyes darting around like there’s someone watching him from the corners. At first, you assume he’s simply clumsy or perhaps nursing a killer hangover so you steel yourself for a tricky conversation.
“Good morning, what can I get started for you today?” you start, looking him up and down subtly to see if he’s a member of the university staff or a stranger who has somehow wandered onto campus.
The man slams his hand down on the counter and you jump, heart skipping. Up close, you can make out the sweat beading on his pale forehead and the way his lips move like he’s saying something, though no sound leaves his dry lips.
You try again. “Sir?”
“Coffee,” he rasps.
You force another polite smile because of course you want a coffee from a cafe, don’t waste my time, and reach for a cup. “Of course. Would that be a cappuccino or latte or something else?”
Instead of answering you, his head jerks to the side as if hearing a conversation you can’t. In doing so, his eyes meet Spiderman’s and they widen almost comically, his body jerking away.
Spiderman stiffens, shoulders tensing as he shoots the customer an incredulous look. “Woah, chill. It’s just me.”
The man staggers back another step, chest heaving, breath rattling like something is crawling up his throat.
You frown. “Sir, you’re looking a little pale. Maybe you should sit down and—”
His head snaps toward you so sharply you swear you hear the crack of his vertebrae. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, fix onto you with a sudden intensity that makes you pause. His lips peel back from his teeth into a nasty snarl, and you realise with a cold shiver that he is talking to himself. You quickly correct yourself. He wasn’t talking to himself, but to something else.
The man’s head jerks to the side again, harder this time. “Won’t stop… won’t stop talking…”
You swallow. “I mean, it’s kind of my job to ask you.”
His answer comes out distorted, two voices overlapping. “We said leave him alone!”
His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws.
His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws.
You stumble back, dropping the cup in your hands and making a sharp noise that has the man turning to you, eyes pitch-black.
“Um, Spiderman?” you whisper, hands clutching the side of the counter as you back away from the man. “Want to do your job or…?”
Before you can even process what’s happening, the man lunges across the counter at you, knocking over your carefully stacked paper cups. You make an embarrassing sound, half-surprise, half-protest as you instinctively attempt to back away though it’s not enough considering the feral determination the man has in reaching you.
In a blur, Spiderman leaps and lands on his hands and feet on the ceiling, flinging his arm toward you to latch a web around your torso. He yanks you to him, the world tilting for a fraction of a second as the web wraps around your arms and pins them to your side. The momentum spins you round and round until you finally settle, slowly rotating.
Blood rushes to your head and a nearby crash makes you jolt, eyes widening to pinpoint the danger.
Turns out, Spiderman has wrapped you in a cocoon of web and left to dangle like a pinata from the ceiling.
“Hey!” you protest, struggling against the web. The movement only causes you to spin around and you hastily jerk your body to the side to watch the scene. “Let me down!”
Spiderman drops to the floor, one hand splayed across the ground, the other tense and alert in the air. He momentarily breaks his focus to give you a double take. “What the—I’m keeping you safe. Stop wiggling!”
You can hear it then, the sound the man’s making. Not quite a growl, at least not a human one, but a low, guttural rasp that vibrates through his chest. Panic and fear only grow within you, and you struggle with a little more determination to get down and run for the hills, when the man emerges from behind the counter.
He lunges again, this time faster, propelled by a strength that is definitely not human. Black tendrils burst from his back, flinging chairs aside like toys. Spiderman dodges easily, flipping over a table and ducking behind it, firing a web that snaps against the man’s shoulder.
It doesn’t hold.
The black substance simply absorbs it, melting it away like cotton candy in a river.
“Okay,” Spiderman mutters, kicking the table into the man too and watching as he easily smacks it away. “That’s new.”
The creature lets out a distorted laugh. “Spiderman,” it sneers.
“That’s me. Have we met before?”
Spiderman doesn’t wait for an answer, slinging a web at the man’s wrist and yanking him hard into the counter. The espresso machine crumbles under the intense weight and puffs out a powerful blast of steam as it malfunctions. The figure avoids the steam with a sharp hiss, black tendrils catching from the bulk of the fall and throwing himself back up, grabbing onto the mini fridge display and hurling it back at the superhero.
You gasp when you rotate to face the chaos. “You’re wrecking my cafe!”
“Seriously? That’s what you’re focusing on right now?” Spiderman shoots back, ducking. “File an insurance claim or something!”
He swings a chair into the side of the figure and you watch mournfully.
“My chairs…”
“Again, there might be bigger things to worry about!”
A giant fist surges forward from the black gunk oozing down his chest and knocks Spiderman back.
The superhero lets out a punched-out gasp, slamming into the wall of the cafe and knocking down some purely-for-interior-design-aesthetic fake coffee bean bags. Spiderman tries to sling himself onto the arm and swing around, but the substance only consumes the webbing, swallowing it before it can take hold.
“Spiderman!”
You twist uselessly in your cocoon, the web binding your arms tight to your sides. Your brain scrambles for something, anything that could possibly help. Your eyes lock onto the man as its gooey limbs swell and stretch, pulsing with inhuman strength. Another fist forms, held back in the air as if winding up, clearly aimed at the gasping Spiderman on the cafe floor.
“Is this another tactic of yours? I think you fight better on both feet!”
Spiderman spits blood through the cuts of his mask.
“Yeah,” he wheezes, “That’s the plan.”
The fist hands there for one awful second, huge and glistening and very much about to redecorate the floor with Spiderman’s internal organs.
Your gaze snaps wildly around the cafe, desperate for anything useful beyond the humiliating fact that you are currently trussed up. You make a mental note of everything, the counter, syrup bottles, cups, broken glass, ruined pastries, the espresso machine wheezing its last breath in the corner, split open and spitting angry jets of steam every few seconds.
“Spiderman!” you blurt.
Spiderman, still flat on his back and one near-death experience away from becoming part of the floor plan, tilts his head weakly. “Can this wait? I’m in the middle of something.”
“The espresso machine!”
“What about it? Do you want a latte before I die?”
“The steam, you idiot!”
The creature finally slams its fist down, cracking the granite flooring and thankfully not squishing a spider. The superhero rolls onto his side with a pained hiss, flicking his wrist to wrap web around the nuzzle of the steamer.
“Okay,” he starts. “And how do I use this exactly?”
The man quickly regains its bearings and starts for Spiderman again as the superhero uselessly fiddles with the steam wand. You jerk in your cocoon.
“The knob! Turn the silver knob on the side!”
Spiderman slaps the wrong thing and a burst of frothy milk sprays across the counter and onto the floor. “Is that it?”
“The other one!”
He twists the correct knob just as the creature lunges. The machine screams as it blasts a vicious plume of steam straight forward. You watch as he yanks the steamer around at the last second, aiming it right into the thing’s chest and face.
The black mass recoils with a horrible, scraping cry that makes you wince, and begins to peel back from the man’s skin in a movement not unfamiliar to you. The tendrils make one last feral swish, slamming into shelves and sending coffee beans, ceramic mugs, and one very expensive grinder crashing to the ground.
Spiderman cranks the wand harder, and the machine gives one final screech before coughing out another blast of steam. The goo convulses, writhing up the man’s neck and shoulders almost as if hesitating. The man underneath drops to his knees gasping, his face finally visible beneath the slick black sheen.
Spiderman doesn’t hesitate and fires a web at the industrial kettle behind the counter, yanking it straight off the shelf and hurls it at the goo.
The kettle smashes into only the creature and bursts with boiling water, prompting the symbiote to let out another inhuman sound before tearing free and sliding away.
For a few seconds, all you hear is your own pulse in your ears.
Spiderman staggers to his feet, a faux-casualness to his posture that is betrayed entirely by the way his eyes never leave the man.
“Okay,” he pants. “Crisis averted.”
You glare down at him from your cocoon, still swaying gently. “Did you have to take out half the café to do so?”
“It was a necessary evil.” When the man doesn’t move, Spiderman finally relaxes and places his hands on his hips, letting out a slow exhale. “Jesus, that really sucked. The worst part is, even after all of that, the real enemy still managed to escape. But no casualties, no broken bones this time, and I saved a citizen. I’d call that a job well done.”
He grins up at you.
You pull your lips into a smile. “Great. I’m so happy for you. Can you please get me down now?”
Spiderman tilts his head thoughtfully. “True. This isn’t your best angle.”
“Spiderman.”
“Alright, alright.”
He fires a quick web and you drop. Before you can scream, he catches you in his arms and starts cutting through the web with a small knife.
“You okay?” he asks softly, his mouth ghosting the shell of your ear.
You nod, your heartbeat still racing from it all.
When he pulls away, the webs falling off you like they had never clung to you at all, the two of you survey the café. Distantly, you hear the cry of multiple sirens.
“What is that thing, seriously?” you whisper. If you had a penny for every time you had come face to face with an ooey, gooey monster, you’d have two pennies—which wasn’t a lot, but it was strange that this had happened twice. You turn to Spiderman for answers, but he looks just as blank.
“I think it’s something like a symbiote. Takes over a human host and all that, like a parasite.” Catching your frightened look, Spiderman straightens. “Hey, don’t look so glum. You handled that better than most.”
“I’d rather never be in the position to find that out in the first place.”
He reaches over and ruffles your hair playfully, ignoring both the involuntary wince that escapes him as he raises his arm and your feeble protests. “You did great. The steam idea saved us.”
“The steam… the espresso machine!” You hastily pull away to look around the café again, this time properly taking in the damage. “You broke everything!”
“I saved your life?” he offers, edging away subtly.
“My manager is going to have my head!” As if on cue, you feel a vibration against your thigh. Reaching down into your pocket for your phone, you read through the notifications with a growing sense of dread.
manager: ?? what’s going on
why am i seeing a news reporter outside my cafe
why am i seeing it on the news right now
why is the door off its hinges
is that a hole in my window?
y/n pick up
You wince. “Spiderman, mind explaining to my manager what happened—Spiderman?”
When you turn around, you’re met with nothing, just the sight of tables and chairs on their side and the glass of the window shattered. The sirens get closer and something like deja vu creeps in.
“You fucking jerk!”
you: hey!! so ik ure oh so busy
but i think we should meet up to rehearse our speech before we present
r u free 12pm today?
toru: woahhh u texted first ?!
you: and probably meet at the library
oh what the hell u replied so fast
toru: maybe i was waiting for ur text all day
you: wait why did i grimace
anyway are u down?
toru: sure i’ll try!
meet u at our usual table ><
You climb the stairs up to the library, chuckling softly at the memory of Gojo’s texts. Surprisingly, Gojo is already sitting in his seat when you arrive. He pauses his typing and pulls down one side of his headphones, looking over his shoulder at you. His eyes light up and you offer him a small wave, watching as he responds enthusiastically.
“You didn’t stand me up.”
You chuckle drily, pulling out your seat beside him and sitting down. “What is this, some bad first date?”
Gojo grins like you’ve said something particularly funny. “Is that your go-to line or something?”
“What?”
“Oh, uh. Nothing.” He looks away, swiping his finger across the trackpad.
When he doesn’t say anything else, you take it as your cue to take out your things, still eyeing him. “Didn’t bring your mouse today?”
“You remembered?”
You make a face at his sudden hopeful expression. “You’re being weird.”
He slumps back into his chair. “Yeah, I gave myself the ick. I’m just nervous.”
“About?”
He hums, looking away at the rest of the library. “Stuff.”
You let that sit for a moment, then try to steer things back toward the reason you’re both here. For a while, you make a decent attempt at studying. You open your laptop, pull up your notes, ask him a question about the assessment that he answers after a beat too long. But it quickly becomes obvious that whatever is making him weird hasn’t gone away. He keeps glancing down at his notes only to stare straight through them, then out the window, then back at his laptop. Every few seconds he finds a new way to fidget: tapping his pen, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting in his chair, bouncing his leg under the table.
By the time he starts clicking his pen open and shut, you give up pretending not to notice. You lean back slightly and raise an eyebrow at him. “Something else you’d rather be doing?”
He stills at once, like he’s been caught. “Maybe,” he admits after a second. “Kind of.”
You narrow your eyes. “Kind of?”
Gojo huffs out a breath and glances at you, then away again. “Okay, don’t laugh, but there’s this shounen manga pop-up showcase at the central library right now. And I thought—since we’ve talked about Digimon and all that stuff—maybe you’d want to go check it out with me.”
You blink. “Go together?”
He scratches the back of his head, suddenly finding the edge of his laptop intensely interesting. “I mean, yeah. Not like a date or anything. Just as friends. Or whatever. We’ve both been staring at the same five pages for the last twenty minutes, so I thought maybe we could take a break before coming back. I heard they’ve got themed pastries at the ground floor café too, and I’m pretty sure there’s a huge stand of that one character you like.”
You can’t help but laugh softly. “Friends, huh? Alright, sure. Sounds like fun.”
The relief that flashes across his face is immediate and almost embarrassingly obvious. He leans back in his chair, grinning so widely it’s hard not to laugh again. “Really? Alright, cool. Cool. Friends. Totally casual.”
He slams his lid close and starts shoving it into his case. You blink before mirroring his gesture with your own belongings.
“Oh, you meant right now?”
He looks up, already halfway done packing.“Is there any better time than the present?”
There probably is, considering you had both technically come here to study, but the fond exasperation that thought should bring never fully arrives. Instead, you find yourself closing your laptop too, slipping your charger back into your bag as he waits with barely restrained excitement.
If you told the version of yourself from a few months ago that you’d willingly abandon studying to follow Gojo somewhere, you would’ve laughed in your own face. But the walk turns out to be fun. More than fun, actually. He talks the whole way, hands moving animatedly as he jumps between topics and drags you along with him, and by the time the central library comes into view, you’re almost disappointed the walk was so short.
Gojo’s eyes are bright as the automatic doors slide open. He looks almost boyish like this, all open excitement and easy chatter, and you’re still watching him when that expression falters.
You follow his gaze around the corner and toward the signs for the display, your own smile quickly dropping.
It’s underwhelming, to put it lightly. A small corner of the library has been cordoned off, just a few tables with stacked manga, a sparse display of badges pinned to a board against the wall, and a few posters of famous shounen series plastered against the nearby walls.
Gojo slows, his shoulders slumping as the excitement drains from him. “Oh. Uh.” He takes in the scene though, it doesn’t take long due to the size of the exhibit. “It’s… smaller than I thought.”
“That’s what she said.” You glance at him, trying to mask your own surprise at the tiny setup. “Hey, it’s okay. Maybe there’s more elsewhere!”
He follows you like a lost puppy as you explore the nearby areas, though it quickly becomes clear there’s nothing more than the original display. Even the café at the entrance is lacking. It only has one themed dessert, and it’s a poorly designed cake pop of Happy from Fairy Tail, his tiny round chocolate eyes seemingly staring off to the side where a normal chocolate chip cookie sits. Gojo winces at the cake pop and you offer to buy it for him. He shakes his head, hesitant to separate it from the cookie since it seems like it wants it so badly.
When your feet circle back to the pathetic tables, even you struggle to stay upbeat.
He shakes his head, a small, defeated grin forming. “Man, that sucks. I guess I just imagined it being a little more… epic. You know, life-sized statues, endless merch, chaos everywhere, not”—he gestures to the badges—“badges.”
“Badges can be cool,” you try, tracing the edge of one.
“There are only badges of all the mainstream anime,” he mumbles, coming up to stand beside you. Due to the tiny display, you’re shoulder to shoulder, your arm brushing his. “God, this fucking sucks. My bad, Y/N. I was hoping we could look at all the manga together, but all I managed to do was waste your time. We can just go back to the library and continue studying.”
You frown at his dejected tone, and when you look over, he’s pouting.
His shoulders are slumped, his hands absentmindedly fidgeting with a badge, spinning it back and forth with no real interest, and his lips are jutted out in an almost cartoonish pout. When his eyes shift at your attention, you quickly look away and hope he didn’t catch the slight quiver of your lips.
Then, before you can think better of it, you grab a badge off the display and pin it to his chest. When he starts to look down, you lift his chin with your finger instead.
He blinks at you, owlish, and you can’t help but smile at the clueless look in his eyes.
“Ask me a yes-or-no question,” you say. “To try and guess what character’s badge I just pinned on you. C’mon, I bet you won’t get it.”
For a moment, you think your forced enthusiasm has put him off and that he won’t play along. But then he suddenly scoffs, his lips tugging up. “Are they a girl?”
“No.” It’s contagious and you find yourself smiling back.
He purses his lips, and you recognise the signature glint in his eyes when he’s concentrating. He hums, thinking a little more seriously. “Is the series he’s from released before 2020?”
“Yes.”
“Is he part of a trio?”
“Seriously? We’re talking about shounen right now. Almost every shounen series has a trio.” You giggle. “But no, he isn’t.”
He rolls his eyes. “Is the character the main character of the series?”
“No, but I’d say a lot more people like this character over the actual main character.”
“Is he from a sports anime?”
“No.”
“Could he be in a sports anime?”
That catches you off guard and you scrunch your face up in thought. “I honestly can’t imagine him doing any sport. He might be a perma-benched player that’s only there for strategy.”
“Is he, like, a mentor character?”
You pout a little at how on-the-nose his question is. “Yes.”
“Does he have powers?”
“Yes.”
He clicks his fingers. “Ah. Does he have a signature weapon?”
“Well, he uses a gun often, but his powers aren’t related to his weapon of choice.”
“So his powers aren’t offensive?”
“Exactly.”
He hums, a smile growing on his face. “Is the manga based in the modern era?”
“Yes.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, but there was a moment when everyone was freaking out because it almost seemed like he was dead.”
“Brown hair?”
“Yes.”
Gojo clicks his fingers in realisation. “Okay, I’ve got it. Is it Dazai?” He might as well have shouted eureka. His face brightens, hanging on your next words to confirm or deny his victory.
You giggle, nodding, and the smile he gives you is full of childlike wonder.
“Close your eyes. It’s your turn.”
You do so. “I bet I can guess it with fewer questions than you.”
He snorts. “You’re on.”
A few customers shoot you dirty looks when they walk past, clearly not appreciating your giggles as you and Gojo take turns playing your own chopped version of celebrity heads. Time seems to pass quickly over laughter and jokes until you finally reach up to unpin the latest badge to place it back. He stops you, hands covering yours.
“Let me buy that for you,” he says with a lingering smile.
You raise an eyebrow but let him take it off your hands. “Who said I even want this?”
“Come on, it’ll be like we’re matching.”
“They’re not even from the same series.”
“Not to anyone else,” he muses, thumb stroking the front of the badge like it’s something precious. “But we'll know they’re connected and that’s good enough to call them matching.”
You turn away, suddenly far too aware of the warmth rising to your face. Clearing your throat, you gesture toward the manga shelves down the aisle. “Let’s go see what else they’ve got. Sure, we came for the pop-up, but we’re still in a library.”
He follows after you, noticeably lighter on his feet than before, and you let out a small sigh of relief. Then, almost immediately, you berate yourself for the tiny flutter in your chest. Why does that even matter? you scold yourself, brushing the feeling aside.
Before you can dwell on it for too long, he pinches your sleeve and tugs you gently toward him when your pace slows.
“Have you read this?”
“Not yet,” you admit, though a small smile creeps onto your face at the sight of his enthusiasm.
Without missing a beat, he launches into an animated explanation of the series, waving his hands as he talks. Sometimes it feels like he’s speaking more with his fingers than with actual words, sketching out invisible diagrams in the air as he links characters and plot points together. His sentences tumble over each other as he rambles about character motivations, why one of them is a complete fraud, and why the plot veers dangerously close to deus ex machina territory, only cutting himself off with an apologetic smile right before he spoils something major.
“And I swear the author gave up halfway through the series. The manga finished in 2023, by the way, but I think by the end he’d already landed a deal for a spin-off and started putting all his effort into that instead. You know what I saw on Twitter recently? People were hyping up this one line like it was amazing foreshadowing, but it’s not even good foreshadowing because, come on, the final fight was so cheap. Like when—” He stops himself abruptly. “Oh, wait. You can’t know that yet.”
You nod along, trying to keep up with the flood of names, locations, and arc points that mean absolutely nothing to you, but the sheer energy in his voice is contagious. Somehow, it’s impossible to be annoyed or bored when he’s like this, completely in his element.
Eventually, you stop trying to follow every detail. Instead, your attention drifts to him. The way his hair keeps falling into his eyes, forcing him to run a hand through his bangs only for them to slip right back into place seconds later. The way his brows knit together when he rants, only to lift again the moment he gets to a part he genuinely loves. Despite the noise of the busy library, his voice rises above everything else, clear and captivating, demanding your attention without even trying.
It’s almost impressive how quickly his mouth keeps up with his thoughts. You squint slightly, watching the shape of his lips around each word just to confirm that yes, it really is him speaking that fast and not some video playing in the background.
You realise a second too late that he’s stopped talking.
You blink and look up at him.
His brows are furrowed, though not in the same way as before, and you hate that you now know the difference. “Uh, you still with me?”
You blink a few more times, then shake your head slightly as if to clear the haze. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”
Gojo tilts his head, clearly amused. “Really? Because you look a little dazed.”
Heat rushes to your face and you quickly drop your gaze to the manga in his hands, as if that had always been the focus of your attention. “Yeah, of course I was listening. Something about deus ex machina, right?”
He snorts softly. “I finished talking about the ending minutes ago. You don’t have to pretend if you weren’t paying attention.”
You roll your eyes, hoping your embarrassment isn’t as obvious as it feels. “Fine. Maybe I got a little distracted.”
His grin widens at that, though it softens around the edges as he steps a little closer. “Distracted, huh? By what?”
You hesitate, heart doing something strange at the way he’s looking at you. “Nothing.”
“Really?”
“Really,” you shoot back.
“Alright then,” he concedes, though the glint in his eyes never fades. “I guess I’ll just have to step up my explanations next time so you don’t get distracted again.”
He slides the manga carefully back onto the shelf, nudging the surrounding volumes aside to make room and making sure none of the pages bend as he slots it into place. There has to be something wrong with you, because even that small gesture makes warmth bloom in your chest. You make a mental note to check the series out when you get home.
Gojo turns back to you and gestures for you to lead the way. “Your turn.”
He listens as you tell him about one of your favourite manga series, and the embarrassment of getting caught fades quickly as you explain exactly why it’s a masterpiece. When it’s his turn again, you make a conscious effort to pay attention and not drift off into another daydream. So when he asks if you were actually listening this time, you huff and answer every one of his questions with ease.
He grins at you like you’ve handed him the world.
Eventually, the two of you leave the library with less merch than you’d expected walking in, but with two badges that mean more than you’d ever dare admit. He doesn’t fasten his onto the front of his bag with the rest of his pins and accessories, mumbling something about wanting to keep it safe, so you keep yours in your pocket instead, your thumb brushing over its smooth surface as you walk.
You expect him to call it a day after that, maybe peel off with some excuse about having things to do, but instead he tugs lightly on your sleeve.
“C’mon.”
“Where?”
“Cafe run. My treat.”
You raise a brow. “Since when do you buy me coffee?”
“Since you saved this disaster of a day,” he says matter-of-factly, already steering you toward the street with a hand at your shoulder. “Besides, it’d be cruel not to feed you after I made you listen to my manga rants for hours.”
You snort, but you don’t fight him on it. The truth is, coffee does sound nice, even if you remain slightly mystified by the idea of going with Gojo of all people. You frown a little when the thought doesn’t leave you disgusted.
You’re still mulling over the drink options when Gojo steps up to the counter to order.
“Can I get an iced matcha latte—” He cuts himself off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just an iced matcha latte, thanks. Oh, and a vanilla soy latte.”
You eye him as he thanks the cashier, pays, and nods toward the waiting area. Seeing no reason not to follow, you move to stand beside him again.
“Are you drinking two drinks?”
“Stupid.” He pokes your forehead in a way that, annoyingly, you can’t bring yourself to hate. “One of them is for you.”
“The… vanilla latte?”
“Yeah.”You dip your head, trying to catch his eye. “Why aren’t you looking at me all of a sudden?”
He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the blank wall behind the counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You study him for a second before letting out a small laugh. “Well, you got lucky. That’s kind of my go-to order. How did you know?”
“I guess you just look like you’d want something like that.”
You stare at him. “Oh yeah? I just have the look of someone who likes vanilla lattes?”
He only hums in response.
You frown a little as you take him in properly: the way he rocks back and forth on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets, trying very hard to look unaffected. All he needs is a whistle to sell the act. Thankfully, one of the cashiers calls out his number, and he eagerly slips away to collect the drinks.
When he comes back, he hands you the vanilla latte. You take it with a small thanks, then pause as something occurs to you.
“Oh. Send me your bank details. I’ll transfer you for the merch and the coffee,” you say, already reaching for your phone.
When he doesn’t mirror the gesture, you look up.
“It’s fine. I got it.”
“What? No way. I don’t want to owe you anything.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I got it for you because I wanted to.”
Slowly, you take your hand back out of your bag. “You did? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I would’ve thought you’d know me a little better after today,” Gojo says, finally looking at you with a smile. Then he gestures toward the door. “Come on. You’ll miss the bus back to the dorms.”
“You’re being very weird, you know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with the kind of smile that only proves your point. He brushes past you, not unkindly, and takes the lead toward the bus stop.
You stare at his back for a moment before letting out an amused huff and hurrying after him. “So you’re a matcha person, huh? How performative.”
“Please. I liked matcha before it was cool.”
“So you’re claiming to be an OG, then? Quick, name every matcha brand.”
“That would take forever. I can tell you where this one came from, though.” Gojo takes a sip of his drink and hums in exaggerated thought. “This matcha was ground from the soils of Shizuoka Prefecture. I can even give you the row and column of the specific tea leaves used to make this drink.”
You snort. “What is it then?”
“32C, 82G.”
“Are we playing Battleships?”
The two of you share a short laugh at the bit, and the thought hits you strangely hard: you never imagined one day you’d be joking around like this with Gojo of all people.
By the time you reach the station, the two of you stop beneath the shelter.
“What number are you catching?” you ask, pulling out your phone to check the bus times.
“Oh, I’m not catching the bus. I take the train.”
You look up at him, incredulous. “What? Then why are you here?”
He tilts his head, straw slipping from his mouth as he looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “To make sure you get on the bus safe, obviously. It’s fine, I’m already here anyway. I’ll just wait with you until it comes.”
“That’s… actually really nice of you.”
Gojo shrugs. “I guess I just really care about the wellbeing of others.”
“Wow. Your compassion for helping citizens would go crazy on a superhero résumé.”
He laughs, though the sound comes out slightly off somehow, enough that you notice even if you can’t place why. “What? That’s insane. You think I’d make a good superhero? Me? That’s ridiculous. I’m a clutz and a nerd and hardly cut out for the whole saving-the-world thing.”
You think back to the cricket incident and giggle softly. “Don’t count yourself short. I think you’re a lot more capable than you give yourself credit for, Gojo.”
At that, he turns his head quickly and takes a sharp sip of his drink. “Satoru.”
“Hm?” You look up at him, wondering if the slight flush at the tips of his ears has anything to do with the late afternoon sun.
“Everyone calls me Satoru but you,” he says, still not looking at you. “You might as well just call me Satoru too. It’s weird if you don’t.”
It takes a few seconds for the words to fully sink in. By then, he only seems to shrink further into himself, taking long, noisy pulls from his straw. By the time you recover enough to smirk, his cup is almost entirely ice.
You lean in slightly, trying to catch his eye. “What a cheesy thing to say. Don’t tell me you’re—”
The rest dies on your tongue when he finally glances down at you. The same pink tint at his ears has spread across his cheeks.
He frowns despite it, brows drawing together. “Forget it. I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.” He pulls the straw from his mouth and shakes the cup for more drink, only for the ice to rattle uselessly. With visible annoyance, he takes the shot and tosses the empty cup into the bin. “Sorry for dragging you all the way out here today. Your bus is probably coming soon, so I’ll head off—”
You gape at him. “Wait!”
He freezes and turns back slightly. “Going to tease me? Save it for tomorrow.”
“No,” you say quickly. “I was just surprised you wanted me to call you by your first name. I thought you hated me.”
“Me?” he scoffs, turning around fully now. “You have to be joking.”
“I’m serious,” you insist. “You were awful to me. I mean, you literally went out of your way to embarrass me when we barely knew each other.”
He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “Yeah, I know. I was… bad at that. I never hated you, Y/N. I just didn’t know what to do with you.”
“The moment you start making sense, the world is going to end. I’m sure of it.”
He laughs quietly, then looks at you again. “I’m trying to say that when you showed up and started showing me up, beating me and everything, I got a little intimidated. And maybe you were right all along, but I wanted you to notice me the way I’d started noticing you. So yeah, maybe I did start tugging on your pigtails just to get your attention. You were just so—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind.”
“Hold on,” you say, stepping closer. “You can’t do that. Finish it.”
“Sorry. Free trial’s over. If you want me to keep going, that’ll be 200 diamonds—”
“Satoru.”
He closes his mouth immediately, eyes widening a fraction before he sighs. “Damn. I should’ve never asked you to say that.”
You tilt your head, catching his gaze. “Please?”
Something strained flashes across his face, like the word is lodged somewhere painful in his chest. “You were just so…” He exhales through his nose, defeated. “So bright that it was annoying. I couldn’t ignore you, even if I tried. Every time you laughed, my head would already be turning, and I hated it because you weren’t smiling at me.”
You laugh awkwardly. “We weren’t exactly friends.”
“No,” he says softly. “That was the issue. But even then, I wouldn’t have been satisfied.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The confession settles between you, large and impossible to ignore. You’ve given up trying to look at him because there’s a strange tightness in your chest making it hard to breathe, and Satoru looks like he’s doing everything in his power not to bolt.
“Does that bother you?” he asks.
Unable to speak, you shake your head.
“Okay.” He exhales slowly. “Then can I try something?”
You look up just as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His hand hovers there for a moment, giving you an out.
You don’t take it. Mostly because your feet feel rooted to the pavement beneath you.
“Satoru,” you whisper, and he seems to find whatever answer he was searching for in your eyes.
He leans in slowly, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly. Your breath mingles. He hesitates, and you give him the smallest encouragement by leaning in too. Your noses brush with a ticklish little bump, and the whole world narrows to the space between your mouths—
Then a sharp buzz cuts through the quiet.
It doesn’t register properly in your mind at first. You only know it sounds ugly against the stillness. But Satoru knows immediately.
He freezes. So do you.bThen comes the second vibration.
His shoulders sag. His forehead drops forward and bumps lightly into yours.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.
“Everything okay?” you ask, though you already know the answer.
He pulls back just enough to take his phone out and glance at the screen. Whatever he sees drains all the softness from his face, replacing it with that familiar unreadable tension.
“Yeah,” he says, forcing a crooked smile. “I, uh, have to go. Family emergency. Again.”
You smile back. “I hope everyone’s okay.”
“Right. Yeah.”
“You should probably go.”
“Right.”
He lingers for another beat, phone held uselessly in his hand, before clearing his throat and stepping back. “I’ll call you tonight?”
“Yeah. Tonight.”
“Cool,” he says. “Cool, cool, cool, cool. Get home safe, yeah?”
“Yeah.” You keep smiling even as he starts to walk away. “Thanks for today.”
You watch him go for far longer than you should, long enough that his figure starts to blur into the movement of the street beyond the bus stop. Only when he disappears properly do you let your smile falter, your hand tightening slightly around the paper cup.
It hits you then, all at once and without mercy, how badly you are in trouble. You stare down at your coffee like it might offer guidance and find none.
Oh, you are so doomed.
Spiderman’s muscle strain against the cold sticky goo binding his wrists behind his back, the sharp bite of them digging into his skin as he knelt on the rough warehouse floor. His suit clings to him like a second skin, torn across his chest and down his thigh from the brutal fight. There’s a gash above his eyebrow that’s dripping blood into his eyes, but for some reason his vision is clear.
The amazing Spiderman makes it his purpose to never stay down for long. This time, however, he wonders if he even wants to get back up.
Venom looms over him with a maw of jagged teeth and eyes like void fixed down on him with predatory amusement. “Spiderman down on his knees. What a sight.”
Gojo smirks under his mask even as his knees ache and cold air brushes the exposed skin around his mouth.
“I hate to break it to you but I’m not into oversized ink blots,” he spits. “And don’t get so cocky too soon. Haven’t you played Darkest Dungeon? Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.”
“There’s always a response rearing to go from that tongue of yours, isn’t there?” Venom hisses. “Always so self-assured, always so prepared. I wonder how long that peace you know will last.”
“If I wanted my fortune read I would have gone to a tarot card reader.”
Venom laughs and the sound is suddenly so achingly familiar that Gojo freezes, something primal overturning into his stomach telling him to run. But there’s nowhere to run, not when his wrists are tied behind his back, not when he’s kneeled at the feet of his archnemesis, and especially not when the tendrils of the villain slowly pull back to reveal a humanoid form Satoru knows far too well.
The black mass ebbs back from Venom’s face, appendages retracting with a wet slurp, revealing—
Her. You.
The girl from the 5th floor of the campus library that he kept seeing that one finals season a whole year ago, the one he once told Geto about until he saw you again with his childhood friend and decided you were firmly off-limits. The same girl he suddenly couldn’t miss in the crowd when 5pm hits and the tired students pour out seeking night outs or cozy night ins, the same girl who when he finally had a class with, had quickly cut him down with a glare that sent a jolt right through his body. The face he thinks about when he’s alone in the dark of his room, one hand down his pants and the other holding his phone.
Your pretty lips now curl into a smirk as your piercing eyes that he just loves to pretend to hate, locks onto his, full of mocking triumph. The symbiote suit hugs your curves like liquid, accentuating every sway of your hips as you step even closer.
Wait, what the fuck?
Gojo opens his mouth to say something but his breath hitches and the quip dies on his tongue.
“What the—Y/N? What are you—” He cuts himself off when you laugh, soft and familiar, a sound far too beautiful for a grungy place like this.
“What’s wrong, Spidey?” you purr, voice lilting with mock innocence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe—”
He’s almost certain he stops breathing altogether as you roughly tilt his chin up with one long tendril, staring at your face because there’s nothing else to do.
“You see something you like?”
He splutters. “This is bullshit. You’re not Venom, you can’t be. This has to be some kind of symbiote mind-fuck trick.”
“What’s wrong? You’ve lost your composure all of a sudden.”
Gojo growls, a feral sound dragging up his throat. “Don’t fucking look into my mind. Stop looking like her!”
You coo, lips pretty and downturned. “Stop? How can I? Spiderman, I am her.”
Your words make him shudder and you press on.
“Ah, so it’s about that, is it? Poor, little Spiderman, torn in so many little directions. You can’t decide whether to be Satoru or this silly attempt at being a superhero.”
He flinches when his name slips from your lips, remembering how soft it had sounded when you first said it, cheeks pink and eyes fluttering down. Seeing you standing over him now, eyes harsh and unforgiving, he feels a stirring in his gut that only pushes him closer to the edge.
“No snarky response this time?”
“You can’t be her.”
“Why not? I could be anyone.” You lift a foot and press it against his thigh, pushing it outwards casually. “Why don’t we be truthful for once, hm? And stop hiding behind all these secrets? It’s not that I can’t be her, it’s that you don’t want me to be. You’ve always vented to Suguru about how nice it would be to have it both but this is the one thing you don’t want to share with Spiderman. Me. And yet, you go against yourself and seek me out as both. Why?”
Gojo grits his teeth. “I don’t have to explain anything to you. You know nothing about me.”
“Oh, but I promise you I don’t miss much.” Your foot trails higher, nudging now against his inner thigh and despite the situation, he flinches, that unfamiliar feeling spilling into something scarily recognisable.
“Hold on—”
“Looks like you’re still not being completely truthful, Satoru,” you purr and he hisses.
Your foot presses against the bulge straining his suit, the pressure firm and deliberate. Gojo’s hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp exhale escaping him as you drag your sole along his length.
“Get off me,” he growls, but it sounds more like a plea, his voice husky and ragged.
He tries to shift away, wrists twisting futilely in the bindings, but his body betrays him and he leans into the friction instead. Your boot works him slowly, the leather cool against the heat building under his suit.
“Make me,” you taunt, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
You don’t let up, your foot dragging slowly now, tracing the outline of his cock with teasing precision and his hips respond but bucking up involuntarily, pleasure sparking hot and fierce. He clamps his jaw, trying to stifle the sound, but it rumbles out anyway.
“This…” His eyes flutter as you press down particularly hard, forcing a smirk even as his breaths come out ragged. “This is your master plan? You’re more of a—ngh—pervert than I thought.”
You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Master plan? Do I need a reason to do any of this? Maybe I’ve finally decided to do something about all that eye-fucking you’ve been giving me in class. Thought I wouldn’t notice?”
Your boot grinds down harder, the ridged sole catching on the zipper of his suit, right over where his cock throbs insistently. He bites back a moan but it slips out anyway, loud and guttural, his thighs quivering under the pressure.
His face flushes deeper, those blue eyes narrowing in a mix of defiance and desperation. “You’re… not her. Can’t be. She'd never—” His words cut off as you twist your ankle, dragging the boot’s toe along his balls through the tight fabric, making them tighten and draw up.
“Never what? Touch you like this? Make you beg with just a foot?” You lean in closer, whispering in his ear so soft he almost can’t hear over his pounding heartbeat. “Admit it, web-head. You've jerked off thinking about me pinning you down, haven’t you? All those stolen glances in the hallway, pretending you didn’t pop a boner every time I called you out.”
Gojo’s breath hitches, his cock leaking pre-cum that soaks through the suit, darkening the material. He shakes his head but it’s weak, his hips rolling up to chase the friction despite himself.
“Shut up. Just—hah—fuck off.” The growl lacks bite, cracking into a whine when you lift your foot slightly, denying him the pressure for a torturous second before pressing back down, slower this time, stroking from base to tip with deliberate drags.
You chuckle. “Such a pretty liar. Look at you, kneeling there, dick pathetically hard. Bet you’ve never even been touched like this before, huh? Who knew Spiderman was all talk and no action.”
Your boot circles the head of his cock, smearing the wet spot wider.
He groans, loud and unrestrained now, his head tipping back as pleasure coils tight in his gut. “N-not… your business.”
But his body’s honest, thighs spreading wider on their own and inviting more. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and he forces his eyes open to glare at you, trying for a smirk. "If this is your idea of a fight, you’re losing. I could…fuck, I could break out anytime.”
You grin, a tendril slashing his suit to free his cock. it springs free, hard and leaking, tip flushed and begging to be touched. Gojo’s eyes flutter again when you touch him bare, a soft whine escaping despite his efforts. He rolls them back slightly, fighting the wave crashing through him, but his hips roll forward, chasing the pressure.
“Admit it feels good. Or are you going to keep pretending you’re not leaking over my boot right now?"
He bites his lip hard. “Feels like…feels like nothing. Barely notice it.”
Total bullshit. Every drag sends sparks up his spine, his cock throbbing insistently, begging for more. He can't even seem to focus on what you’re saying anymore, not when you’re twisting your ankle like so, rubbing his sensitive tip and he can’t hold back a throaty moan, his body arching into it.
“Nothing? Your dick’s twitching like it’s got a mind of its own.”
“I could break these cuffs anytime,” he mumbles again as if convincing himself as if his hips aren’t thrusting up greedily, fucking into the rhythm.
“Break them then. Or don’t. We both know you won’t.”
The friction builds up relentlessly, up, down, the ball of your foot grinding against his mushroom head on every pass, sweat beading under his mask, eyes rolling back fully now as the coil winds tighter, pleasure bordering on overload.
“Oh, fuck—” Gojo rasps, voice a wrecked mess of gasps and moans.
“Too much? Gonna cum for me?”
He shakes his head frantically, but the denial crumbles into a choked sob when you drag your heel along the underside, pressing firmly over the vein that throbs with every heartbeat. His cock jumps, tip flaring red, and a spurt of pre-cum leaks out, coating your shoe in glossy trails.
“Come on, pretty boy. You're so close,” you coo.
“No… shit, I—fuck!” His words fracture as you speed up, pumping his length in firm, unyielding strokes, up to smear over the sensitive ridge, down to crush against his balls, rolling them gently before lifting to repeat.
His balls draw tight, heavy and full, aching for release, and he grinds his teeth in an effort to hold back but the pressure mounts, a white-hot knot twisting in his core.
You curl your fingers in his mask and yank it off, his white hair spilling down to reveal his wrecked expression, eyes rolling back and drool dripping from the corner of his lips. you grin, pure evil and glee before you tug his hair to make him look up at you.
“Come on, Satoru,” you purr. “Show me how much you hate this, how much you need it.”
The command shatters him. His entire body seizes, back arching off the cold floor as the orgasm rips through and his cock erupts in thick, forceful jets that splatter across your boot, your calf, even arcing up to hit his own abdomen. He cries out, voice breaking into a raw, uninhibited moan that echoes off the warehouse walls.
“Fuck, yes—oh God, Y/N!”
His hips jerk helplessly as you keep stroking him through it, dragging every last shudder from his body until he’s wrung completely dry. He’s whimpering by the end of it, oversensitive and trembling, head fallen back against the pillow, chest rising and falling in ragged pants. Cum spills down the front of his suit in sticky, obscene streaks, and still you don’t let him hide from it, your hand only slowing once he’s been pushed so far past pleasure it borders on cruelty.
“Not bad for a virgin,” you murmur, voice sweet in that way that makes humiliation burn twice as hot. “Bet you’ve never made yourself cum that hard, huh? All those lonely nights jerking off to thoughts of me, and this is the best you could do?”
Gojo’s face burns crimson, shame and bliss tangling together until he can’t tell one from the other. “Shut up,” he breathes, though it comes out broken and weak. “That didn’t mean anything.”
“Really?” you ask, and the smile you give him is devastating. “Then why are you hard again?
His gaze drops before he can stop it. Sure enough, his cock is already thickening back to life, flushed and twitching against his stomach as if his body has decided to betray him completely. When he looks up again, you’re licking your lips slowly, deliberately, and his mouth goes dry enough to hurt
“Want me to show you what you’ve been missing?” you ask. “Or are you still going to pretend?”
Gojo isn’t a weak man, he really isn’t. But with your foot still by his thigh, body so close and promises of warmth and softness beyond his filthies fantasies, and that look in your eyes like you already know exactly how this ends, he can feel himself caving. The word is already there, already rising up his throat, yes, yes, please—
And then his eyes snap open. The darkness of his room hits him like cold water.
For a second he can’t move. He just lies there, disoriented, heart hammering against his ribs hard enough to hurt, the last traces of the dream still clinging to him in flashes too vivid to shake. Your voice, your mouth, the heat of your body. The sight of you above him, cruel and beautiful and impossibly close.
Then reality settles in, humiliating in its clarity.
He’s alone.
Flat on his back in a bed that’s too warm now, sheets tangled around his legs, boxers sticking damply to his skin. His cock throbs untouched, leaking embarrassingly through the fabric, still hard enough that the loss of the dream feels almost physically painful. He drags in a breath and it catches somewhere in his chest, shaky and shallow.
He groans, burying his face in his pillow, cheeks burning even though no one is there to see it, and lies there in the aftermath of his own disgrace, hard and aching and still haunted by the sound of your voice.
Gojo is unfair.
He knows he’s unfair. It’s hard not to when the reminder comes as easily as catching his own reflection in the dark screen of his laptop, or running a hand through his hair in frustration and knowing that, at the very least, having silky, soft, gorgeous white hair isn’t on his list of worries. It’s as easy as checking his grades at the end of every semester, his eyes drifting from an episode of Frieren on his laptop to the screen of his phone. When his gaze skims over his marks and settles on his final grade, Gojo knows he’s unfair.
A crash in the street, someone yelling for help, and he’s already pulling on the blue-and-white mask and swinging out the window, because apparently good looks and a big brain weren’t enough. The universe had to make him Spiderman too.
He knows what he is: smart, strong, and kindhearted (that last one might be a sneak). That robbery he stopped two weeks ago before his cardiovascular final? Yeah, no biggie. Did he just save a hijacked bus the morning of this very neuropharmacology tutorial? Yeah, but no sweat, he’ll still pass top of his class like always—
“97%?”
He watches you freeze and immediately slam the lid of your laptop down. You whip around to face the culprit who aired out your grade, temporarily stunned when it’s someone you don’t recognise.
Gojo narrows his eyes. “How did someone like you get a 97?”
His words come out too harsh to be surprise and lacking any warmth to come off as a congratulations. Because you don’t look like the kind of person who’d flash their grades around or fish for praise. If anything, you look horrified to have been noticed at all, eyes wide and shoulders tense like you’d been caught doing something embarrassing rather than scoring nearly full marks on a quiz the class had been stressing over ten minutes before it began.
“What the fuck does that mean?” you hiss back. “Do you mind? Don’t look over my shoulder like a creep.”
He smirks warily but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a 97. That’s something to gloat about. Didn’t think it would come from someone like you though.”
“So you’ve been saying. What does that even mean? I don’t look like the type of person to get a 97?”
“Yeah,” he says bluntly, an answer seemingly as obvious as asking if grass was green or if the sky was blue.
You press your lips together to avoid cussing him out in the chatty classroom. “Do I even know you?”
“It would be hard to miss me,” he shoots back. “I’m the one that's been topping these quizzes since the semester started.”
“Fell off, did you?”
“Please, this was a fluke, princess.”
You practically hum with irritation at the nickname. “And what did you get?”
He puts up a firewall immediately. “That's nunya.”
“What?”
“None of your business.” He grins.
You grimace at his evidently childish nature. “I don't think you can say that after shoving your ugly face into my business.”
You decide to take things into your own hands, standing up from your chair to reach back and snatch his laptop. He blinks at the sudden movement, momentarily distracted at your choice of words before it registers.
And Gojo is Spiderman. He could easily grab your wrist and stop you before you get too close but there's something making him hesitate. You smell nice, he notes faintly, like vanilla and something artificial but sweet. It's your perfume no doubt, he just can't wrap his head around why it smelt so good.
Your fingers successfully reach close around his laptop and lifts it off the table, placing it onto your thighs as your finger slides across the trackpad. You let out a victorious, “Hah!” which has him blinking out of his daze to follow your gesture and observe the damage, seconds too late from preventing it.
His mark stares back at him.
92%.
Gojo notices you then, which is embarrassing because he doesn’t even know your name. All he knows is that ever since the finals season began, you’ve taken his spot on the fifth floor of the library, head down, brows furrowed in that cute way indicating your immense concentration as you try to visualise what you’re learning by tracing words and formulas in the air. He doesn’t stay for long but the next day you’re still there in his spot, and then the next, and then the day after.
He stopped caring about getting his spot back on the fifth day.
He finds you everywhere else, chatting with friends on the lawn outside the north biological science building, giggling over brunch in the cafeteria, the smile you flash to your friends far kinder than the one you swung at him like a weapon that day in the tutorial room.
You’re unfair. Gorgeous, always put together, nails adorned with charms and chrome, the confident click of your heels against the pavement introducing your entrance into every building with no shame. His ears always tune him into your conversations, and on the day that he discovered you had a sense of humour—a good one too, God forbid—he only seemed to hate you more.
Because he is unfair, yes, he knows that. But there’s something restless in his chest and you’re unfair in a similar way, but finding a fault in you would be an impossible task.
And that doesn’t swing with him.
Because sometimes, Gojo feels like a stick adrift a river. Sometimes the currents are fierce and he sways here and there, a puppet to its frivolous nature, and sometimes the waters are calm though he is no less at its mercy than before. He’ll duck his head when people talk to him, do their part in the assessment because it’ll be as easy as opening his laptop and writing the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t care what anyone says about him, doesn’t care that they think he’s quiet when truthfully, his mind is always whirring to talk to someone.
He has his friends, he has Geto, he has Shoko. And recently, it seems he has you too.
Bright, sweet, funny. You're beautiful and you don’t even know it. He leans in to the sound of your laughter, wants to feel your palm against his cheek, feel your soft pink lips against his eyelids and on his cheeks. He wants to lose himself in your voice, whether it’s to scold him or praise him he doesn’t care, just wants to be close again.
“Satoru?”
Gojo flinches, jolting up right, his hand slipping from under his chin to push up his headphones and knocking them clean off his head. They're connected by wire so he catches it easily enough, but they fall down to knock against his hand awkwardly.
He looks up, meeting your bemused eyes as you stare down at him, the sun behind you, your hair tumbling down your shoulders.
“Hey,” he says, breathlessly. “Oh, uh, want to sit? I mean—what are you doing here? I thought you were going for lunch with… Shoko.”
His words trail off uselessly when you take him up on his offer, sliding a hand to smoothen your skirt as you sit, thighs brushing his.
“I’ve been trying to get Shoko and Utahime together for ages so I thought this might be a good time. Besides, I saw you from up there.” You point up at one of the taller buildings and he mentally cheers for remembering your timetable right, fist bumping his past self for picking this spot to sun bathe.
“Stalking me?” he teases softly, eyes searching your face.
You bump your shoulder against his. “As if. This is a chance meeting.”
He chuckles, unable to take his eyes off you. “So you're free for the rest of the day, then?”
“Should be.”
“Okay.”
You look up at him and he whips his gaze forward.
“Are you?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you free right now, Satoru?”
“Uh—yeah! Yes, I am. Free, that is. I’m free right now.” He clears his throat when his voice comes out a little gravelly, ears burning as his own words come back to him. “Sorry, I’m just…”
Thankfully, you laugh, eyes curving into cute little crescents and he thinks that even though you’re always pretty, this might be the best look on you.
“Just what?” you ask, tilting your head. There's something unbearably fond in your expression, so unlike the start of the semester when you’d barely give him the time of day.
“Nothing,” he lies instantly.
Your brows lift and he caves under the weight of that look almost at once.
“Not nothing. I mean—” He drags a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m just being weird today.”
“Please, you’re always weird.”
He turns to you, scandalised. “You always say such nice things.”
You smile. “You know what I mean.”
He does, and that’s the problem. He knows what you mean when you call him weird, knows the exact shape of your affection when you look at him like this, all soft around the edges, voice gone warm enough to sink into. He’d call himself weird if he was in your position, perhaps crueler words, but you don’t say them even if he’s deserving. It makes his chest feel too full, like there’s something alive in there clawing to get out.
For a moment, neither of you say anything. the campus hums around you in the distance, voices drift past, the rustle of leaves overhead, the low grind of a bus somewhere beyond the gates. But here, tucked away on the bench half drowned in sunlight, it feels strangely private.
You glance down at his hands. “You okay? You’re fidgeting.”
He looks too. His fingers are indeed twisting the headphone wire around and around, enough that it’ll probably knot if he keeps going. He stills them immediately.
“Am not.”
You give him a look. “Nervous?”
He lets out a laugh at that, because it’s either that or admit the truth and simply die on the spot. “What would I be nervous for?”
Your shoulder brushes his again when you shift, and it is such a small thing, so accidental it may as well be nothing, and yet he stops breathing for a second anyway.
“I don’t know,” you murmur. “You tell me.”
Gojo stares at you.
There are moments in life, he thinks, that split everything into before and after. Like how there’s before he got bit and after he got bit, those grandiose moments that define his life. This might be one of them. Maybe there will always be the version of him that sat on this bench with his heart halfway up his throat, and the version after, whatever that may look like. He hopes that version of him is smiling by the end of it.
He swallows. “Actually, I've been trying to.”
Your expression changes, playfulness softening. “Trying to tell me something?”
“Yeah.” His voice comes out rougher than he means for it to. “Yeah, I—”
He stops. should he really start this off with ‘yeah’?
"I’ve kind of been meaning to say—no, that sounds equally as stupid.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Not stupid, just—I had this whole thing in my head, and it sounded way better in there, so now I’m trying to find it again and it’s just—”
You’re staring at him like he’s hung the moon which makes things infinitely worse. Maybe that’s your default look. You do always look so pretty.
You open your mouth to say something but he beats you to it.
“No, wait, I can do this.” He sits up a little straighter, like the posture alone will save him. "I just need one second because I know what I want to say, I do, it’s just every time I look at you, I forget how words work. Which is honestly humiliating and I probably shouldn’t have said that, so if you could stop being—stop looking at me like…”
“Like?”
You have to be messing with him at this point.
“Just—can I say something mean?”
You huff, pulling back a little. “What the fuck?”
“I just—I feel like I could fight with you for hours over stupid lab questions, and I always know exactly what to say then, but now—” He shakes his head, cheeks hot. “Now I can’t even get through one sentence. So maybe if I just say something mean like I always do, I'll—”
You place a hand on his arm. “Don't ruin this. I’m not rushing you. You can take your time.”
His body stiffens under your touch, fingers tightening around the wire in his lap. He loosens them forcefully only to tighten them again.
“I think,” he starts, then winces. “No, I know that when I’m with you, everything just feels different. Like, way better. I like being around you, I like hearing you talk even when you’re telling me I’m annoying, which you do a lot, by the way. I like when you laugh at me and when you give me that look on your face right before you say something mean because you look like you want to kill me and that’s—something I probably deserve.” His mouth twitches despite himself. "I like walking you home. and I like when you ask me things you could’ve easily googled just because you know I'll know the answer.”
There’s a small smile on your face as you lean in again, hanging off his every word.
“And I—” he stumbles over the word, heart pounding in his chest. "I th-think, maybe, what I’m trying to say is that I—”
He cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Jesus Christ."
A laugh slips out of you and he blushes.
“Don't laugh,” he says, mortified.
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You're definitely laughing at me.”
“Okay, but only a little.” You smile wide. “But didn’t you say you like that about me?”
He groans, covering his face with his hands. “That wasn’t originally in the script.”
“Satoru.”
There’s something in the way you say his name that makes him look up again at once. You’re close now, pretty face taking up his field of vision, and he hadn’t even realised you’d moved closer. Or maybe he’s the one who did, unable to resist your gravity.
Your gaze drops to his mouth and then lifts again, and the world seems to narrow until it is only this bench, this sunlit patch of afternoon, the space between you shrinking into something fragile and unbearable.
He tries once more, because he has to, because if he doesn’t say it now he never will.
"I want to kiss you,” he blurts, the words tumbling out, crooked and breathless. "I really, really want to kiss you, and i’ve been trying not to notice for a while now because I wasn’t sure if I can and I wasn’t sure if you—if you maybe—and I know this is probably not the smoothest way to say this but I just—”
Wait a minute, did he end up saying ‘I like you’ or did he just out that he’s been staring at your lips for the past five minutes now?
It doesn’t seem to matter because you lean forward and kiss him.
There's no great sweep of music, no fireworks, no impossible cinematic pan out encapsulating the sun. Just you, leaning in as if it is the most natural thing in the world, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face, your lips soft against his.
Gojo stops thinking immediately.
His whole body goes rigid for one stunned second before every thought in his buzzing head simply dissipates. Heat floods him all at once, sharp and dizzying, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He's only vaguely aware that he’s stopped breathing and that his eyes are open, and that he has absolutely no clue what to do with his hands.
When you pull back, only just, your thumb brushes over his cheekbone.
He stares at you.
You stare back, mouth curving into a shy smile that nearly kills him where he sits.
“Sure,” you say. “You can kiss me.”
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His face must be bright red by now because your smile grows, softer and softer, and God, if he could bottle this moment and live inside it forever, he would.
“You kissed me,” he says at last, intelligent as always.
"I did.”
“On purpose?”
You laugh, and he thinks he might pass out. Oh yeah, he really does like it when you laugh at him. “No Satoru, by accident.”
He makes a strangled noise somewhere between disbelief and delight. He can feel the heat of his face, knows he probably looks ridiculous, but for once he cannot bring himself to care, not even a little. All he can do is look at you with his heart in his throat and try, with limited success, to remember how these things should go.
“Oh,” he says.
Your brows pinch together in a fond little crease. “Oh?”
“Sorry, I’m still stuck on the part where you kissed me.”
“Do you need me to do it again?” you offer, smiling. “Though first, I think there’s something you still need to tell me. Want to give it another try?”
Before he can answer, before he can even begin to think of an answer that wouldn’t make him sound completely insane, his phone vibrates sharply in his pocket.
The sound cuts through the moment like a blade. He freezes, recognising the sound from one of two phones he always carries with him. It continues to vibrate, and there’s only one thing he can think of as his stomach drops.
No.
Not now.
You glance down toward the noise. “You should probably get that. It sounds urgent.”
He nearly says no, nearly ignores it completely. But the device buzzes again, more insistently this time, and cold dread starts threading through the remains of his daze. He fumbles for it with clumsy fingers still not entirely his own, and glances down at the screen.
suguru: venom sighing @ west park
or one of his goons
get over there
All the colour drains and for one awful second, he just stares until the phone turns black and reflects his distraught expression back at him.
You’re watching him now, the softness in your expression touched through with concern. “Everything okay, Satoru?”
He forces a laugh that sounds thin even to his own ears. “Everything's fine, I just…” his mind scrambles wildly for something plausible, something ordinary, something that won’t make you look at him any closer than you already are and find the gaps in his lies. "It’s Suguru. He needs me.”
That at least is believable. Suguru has needed him for stupider reasons.
“Right now?”
Guilt crashes through him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. Because your lips are still pink from kissing him, because he hasn’t even had a chance to kiss you back properly, because this is the moment he’s wanted for so long and now it’s slipping through his fingers before he can hold onto it.
But people will get hurt if he doesn’t go.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” Your hand finds him again. “It’s okay.”
It is absolutely not okay. Still, he nods.
“I just—” He swallows. “Can I…can we…”
You smile, though he wonders if it’s truly genuine. “Yes, idiot. We can talk later. Only if you promise to call me tonight.”
“I will,” he’s quick to say. “I promise.”
He stands too quickly and nearly tangles himself in his own headphone wire. You hide your laugh behind your hand and he feels a fresh wave of heat climb up his neck.
“Smooth,” you quip.
“Be nice to me,” he mutters, trying and failing to sound offended.
You stand too, close enough that he can smell your perfume, can see the tiny details of your face that he’s spent far too much time pretending not to memorise. Now that he’s up, now that he’s about to leave, it feels close to impossible, almost absurd like every part of him is pulled to you.
“Go,” you say softly. “Before Suguru gets himself in a mess.”
He huffs out a breath. Then, because he’s greedy and because you’ve ruined him since a few minutes ago, he leans down and presses the quickest, clumsiest kiss to your cheek. It's barely there, gone almost as soon as it lands, but the look on your face after makes his heart stutter all over again.
“I’ll definitely call you tonight. Please wait for me.”
Gojo backs away before he can embarrass himself further or worse, before he changes his mind and decides the rest of the world can burn for ten more minutes. He wants to do something stupid like run back and kiss you properly this time like all the good movies do, but his phone feels heavy in his pocket, dragging him back to the version of himself you still don’t know.
But even as urgency takes over, even as the river current catches him by the ribs and yanks, there is one bright impossible thing lodged firmly in his chest.
You kissed him.
You kissed him.
And for the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks maybe he doesn’t mind being swept away at all.
Like a girl experiencing the lows of a situationship, your phone remains mercilessly silent the entire night. It’s the first thing you check the moment your eyes open to a new day, reaching over to check your notifications. Outlook emails, reddit notifications, and nothing from the only person you want to hear from.
That’s fine, maybe the issue with Geto ended up being more serious than you initially assumed. Maybe he got caught up with a family emergency and passed out the second he got home. Maybe his phone died, or maybe he’d been too busy to send anything more than a mental apology into the universe and hope it reached you by divine. That is to say, you hear nothing from him all night.
None of these excuses stop the ugly little feeling from settling in your chest.
Your hand closes over your phone, open to your messages with him and embarrassingly showcases or last text to him left on delivered. For a moment, you wonder if the situation is appropriate enough to double triple text considering he’s already ignored your other texts, but eventually settle on nothing because no, actually, he can make the first move for once in his life. He had been the one stammering through half a confession, the one looking at you like you all devote and in awe while you only stared back mildly concerned he was going to burst a blood vessel, the one to kiss your cheek and promised to call all sweet-like. If he wants to disappear after that, then he can deal with the consequences without your help.
The presentation goes just as well as you thought it would considering you’re running on an accumulated two hours of sleep and you’re missing a partner. Considering the assessment is a pair presentation, that seems pretty bad.
You do your section first, voice steadier than you feel, though when you reach the point where he’s supposed to take over, there is a split second where your whole mind goes blank. Humiliation flashes through you hot and clean because this was meant to be the two of you and everyone can see it is not. Because beneath the frustration and embarrassment, there is something much worse curling inside you now.
When you finish, the tutor thanks you with a sympathy that makes your skin crawl.
As you hurry out of the lab, every sensation is suddenly all too much. the feeling of your tote under your arm, the clacking of your shoes against the floor, the bustle of students all around and you groan when you see just how many other people are leaving the building. Your pace slows against your wishes as you attempt to weave the crowd.
He didn’t show up.
You bite your lip, hard.
He didn’t show up.
You glance down at your phone and swipe. No new notifications.
He didn’t show up.
All that talk had been nothing. He never took you seriously at all. Something akin to betrayal fills your chest and you wonder if you’re really going to start crying over a boy who has a digimon keychain on his bag. Said it gave him personality, said it was something like a photo of loved ones glanced at during a war. It's stupid, you’re stupid, you think, because how could you seriously think something new was budding there, that something was actually happening?
A hand catches your wrist in the crowd and tugs you hard to the side. You gasp as your shoulder brushes someone on the way past, the ground shifting under you before you’re pulled into the narrow strip of wall between two noticeboards and a vending machine.
“Wait!”
You wrench your arm back on instinct, breath already halfway to a sharp insult, only for it to die the second you look up.
Gojo stands in front of you, chest rising and falling too fast like he ran all the way here. His hair is a mess, his glasses slightly crooked, and there’s a stiffness to his movements. not that you care, not after this.
“Am I—”
“You’re late,” you blurt, all venom and wounded pride. “Actually, you’re absent because late implies you cared to show at all.”
His expression crumbles. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he swallows, voice rough. “I know.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
People move around you on both sides, students flowing past in little groups, too absorbed in their own conversations to notice how your whole world has narrowed down to this one stupidly tall boy standing in front of you like he hasn’t just ripped out your heart and stomped all over it.
“Something came up,” he says. “I couldn’t help it.”
You laugh, ugly and tired. “That’s crazy because something came up for me too. Does the presentation ring any bells?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m serious, something did come up otherwise I would have been here. Look, I know how this looks but my phone broke.”
The excuse lands heavy in the silence that follows. You stare at him incredulously. Was he really giving you that excuse right now? You start to turn around from his bullshit, not trusting yourself to speak, but he reaches out and holds you there by the wrist.
“I know how it sounds, trust me, I wouldn’t believe you either If I were you—”
“You’re right, I don’t believe you.”
“That's not fair,” he says, desperate.
You take a step back, but the wall is there and the crowd is there and he is still there, looking at you with that same helpless expression from yesterday like he can plead his way back into your good graces. “You dropped your phone? What else did you drop, your common sense? Your sense of responsibility?”
“Come on, that’s not fair. You’re not even letting me apologise.”
“You don’t have a choice,” you snap back. You take a deep breath to reset your thoughts, exhaling out any emotion leaving your voice empty. “Look, I get it. We didn't start off on the same side and maybe you never really stopped feeling that way, even when I thought we were friends.
“Y/N—”
“Maybe it was my mistake for ever thinking that. So I’m sorry I’m so gullible.” Once you start, you find the words rushing out without much thought. Briefly, a small voice wonders if you’re really going to crash out like this in the middle of the busy science building, but oh well. There’s a twisted kind of satisfaction when you watch his face crumble. “I almost believed you really cared about whatever the fuck was happening between us, friendship or—whatever the hell it was. If this was revenge for everything that’s happened before, then you’re a real piece of shit, Satoru.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“And I’m supposed to do what with that exactly?”
“Believe me.”
You scoff. “Why should I?”
His eyes widen a fraction and you press on.
“Seriously, why? You say things and you disappear and every time something important is about to happen, you leave. You act like I matter and then the second I start to believe it, you’re gone again. So why should I believe you now?”
“Because I’m here now,” he says, sharper than before.
You laugh. “Now. You’re here now.”
“I came as fast as I could.”
“And I was supposed to know that how?”
His nostrils flare. “What do you want me to say?”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” you demand. “Because right now it kind of looks like you freaked out after yesterday and decided avoiding me was easier. So it's fine. I see now that you don’t care about anything that was happening between us so, whatever. I don’t care either.”
“That's not true.” Gojo forces out through clenched teeth. his face tightens and for a second, he looks angry too, and the sight of it sends a mean little thrill through your chest because good. Good. Let him feel bad. “I do care.”
“But not enough to show up to the day of the presentation?” You make noise of disbelief. “Not showing up doesn’t even have anything to do with us, it’s just common sense if you care about your grades like I know you do!”
“Exactly, so do you really think I wanted to miss out? Obviously I didn’t want to miss out on 20% too!”
You can’t help it, you feel petty and latch onto his words. “Oh, so that’s your biggest concern after all, huh?”
“Don't twist my words, you brought it up first.” He runs his free hand through his hair. “What are we even… look, I didn’t want to make you present by yourself. Something just genuinely came up.”
You find a small part of yourself believing him. “What came up? a family emergency?”
He doesn't say anything. You laugh. Nothing about this is funny. You feel like you’re losing your mind. “Okay. Sure. Something came up. You definitely didn’t do this to piss me off.”
He groans. “Not everything is about you.”
The silence after is immediate and total. His eyes widen almost at once, horror flashing across his face like he can hear himself only after the words are already out in the world.
He takes half a step forward. “Wait—”
“Okay, great.”
“I didn’t mean to say that.”
“No?” Your laugh comes out thin and shaky. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m not making this about me, Satoru. You made it about me the second you promised something and then disappeared.” Your voice catches, but you force it steady again. “All I did was believe you.”
He steps forward again, hand circling your wrist. You move to pull away but when you look up, you freeze.
He looks awful up close. Paler than usual, lips chapped, a faint shadow purpling the skin just above the collar of his shirt where fabric has shifted just enough to expose it. His hand on your wrist is warm, too warm, and his fingers are shaking.
A smarter, calmer version of you would ask why. This version however, only notices that he still won’t answer.
“What?” you ask, because your voice has to be empty or you will break. “What exactly do you want from me?”
He stares at you like the answer should be obvious.
“Time,” he says at last. “Just give me more time.”
For one beat, two, you can’t even process his words. Then something hot and sharp tears through your chest.
“You cannot be serious. more time?” you repeat disbelief making the words go thin. “You say you care, you say you were trying, and then when I ask for one actual answer you tell me to wait. Again. Gonna tell me you’ll tell me later again too?”
“Just listen to me for a second.”
“No.” You take a shaky breath and it does nothing to steady you. “No, I am so tired, Satoru. I am tired of feeling stupid around you, I always have. I’m tired of guessing and I’m tired of every conversation with you ending like this, with me standing here waiting for you to stop looking at me like there’s something you’re dying to say but you won’t say it.”
“That's not what this is.”
“Then tell me what it is!”
“I can’t!”
The outburst turns heads this time and people slow as they pass. He notices a second too late and drags a hand over his face, breathing hard. When he speaks again, his voice drops, but it is no less intense for it.
“I can’t,” he repeats. “Not here. Not like this.”
You press your lips together. “Then maybe whatever this is isn’t worth it.”
The words shatter the conversation. You don’t mean them and you know you don’t mean them the second they leave your mouth. But you’re too proud, too hurt, to take them back and Gojo has gone still.
You watch the moment it lands, watch him stop moving altogether, even to breathe. His mouth parts then closes, and he looks at you like he doesn’t recognise you for half a second, the sight making regret flash hot and immediate through your body.
“Satoru—”
A ringtone cuts through the air and you both freeze.
The sound of the ringtone is so familiar by now, a haunting melody that signals the end of almost every conversation you’ve had with him. Your eyes follow the sound to his pocket.
He told you his phone broke. Something in you just gives.
You scoff at first, then laughter quickly follows. His face falls and he knows he’s lost you even before you shake his hold off, stepping back and looking away.
His hand moves toward his pocket and stops. “Okay, I know this is really bad but please just wait.”“Enough, Satoru. I don’t know why you’re even making this that big of a deal,” you choke out, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll succeed in placing something stronger than your self-restraint between the two of you. “The project is over whether you cared to show up or not.”
He flinches and you can practically see him split in two, body angled toward you while something else keeps him from moving. His jaw is tight, hand flexing uselessly at his side, eyes on yours like he’s trying to hold the moment together through sheer force.
“Listen to me—”
“I need to get home,” you say.
He steps forward. “I’ll walk you to the station.”
You actually laugh and when you speak, you hate how tired you sound, how flat. “Why would you do that? I said the project is over, Gojo. And so is any reason for us to talk.
Gojo stiffens, arm falling slack to his side.
For a second, you think he might stop you or say something more. Instead, he just stands there, the phone finally gone silent in his pocket, his face stricken and too pale beneath the fluorescent lights.
You make it out of the building with your hands clenched and your mouth pressed into a thin line. The walk to the bus stop feels unreal, like moving through water. By the time you get there, your phone buzzes once and your heart lurches so hard it hurts.
shoko: u okay???
That bastard probably texted her about the situation. Of course he did. Somehow he could make time for that, but not for you. Something bitter and awful curls in your stomach.
You type back: “of course!!!!!!” because lying is contagious apparently, and add enough exclamation marks to make it look convincing before shoving your phone into your bag and sitting down when the bus pulls up to the curb.
The doors fold close and still, stupidly, some part of you looks up expecting him to be there.
Gojo should have known the two of you wouldn’t talk after the argument.
There are no late-night calls anymore, no accidental lingering in the same space, no easy back-and-forth that used to slip so naturally between you, no watching you from the corner of his eye when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The silence that settles in the space left behind is slow and heavy and Gojo feels like he’s drowning.
He tells himself it’s for the best. Maybe he flew too close to the sun and now he’s melting and falling and nothing, not his spider instincts nor his web, can catch him. You’re simply too radiant and too civilian for someone of his status quo.
But then if that was true, why does it get under his skin every time he sees you with Suguru, laughing together somewhere on campus? Why does something in him still ache whenever he comes across a tweet he knows would make you laugh, only to remember you’ve blocked him? And why can’t he stop thinking about how easy it used to be between you, back when you looked at him like he was someone worth knowing, before everything got so complicated?
And if he truly believed having you is as impossible as it seemed, then why was he following you back home?
Spiderman shakes his head, wishing he didn’t have this restrictive masks on so he could run a hand through his hair and shake out his thoughts. Because he doesn’t have any ulterior motives as he follows close behind, rooftop to rooftop, as you make your way back from campus, no matter how sinister it sounds. No, he’s simply making sure a kind, helpless civilian gets home safe now that the sun has set and night creeps in.
After all, you’re walking alone with your hands buried deep in your pockets and your shoulders curled in against the cold. He catches the slight shiver that runs through you, the quiet sneeze you try to stifle, the irritated little kick you give a loose rock after it nearly sent you stumbling. You look tired, closed off in a way he isn’t used to, and it hurts him to believe it might be his fault.
“This is stupid,” he reasons. “I look like a creep.”
Despite the truth of his words, he lingers above you anyway, haunted by the contrast of it all, the way you once smiled at him so easily, the way your face fell when he disappointed you, the softness of your voice when you left him. You look at Spiderman with a warmth and openness you no longer spare Gojo, and he hates how selfishly relieved he is to get even that much.
Fine. If you won’t have him as Gojo, he’ll take being Spiderman.
Spiderman drops down in front of you in one smooth motion, feet hitting the pavement with a soft thud. “Hey—”
You move instantly, lunging forward to grab the back of his neck, other hand on his tricep, and hook your leg behind one of his. He blinks, standing upright one moment, before you pull his leg out from under him and he’s flipped onto his back on the ground.
Your face softens as you look down at your perpetrator. “What the—Spiderman?”
You quickly let go and step back before realising you should at least help him up. He takes your hand, standing up and rubbing his shoulder.
Kind and helpless civilian, my ass.
“Are you okay?” you fuss, hands hovering uncertainly. “I mean, that was kind of your fault for scaring me though. But are you okay? Seriously, don’t do that ever again you could get hurt. But are you hurt?”
He winces, rolling his shoulder once more before chuckling. “There goes any worries I might have had about you.”
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a city to save?”
Spiderman drops his hands to his side. “It’s strange because it sounds like you don’t want me to be here.”
“It took you this long to realise?” you tease with a smile.
“Actually,” he says, quieter now, “I wanted to thank you.”
That catches you off guard enough to still. “For what?”
“For all the help recently.” He lifts one shoulder in a careless half-shrug, but there’s something more deliberate under it, something oddly sincere. “I don’t usually do sidekicks. They steal all my thunder, and everybody knows the side characters end up more popular than the lead anyway. Bad for morale. But you came pretty close.”
“That was…” You blink. “Almost nice. Thanks?”
“Don’t get used to it. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Is that what this is?” you ask. “A gratitude tour?”
“God, no. I do enough free labour as it is.” He watches you laugh for a moment, eyes softening behind his mask before he says, “So. Are you free right now?”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Is this another deeply scientific survey on how normal civilians spend their evenings? Because your sample size is getting weirdly specific.”
He huffs a laugh and rocks back on his heels. “Not exactly. Although for the record, your data has been invaluable. Very compelling stuff. Lots of sarcasm. Mild threat level. Surprisingly strong upper body.”
“Flattery is not going to save you here.” You study him for a second. “What do you mean, then?”
He gestures vaguely down the street, then up at the skyline like he hasn’t fully committed to the idea himself. “I mean… you look like you’ve had a rough week, and I’ve had a rough week, and I thought maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve property damage or mutual yelling.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Geez, that narrows it down a little, doesn’t it?”
“I’m being serious.”
The joking edge in his voice softens into something a little more fragile and when you look at him more carefully, at the mask, at the battered suit, at the way he’s trying to sound casual about something he clearly thought through before showing up, you feel something warm blossom in your chest.
“And what,” you ask slowly, “does Spiderman do when he’s not concussed?”
He spreads his hands. “Tonight? He was hoping to take a very pretty girl on a low-budget date.”
You stare at him stunned before laughing softly, looking away before flickering your gaze back. “I bet you only say stuff like that behind the mask.”
“That was smooth, you can be honest.” He grins behind the mask, you can hear it in the shape of his voice. “But that complaint doesn’t exactly sound like a no.”
You look away again, toward the empty stretch of pavement ahead, the city washed in evening light and the first hints of neon waking up around you. You think of the hollow room waiting at the end of this street, your cold sheets and tear-stained pillow, and then of how light you suddenly feel standing here with him. It is not enough to erase everything, but it is enough to loosen something in your chest that has been wound painfully tight for days.
When you look back at him, you’re smiling despite yourself. “I’m free.”
“Great,” he says immediately, a little too fast, then reins himself back in. “Great. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. You said yes. That’s good, that’s great, even.”
You snort. “So where are we going?”
He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to let you in on a secret. “That depends. Are you going to scream if I say I had something less walkable in mind?”
It takes a second for the meaning to land, and when it does you gesture sharply upward. “Please don’t tell me you’re slinging me up there again. That’s happened to me twice now and neither of those experiences were fun.”
“I wouldn’t sling you,” he says, offended. “That sounds so careless and crass. I’d hold you very, very securely. In my arms, even.”
“Can you even hold me? I just flipped you onto your back.”
He laughs, then offers you his hand, gloved palm open between you. “Come on, just one swing. I’ll take it slow this time.”
You eye his hand, then his mask, then back to his hand. “You didn’t take it slow last time.”
“In my defence, we were under attack by sentient goo both times. Be gentle with me.”
You hesitate before gently placing your hand in his. “Fine. But if I die, I’ll come back as a supervillain and haunt you specifically.”
His fingers curl around yours, warm even through the suit.
“No promises.”
Before you can second-guess yourself, he steps in, one arm sliding around your waist with practiced ease. The closeness knocks the breath from your lungs more effectively than the sudden lift when his feet leave the ground. You make a sharp noise and grab at his shoulders.
“There it is,” he says, voice bright with delight and close to your ear. “That’s the exact reaction I was hoping for. My masculinity is doing just great, by the way.”
“Do not make this about you,” you snap, though the words come out thinner than intended.
“Bit hard not to,” he says lightly. “You are, technically, in my arms.”
His web catches somewhere high above with a sharp thwip and you only have a moment to gasp out the beginnings of a final protest before the pavement drops away beneath you.
The city opens under you in one dizzying rush, all glowing traffic and dark rooftops and windows lit gold against the deepening blue of the evening. Your stomach lurches so violently you’re certain it gets left behind somewhere around the second floor of the nearest building, and your grip on his shoulders tightens with enough force to probably leave bruises through his suit.
“Oh my God,” you choke out, voice snatched by the wind. “Oh my God, I’m flying. Oh my God, this is how I die.”
He laughs, shameless and much too pleased with himself for someone who is holding your life in his hands. “That’s a little grim. If you’d only open your eyes, you’d see how beautiful it is.”
“Open my eyes?” you repeat, incredulously. “Spiderman, my eyes will dry out and roll out of my head!”
His hold shifts just slightly, firmer at your waist as he catches another web and swings you both into a smoother arc. “Trust me,” he says, quieter this time, the teasing still there but softened around the edges. “Just for a second. Look.”
You crack your eyes open in narrow slits, and for one disorienting beat all you can really see is him—mask blurred at the edges, the line of his jaw beneath it, the hood rippling back with the force of the wind. Then your gaze drifts past him, out and down and everywhere at once.
Below, the harbour stretches out, black-blue and endless, broken only by the ribbons of reflected light from the bridge and the waterfront. Boasts sit like small, blinking stars, bobbing in the gentle waves, and the skyline curves around the edge of the bay, glittering and frankly unreal.
“There,” he says, gentler now. “That’s better. I told you I’d take it easy this time.”
“You said a lot of things,” you mutter, though some of the panic has begun to leak out of your voice replaced by quiet awe. “Most of them were stupid.”
“Yeah, but were they charming stupid or just regular stupid?”
That manages to pull a short, unwilling laugh out of you, the gesture tipping your head back to look at the sky. The first stars are visible now, faint but there, and above them the clouds are smeared thin and silver. Then you look down at the water again, at how impossibly far below it is, and somehow that distance no longer terrifies you quite as much.
The water below catches the lights in broken gold, and he swings you through another perfect arc, close enough now that you can hear the faint slap of waves against the pylons. The city around you glitters as the sky deepens. His arm around your waist stays firm and sure, and with every swing your fear ebbs a little more, making room for something warm and foreign.
He must feel the change in you because after a moment, he turns his head just enough for his voice to reach you clearly.
“Okay,” he says. “Now that you trust me a little more, let me take you somewhere.”
You lift your head to look at him. “Somewhere? I thought this was the date.”
“This is the foreplay.”
You grimace, wishing you weren’t being held hostage miles above deep water to pull back. “And just like that, I’m dry.”
He laughs, the sound warm and easy. “But your complaining has finally stopped so I’d take that as a win. And for the record, I meant there’s more I still want to show you. I’m not blowing my entire budget on just one dramatic entrance.”
The next arc carries you around the edge of a low building, and then the shape of it begins to emerge properly. The amusement park stretches out in front of you, lights flickering on as dusk settles fully. The ferris wheel looms overhead, its metal frame catching the last of the sunset, and with most of the rides closed, the whole place feels strangely eerie in its emptiness. But then the water catches the light in soft ripples, the sky deepens into indigo, the first stars begin to blink into view, and it becomes something quietly beautiful.
Spiderman watches you from the side, the light from the nearest streetlights in your eyes. His body is uncharacteristically still, mask tilted toward you.
“Woah,” you breathe out at last.
His shoulders relax just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Thought you might like it. And look, I reserved the entire place out for you. It’s all yours for the entire night.”
“That’s because it’s closed.”
He grins and holds out his hand. “Come on. I know a way for you to get a view of the city high up and without your eyeballs drying out on you. I’m trying to be accommodating now that I know you’re apparently very fragile about flying.”
“As any normal person would, I fear.”
You eye his outstretched hand and then at the pier around you. The place feels suspended in time, the shuttered stalls, the way the lights glow without the usual crowds to dull them.
“You’re very confident for someone who almost got flipped onto concrete five minutes ago,” you say, but take his hand anyway.
“What can I say?” he shrugs, fingers warm as he interlaces them. “I trust you not to do it again. We’re close like that, right? But seriously, can we stop bringing that up? It’s a sensitive topic for me.”
He leads you past a locked gate, showing off his lockpicking skills which prompts a raised brow and not the fawning he had initially expected, then to another gate to which you just had to look away from while he broke in. You walk beside him until he’s standing beneath the ferris wheel, metal bones creaking softly.
Spiderman glances up then looks back down at you, holding out his hand in a flourish.
“My lady,” he says, dipping his head. “Would you care to have a go?”
“Real original,” you say but don’t protest when he guides you into one of the empty carriages.
It sways slightly as you settle in, the door closing with a soft sound. Then the wheel jerks once, twice, then starts moving ever so slowly. Your breath catches as the ground drifts away, the pier shrinking beneath, lights blurring into a soft constellation of their own. There’s no rush like when you were swinging, just a gentle, steady climb lifting you above the city skyline.
You lean forward, hands gripping the edge of the carriage as the city opens up before you. It stretches out endlessly, lights scattered like spilled glitter, the dark water reflecting everything through a dreamy haze.
“Is this what you see everyday?” you ask.
Spiderman hums, relaxing into the seat opposite you “Maybe something close adjacent.”
“Well it’s gorgeous. I can’t believe I forgot how freeing it feels to go to amusement parks. There’s just something about being so high up, you know? But I guess I don’t need to be telling you that.”
“Enamoured already? We haven’t even reached the top yet.” He stares at you for a moment. “Okay, pop quiz. Which do you like better, the ferris wheel or the swinging?”
“Definitely the ferris wheel.”
“That hurts.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder to shoot him a cheeky grin. “Why are you sitting on the other side? Is the view better over there?”
He tilts his head and looks at you for a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says at last. “It’s pretty.”
He doesn’t pull his gaze away from you and it takes a second for the words to land properly, and another second for the warmth in your face to catch up with them. You laugh softly, more because you need somewhere to put the sudden nervousness than because it’s especially funny.
“You’re really pulling out all the stops today, aren’t you?” Your gaze flicker from the view back to him. “Is this something you do with all the civilians you save? I’d hate to embarrass myself by thinking I’m special.”
“Would you compliment me back if I said it was just you?”
“Maybe. Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes.” He turns his body slightly so he can rest his elbow on the back of the seat, unabashedly staring right at you. “It’s just you.”
The carriage creaks softly. The wheel keeps turning and somewhere below, music too faint to make out drifts from some unseen speaker, somewhat staticky and distant.
With nothing else to do, you laugh again, buying you some much needed time to figure out what to say next. “If you needed a boost to your ego, you could have just said so. You didn’t have to bring me to a half-abandoned amusement park and make me stare at the harbour to get it.”
“And the compliment?”
“I guess you’re not as annoying as I initially assumed you were.”
“My ego definitely does not need the help,” he says easily. “And what kind of compliment is that? Give me something a little more impersonal.”
“You’re humble,” you observe with a good mannered snort.
“It comes with the whole superhero thing.” He continues to watch you until he realises that this prolonged eye contact should come with some form of conversation.
Spiderman sits up a little, crossing one leg over the other. HIs ankle dangles and bumps into yours, a mere accident that makes you freeze so your body doesn’t move away.
“How have you been doing?” he asks, and the question comes out with an almost awkward plainness to it, stripped of the usual easy swagger. A second later he seems to hear himself and tries to recover, lifting one shoulder. “You seem a little quieter than usual. Not that I’ve been paying attention or anything. I just have, you know, a lot of care for the citizens of this city.”
The ferris wheel creaks as it carries you both a little higher, the lights of the pier shifting below in soft, sleepy colours. He watches you for a beat too long, and you know the joke gave him cover, but not much. The question is still sitting there between you, small and strangely careful.
You glance at him. “That was subtle. Really invisible work there.”
“Thank you,” he says. “I pride myself on my restraint. I could’ve been much creepier about it.”
“I’m sure that was difficult for you.”
“It was,” he says with a sigh. “You have no idea how hard I’m working right now to seem normal.”
You look back out over the water, the lights trembling across the surface. “I’ve been fine. That’s the official answer.”
“I think I’ve earned myself the unofficial answer,” he says quietly.
You fold your arms loosely over your middle. “It’s ridiculously stupid. Like, who hangs out with a superhero and starts ranting about their situationship?”
He makes a little choked sound which makes you look over in concern. He quickly covers his mouth and waves you on. “Situationship? I didn’t know it would have counted as a situationship.”
You frown because what exactly does he know about what ‘it’ is? “It’s 2026, everyone’s idea of love is warped. If it doesn’t have a label then people will just slap the word ‘situationship’ over it and pray for the best.”
“Right, right. Please continue.”
“Well, there was someone. Obviously.” You stop and let out a sigh, slumping. “Or maybe there wasn’t and I just made him into someone in my head. I can’t really tell anymore, it’s all just so messy. I thought maybe there was something there, I thought that was what everything was building up towards and then… we had this argument and it was honestly embarrassing looking back at it and now we don’t talk. So.”
“Did you want there to be something?”
Ignoring the fact that you’re having a love life talk with Spiderman, of all people, you answer honestly. “Of course. I wouldn’t be this annoyed if I didn’t.”
Spiderman lets his head knock against the window as he groans. “Okay. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. Of course you wanted something, of course.”
You glance sideways at him. “Why do you sound like that?”
“Second-hand sorrow.”
“I think they call that empathy.”
“I just think,” he says, his voice a little rougher now, “it would’ve been easier if you’d said no. I’m only saying that because I’m looking out for you, obviously. As a public servant.”
You snort despite yourself but the heaviness settles back in quickly enough. “It would have been easier if he just kept being an asshole like when it all started. If he’d just kept being a dick, then fine, whatever, I could have lived with that if I never found out the kind of guy he is. But he wasn't, he ended up being kind. And funny. And actually decent and that really pisses me off. He made me hopeful and I think that might be the worst part.”
Spiderman goes very still across from you, shoulders pulling tighter and chin dipping just slightly so he’s staring a hole through the floor of the carriage. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone quieter.
“Yeah,” he says. “That does sound pretty bad. Especially if he knew what he was doing.”
You frown. “I don’t even know if he did. I can’t tell if he was just oblivious, or if he really did mean something by it but then freaked himself over nothing.”
“That’s not better,” Spiderman retorts. “That makes him sound very pathetic.”
You look at him properly now, the dim lights from below catching on the higher points of his face. “You’re taking this really personally for someone who doesn’t know him.”
He lets out a short laugh. “Maybe I just have strong opinions about men disappointing women. Somebody has to, the bar is in hell.”
You exhale a laugh through your nose. “Exactly.”
The carriage gives a small creak as it keeps moving and for a few creaky moments, neither of you say anything. The quiet isn’t awkward, and he hasn’t said enough to put you in your thoughts, but it’s quiet anyway. Then Spiderman clears his throat and leans forward, elbow braced on his knees.
“Okay, I’m going to say one more thing about it and then I’m going to stop being so emotionally available. It feels a little off brand to what we have going on.”
You snort. “Sure, go for it.”
“I think,” he starts carefully, “that if someone made you feel seen and hopeful for more and then disappeared, you’re allowed to think he’s a jerk. You don’t have to make excuses just because he also had some good qualities. Because being kind in some moments doesn’t cancel out making you feel abandoned in others. But maybe…”
He takes a breath. “Don’t give up on him. Please.”
For some reason, the sincerity in his voice makes you pause.
Damn, so even superheroes experience situationships? Because he sounded really invested just then in a way that can only be explained as first-hand experience. You wonder what kind of person could break Spiderman’s heart like that.
“Thanks for the love advice, Spiderman.”
He nods solemnly. “No problem.”
And because the entire situation is simply too ridiculous to keep a straight face, you laugh. He smiles too, watching you for a moment before letting out his own laugh.
“There you are,” he says. “I was wondering what other crimes I’d have to commit tonight to fix the mood.”
“We’re going to have to circle back and talk about the lockpicking eventually.”
“As long as it isn’t today.”
The carriage gives a gentler, longer groan as it continues descending. You let your head tip back against the seat and, almost absentmindedly, your eyes drift out toward the skyline again. You frown.
“Oh.”
He looks out too. “That sounded like a bad oh. What kind of oh was that?”
You look past him, past the window, toward the stretch of harbour and the city beyond. “I think we missed the top.”
He blinks. “What?”
“The peak,” you say, sitting forward. “The very top of the ferris wheel? We were talking and I didn’t even notice we’d already gone over it.”
“Oh wow, that guy is the worst. He stole your ferris wheel climax too.”
“Is it also part of your superhero job description to ruin every moment with some sexual innuendo?”
He lifts both hands. “Okay, fair, I’m having a bad wording night. But this is hard on me okay? I arrange a beautiful nighttime ferris wheel, I listen supportively while you talk about another man, and still somehow I’m the bad guy.”
“Right? How do you do it?”
The carriage is nearly at the bottom now. Below, the pier glows in soft strings of light and you feel a strange sense of finality when it shudders to a stop. Before you can maneuver around a ‘thanks for tonight, see you first thing in the morning!’, Spiderman leans forward.
“Don’t look so ready to go just yet, there’s still the aftercare part.”
You sigh but don’t berate him. “There’s still more? Someone save me.”
The carriage door clicks open with a soft metallic sound. He stands first and offers you his hand again, less theatrical this time, and more sincere.
“Come on,” he says, voice soft in the wind. “Don’t go home yet. Stay with me a little longer, that’s all I’m asking. Let me be the part of tonight you remember better.”
You look at the hand he’s still holding half between you. Then, before you can overthink it, you slip your hand into his.
“But only because I’m curious what exactly counts as better.”
He turns his hand, catching yours properly, and something in your stomach flips at the gesture.
“Good,” he says, low and warm. “Because I’ve been trying very hard all night not to ask too obviously.”
You lied before. Swinging is leaps and bounds better than sitting stationary in a small carriage inching along at a snail’s pace. It’s exhilarating and freeing, and yes, your eyes still hurt when you open them too wide, but you’ve figured out the perfect amount of squinting to keep them from tearing up. Instead, you whoop and cheer as he swings you in high arcs and dramatic drops, skimming close enough to the ground that you might believe the end of your life is waiting there, if not for your growing trust that Spiderman will always pull you back up.
Half your screams are still terror, though.
Spiderman isn’t silent either. He laughs right into your ear when you cling to him tighter, praises you when you throw your head back and cheer, and points out his favourite places to sit and watch the sunrise. He complains that the city’s architecture doesn’t cater nearly enough to his swinging needs, as though that should have been a priority in urban planning. He carries you over a football stadium and you marvel at its size, the bright field below looking almost unreal from up here.
“Think you can handle a little more?” he murmurs against your ear.
High on adrenaline, you nod against his neck.
Then he drops you.
His arms slide out from under your knees and he quickly unwinds your hands from around his neck. One moment you are safe in his hold, and the next you are falling, a heavy body surrendered to gravity as the ground rushes up to meet you. Your scream could wake the whole city if it were not already awake.
You look up. The sky above is vast, endless, strewn with stars so beautiful they almost make you forget the terror roaring through you. The wind screams in your ears, your clothes snapping against your body, and somewhere inside the panic there is a strange, suspended calm that feels almost like freedom.
Just before the ground can meet your back, Spiderman swoops in from the side and catches you cleanly in his arms. The force of it steals another cry from you, but then he is already pulling you upward again, the momentum sweeping you into another great arc before gravity draws you back, over and over until the motion finally begins to slow.
For one suspended moment, the two of you dangle in the air, saved from certain death by nothing but the web shot from his wrists. Metres above the ground, your life held so easily in someone else’s hands, you find that you feel no fear at all.
In fact, you are laughing.
It starts as a breathless, disbelieving sound, then spills into something uncontrollable, and he chuckles at first before his own laughter joins yours. You laugh until your lungs ache, until your face hurts, until all you can feel is the warmth of his breath against your cheek and the solid certainty of his arms around your back.
He makes no move to set you down or sling you back to safety. Instead, he only keeps you there, held against his chest, his masked face angled down toward yours. You want to believe he is looking at you the way you are looking at him, full of wonder and something even softer than that, but it is hard to be certain when his face is hidden.
Your laughter dwindles into one last helpless giggle as you peer up at him. “Nice catch.”
Your gaze drops from the white of his eyes to the shape of the mask stretched over the bridge of his nose, the faint outline of his mouth beneath the fabric. There has not been a single moment in your strange, ridiculous friendship with Spiderman when you have been so curious about who he is under that mask.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice warm and low. “I kind of do this for a living.”
You laugh softly, and he shivers when your breath mists against the fabric over his lips.
“Do you remember when you first saved me?” you ask.
“Yes, I slammed into a bus stop and ruined it forever. I also remember telling you to never mention that again,” he says immediately.
You nod, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “We were so different back then. I almost thought you were shy the amount of times you ran away.”
He is quiet for just long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, softly, “Pretty girls fluster me.”
You snort, but there’s no hiding the warmth that spreads across your face, and for once you make no move to cover it. Let him see it. Let him know the effect he has on you, just how fiercely this thing burns within you, this aching desire to hold him close, to whisper his name and feel him shiver beneath your touch.
Slowly, as if afraid to snap the fragile thread of tension between you, you pull your hand away from your chest and trail it up the side of his neck, your touch feather-light.
You hear his breath catch. Feel it, too.
Your fingers drift higher until your palm cups his cheek through the mask. “I want to know who you are,” you say softly.
He flinches. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” you ask, voice gentle. “You don’t trust me?”
“That’s not it.”
“Really?” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Because I would’ve accepted that as an answer.”
He goes oddly still. “What?”
Spiderman’s stunned silence makes you smile, and a quiet laugh slips out of you at how easy he is to read despite the mask. “What’s wrong? I’ve read the comics. I’ve seen the movies. I know what happens when the superhero reveals his identity.” You tip your head, eyes never leaving him. “Something bad always follows. It’s like punishment for their hubris. The main companion dies, or the hero has to choose between their lover and the world. It always ends in tragedy.”
He recovers quickly enough, his arms tightening around your waist as if instinctively holding you closer. “You think I couldn’t save both you and the world?”
You ignore the implications of his words, biting back a smile. “And that would be the hubris part.”
He scoffs, though the sound comes out a touch too strained to be convincing. “That’s not why I can’t tell you my identity, princess.”
“Then tell me why.” Your voice drops lower, soft as breath. “Because right now it feels like you’re making up rules as you go.”
He hesitates. It is brief, but not brief enough.
“You wouldn’t…” He swallows. “You wouldn’t feel the same. It would change things. It would change whatever this is.”
You go quiet at that, mulling the words over. Then your hands drift from his neck to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath the suit.
Looking up at him, you hum. “Do I know you?”
Spiderman flinches again. “No.”
You laugh softly at how bad he is at lying. “Alright. Are we friends?”
He doesn’t react quite as strongly to that, which tells you enough to keep going.
“Do we not get along?”
“Hold on—”
You immediately compose a mental list of all those who had once wronged you in some way. Some were easy to recall, their offences more recent like the cyclist that had rode past you one morning and knocked your coffee out of your hands leaving you confused and uncaffeinated for class, or your neighbour who is always throwing parties. Maybe it’s someone closer to you than that, like Naoya, or Toji, or Mei Mei, or that old lady that always comes in at 8am on a Thursday and routinely complains about her coffee not being hot enough. You frown at that last thought and Spiderman catches it, opening his mouth to stop you.
“Are you a student, or—”
He hisses loud enough to cut you off. “Don’t guess. Don’t you dare. If you have to know, it’ll be because I told you, not because you stumbled into it by accident.” He pauses, then adds, more mutinously, “And I definitely don’t need to hear who you think I am. I’m sure you can imagine how terrible that might be for my ego.”
You tilt your head, amused. “I get that, but I was only going to ask if—”
“No.”
“But I—”
“I said no.”
“Spiderman.” Your tone sharpens just enough to shut him up. “I was going to ask if you’re that old lady who always demands her coffee be molten before I hand it over. You know, the one who acts like I personally invented workplace safety regulations.”
Spiderman doesn’t say anything for a long while. “What?”
You laugh under your breath. “I definitely told you about her before. Or—” you pause, smiling to yourself, “told you about you, maybe. The one who always comes through drive-thru.”
“Princess,” he says dryly, “I am not sixty years old.”
“Perfect,” you reply. “Then I’m sure I wouldn’t otherwise care who you are.”
And then he’s laughing. It bursts out of him bright and helpless, so sudden and genuine that it makes something in your chest go warm and dizzy. His head tips back, the white lenses of the mask curving with the shape of his smile, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your own grin from widening too much. If he laughed in your face every day for the rest of your life, you think you might let him, if only to know that this—him, here, now—is real.
He’s talking again, you realise belatedly, his mask shifting with the movement of his mouth, but the words barely register. You’re too busy watching the fabric stretch and crease, too aware of how close he is, how little separates you now.
Your fingers trail back up the side of his neck, and that silences him instantly.
Despite all his earlier objections, he stills completely when your hand settles there. Your thumb grazes the seam where mask meets suit, and you stop, glancing up at him.
“Can I?”
“You can’t,” he whispers, just as softly, though he doesn’t move away. If anything, his hand only tightens on your waist.
“I won’t look, I promise.” Your thumb traces small circles against his neck, your gaze locked on his. “I just want to touch you.”
He shivers. You feel it run through him, sharp and involuntary.
He says your name in a low rumble, the sound almost enough to undo you on its own. “This is a bad idea.”
“If you tell me to stop, I will.” Looking down, you slip the tip of your finger beneath the narrow break between his bodysuit and the edge of his mask.
“My arm is going to cramp,” he mutters weakly, and the attempt at humour only makes your smile deepen.
You begin to peel the mask back. Just a little at first, just enough to reveal the bare line of his neck and feel the tense muscle there. Your fingertips glide over the exposed skin, and his breath catches again, but he still doesn’t stop you.
You wonder how far he’ll let you go.
You lift the mask higher, over the line of his jaw, and your eyes snag there before they can help it. Then over his mouth, where you pause for the briefest second, struck silent by the sight of him, before leaving the fabric gathered just beneath his nose.
He tries for a smirk and you watch it form. “Was that all you wanted to see?”
You lean in slowly, stopping just short of him to gauge his reaction. When he doesn’t move away, you close the distance until your nose brushes his.
“For now,” you whisper.
His eyes search yours through the mask, and whatever he finds there makes his mouth flatten into something almost pained.
“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” you murmur, and though you mean it, there is a terrible hollow ache opening in your chest now. Gojo’s face flashes uninvited through your mind and you shove it back, determined to bury it, though it’s clear enough from the way Spiderman goes tense that you haven’t done nearly as good a job as you’d hoped.
You don’t want to use him like this.
Over the past few months, Spiderman has become something steady in your life, a source of comfort in ways you never expected. Maybe it is because he has no face, no fixed place in your world, no history to complicate things. Maybe that’s why you have been able to tell him things you can’t even bring yourself to say to your friends.
And now you are asking him for something you cannot take back. Still, your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit.
“Please.”
He moves before you can prepare for it, leaning in so suddenly your breath catches, your startled yelp cut off by the harsh press of his lips against yours.
For one disorienting second, all thought disappears. Then he kisses you again, harder this time, and your hand flies up to hold him there, fingers tangling against his neck as though you can keep the moment from slipping away. His mouth is warm and real and a little clumsy with restraint, like he wants more and is trying very hard not to take it. The hand at your waist tightens, enough to make your pulse jump.
And then he groans into the kiss, fierce and guttural before pulling away. The break leaves you both panting.
You don’t speak at first but neither does he. You just stare at one another, lips swollen, breath unsteady, the last minute catching up all at once in a rush so overwhelming it feels almost unreal.You are already leaning in again before you fully register it, drawn by instinct more than thought, wanting to close the distance and do it all over—
When suddenly gravity shifts.
You let out a startled scream as the ground drops from under you and you pitch forward into him. His arms close around you automatically, holding you flush against his chest as the city begins to move beneath you.
“What are you—”
“I’m taking you back,” he says, voice rough.
“What?” You twist, trying to look up at him, but he keeps you tucked in tight against him. “Wait a minute!”
“I’m dropping you back at your dorm.”
“Hold on a second!”
“I can’t.” The words come out strained, almost frayed at the edges, and because his voice sounds like that—because the kiss is still there between you, lingering like heat—you let your protests falter.
The flight back is too quick. When he finally sets you down outside your dorm, your legs feel unsteady for more reasons than one. The second your feet hit the ground, your hands shoot to his arms, keeping hold so he can’t just disappear again.
“You didn’t want it?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but with the mask still pushed halfway up, you see the way his jaw clenches.
The truth hits you all at once, sharp and humiliating and you find your lips, once pressed against him, now forming the sound of an apology. “I’m sorry it was bad.”
He makes a vague movement, like he wants to run a hand through his hair and has only just remembered the mask. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” The desperation in your voice makes you cringe the moment you hear it, but it’s too late to take back.
He looks at you for a long, silent moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is unbearably soft.
“You said it yourself, didn’t you? Revealing my identity would only hurt you.”
Your grip on his arms tightens. “I’m fine with that. I don’t need to know who you are. It doesn’t matter.” The words rush out now, tripping over each other. “The one I—” You falter, heart hammering. “The one I care about is you.”
Spiderman watches you wordlessly as you trip over your own tongue. Then, after a beat that feels much longer than it is, he says, “I never said it was your mistake.”
You inhale sharply and, before you can think better of it, lean in and steal a kiss from his lips. There isn’t enough time to consider what the hell you’re doing because he answers immediately.
Whatever hesitation he’d been clinging to burns away the second your mouth meets his, seared off by heat and want and the unmistakable fact that this is really happening. This kiss is nothing like the last. It is harder, hungrier, and when his hand catches your wrist to pull you closer, it still doesn’t feel like enough. A low groan tears from him into your mouth, impatient and wrecked, and then he’s biting lightly at your bottom lip as though restraint is already slipping through his fingers.
You gasp, and he takes the invitation immediately. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, coaxing every breathless sound from you until your whimpers are swallowed down by him. Still, it isn’t enough. How could it be? Not when he finally has you in his arms like this after wanting you for so long, after all the distance and hurt and wrong timing. His body urges you back a step, then another, until your shoulders brush the wall and he follows, crowding you there.
His hands slide up your waist and back down again, settling hard at your hips, while the other cups your jaw to hold you steady for the fierce, dizzying press of his mouth. You cling to him like he is the only solid thing in the world, and maybe right now he is. Your knees have gone weak enough that you don’t trust them to hold you without him.
A crash sounds somewhere in the alley below.
You jolt, teeth catching accidentally against his lip. He groans at the sting but pulls back, shooting the darkness beyond the window a withering glare like he could kill whatever interrupted him. You follow his line of sight, but nothing else happens. The alley settles back into stillness. After a second, he exhales and leans down until his forehead rests against yours.
“You should probably check that out,” you murmur, more to break the thick, dizzy silence than out of any real conviction.
He hums, the sound warm against your skin. “Then why aren’t you letting me go?”
Only then do you realise your fingers have curled tight into the front of his suit. They only tighten further, pathetic and needy in a way you’d usually hate, but his answering chuckle is filthy and starved enough to make warmth bloom through you.
“Stay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I won’t go.”
You shake your head and lift it just enough to meet the white gaze of his mask, your own eyes dropping to his mouth for the briefest second. “No. Stay.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
His hand slips from your cheek and a second later a web shoots from his wrist and catches on the frame of your third-floor window. His other arm locks around you and suddenly he’s lifting you with him.
Getting through the window is clumsy and breathless and far less graceful than the way he moves through the city. One of your shoes catches on the ledge, his shoulder bumps the frame, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly. It feels absurdly scandalous, sneaking through your own window like this, and the absurdity only makes it worse.
He climbs in first, then turns immediately and offers you his hand. You take it with less hesitation than before, and he guides you through carefully, steadying you the moment your feet touch the floor, and for a second he doesn’t let go. He just keeps hold of you, standing close in the dimness of your room, eyes fixed on your face.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
You don’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t.”
Something in him softens at that, though his voice stays low. “I still can’t let you see me.”
You shake your head and close your eyes before your nerve can fail you. Your hands rise to the seam of his mask. “Trust me.”
And because he does, he lets you pull it away.
Truthfully, there’s a moment where temptation almost gets the better of you. He's right there, close enough to touch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin and the shape of his mouth. You’re touching him, your tongue has been inside his mouth and now you know his taste intimately. All it would take is a moment of weakness and the opening of your eyes to finally know who has been under the mask this entire time. Just one peek, one action to end the curiosity. Still, you hold yourself back.
Don’t ruin the moment.
A soft chuckle brushes your lips, his bare breath warm against them now that the mask is out of the way. You steady your hands against his chest and feel the frantic pound of his heart beneath your palms. He shivers at the contact.
He tries to be patient, he really does. Tries to make this moment careful, almost reverent, like you deserve. But Gojo is greedy. He’s greedy for your attention, for the spark in your eyes to flare up the moment his eyes lock on yours, he’s greedy for your touch, the brushing of fingers when you pass him his coffee in the morning, for that smile that you only ever seem to give him when he’s Spiderman. He is greedy for this version of you, soft and wanting and close enough to ruin him.
His brow twitches, something cruel twisting in his stomach and he traces the seam of your lips with his tongue, pushing in even before you open your mouth to him.
His tongue finds yours again before he can stop himself, the kiss turning deeper, hungrier. He presses you back against the window, one hand bracing against the sill behind you so the edge doesn’t dig into your spine while the other settles hard at your waist. He devours you completely, nothing tentative about him now. He kisses you like he’s starving as all his late night fantasies, your name on his tongue and his hand wrapped around his cock, become finally realised when he tastes you.
You lightly tap his arm, and he pulls back to let you breathe but his lips don’t leave you for long.
“God, I've wanted you for so long.” he nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. His hardness presses against your thigh, leaving you with no doubts about his words. "I can’t stop thinking about you, every time I close my eyes, you’re there. You're haunting me.” He continues to confess between heated kisses along your jawline.
The utter longing in his voice, the depraved desperation as he presses impossibly closer, hands wanting to trace up your side but to also push you up into him, the heat of his mouth against your pulse point, it’s all too much and you let out a whimper.
He groans softly against your skin, his restraint fraying even further at the noise.
“Stop teasing me,” you gasp, tilting your head to give him more room and hating how needy you sound.
His answer is rough and low. "I can’t help it.”
Deciding you’ve had enough of him making you melt where you stand, you push at him instead. He lets himself be moved, following your blind guidance as you walk him backwards toward where you think your bed is. When the backs of his legs hit the mattress, he sits, and his fingers curl around your wrist to tug you closer between his knees.
Your hands find his face again, fumbling slightly as they trace bare skin for the first time. The line of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the shape of a face you still refuse to see. He lets you explore him in silence, stilling beneath your touch in a way that feels almost unbearably intimate, pressing a kiss to your palm when your hand drifts closer to his mouth.
Your fingers linger on the warmth of his skin, tracing the soft curve of his lips before dipping lower, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. He's so still under your touch, like he's afraid one wrong move will shatter this fragile moment, and it sends a thrill through you—the power you hold, even blinded. With your eyes closed, it blocks out everything but sensation, heightening every graze of your fingertips, every hitch in his breath. You can feel the rapid thump of his pulse beneath your palm, matching the frantic beat of your own heart.
He tilts his head slightly, nuzzling into your hand like a dog seeking affection, and the vulnerability in that small gesture makes your chest tighten. This masked hero, the one who swings through the city saving lives, is reduced to this—panting softly, body tense with barely contained need. It's intoxicating, knowing you can unravel him like this.
“You're killing me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, laced with that desperate edge that makes your core clench. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just below the hem of your skirt, not pushing further but holding you there, grounding himself. “Please don’t stop here, touch me more.”
Your finger grazes his boner through the tight fabric of his suit and he hisses, bowing inward.
“Shit!”
You pause. “A thought has occurred.”
He lets out a long suffering sigh. “Please don’t ruin the mood.”
You laugh softly, dragging your nails over his erection over and over, drinking in every flinch you feel from where you’re pressed against him. “I can’t help you if you’re still in this… spandex.”
Spiderman huffs again but you feel him pull back and unzip his suit, wherever that zipper might be. “I’m so glad you can’t see me right now. There was no way I could get out of this suit in a hot way.”
“Trust me, my imagination isn’t doing you any favours either.” You pause. “Do you have to wear a thong under your suit?”
“The mood was really good five seconds ago. Don't ruin it because you’re curious about what I’m wearing underneath.”
You giggle and your nerves evaporate. Sure, you’re about to have sex with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman and that might forever change the trajectory of your relationship with him, but at least it’s still him. When he sits back on the bed and guides you forward, you follow him without a second thought and kneel between his legs.
“What are you—oh fuck.” He inhales sharply, hands never leaving you for long as they find purchase in your hair. “Fuck, you look so pretty.”
His thumb traces your bottom lip, feeling it give way under his touch. He curses again. “I need your mouth on me, pretty girl.”
You laugh at his eagerness and reward his honesty with your hands down his chest, breath quickening when he lets out a small sigh as your fingers graze his lower stomach. You allow yourself the time to trail a finger down his bare chest now that he is free from his spandex, marveling at the muscle you find tensing under your touch.
Eventually, you find the waistband of his boxers. “So you do wear boxers?”
“Y/N, please. The mood.”
You tug his boxers down, slightly upset you can’t see the way his cock swings up, finally free from its restraints. The sounds he makes compensates and you find it hard to stay disappointed as he groans, the hand in your hair closing around to tug you impatiently towards his dick.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches you. Despite his apology, he doesn’t make an effort to loosen his hold that much.
You drag your hands up his thighs to find where they converge. You wrap your fingers around him, feeling out his shape. If he asked in that narcissistic way of his, you’d tell him he’s average size. Truthfully, he’s thicker and longer than you’d dare to admit, the slight curve a feature that has you pressing your thighs together.
He bucks involuntarily, a whine escaping his lips that sounds so damn needy it makes you wetter.
“Take your time,” he manages to grit out though it’s breathless. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You wonder who he’s talking to because you’re sure as hell not going to take your time. Instead, you lean in closer, your breath ghosting his length and smell him—musky and hot after being trapped in that suit for so long.
“You’re shaking already,” you whisper. “Haven’t you ever had a girl on her knees for you?”
He doesn't answer, just lets out a shaky exhale, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. The silence is answer enough, and it makes you laugh, hard enough to be distracted by the pathetic twitch his cock gives at his own humiliation.
“No way? The amazing Spiderman gets no game? My god, I almost feel sorry for you,” you coo mockingly, tongue flicking out to lap at the bead of pre-cum on his tip. He jolts, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat, you smile against his flushed skin. “All that heroic web-slinging but no one’s ever taken care of this?”
Before he can respond, you take him into your mouth, lips sealing around the head as you suck gently. He tastes salty and slightly bitter, but the way he gasps all high and desperate makes you hum in approval, the vibration drawing another shiver from him. Your hands brace on his thighs, nails digging in as you bob your head, taking him deeper inch by inch. He’s not huge but he’s certainly responsive, hips twitching like he can’t help it, fucking shallowly into your mouth.
“Shit—oh God, your mouth!” His words dissolve into a groan, his hand tightening in your messy strands.
You hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling around the underside, tracing the vein that pulses against it. With your eyes closed, every sensation is amplified, the wet sounds of your sucking, the salty drip down your throat, the way his cock twitches on your tongue.
You pull back slightly, letting spit string from your lips to his tip, and pump him with your hand, remembering to twist a little at the top.
“There’s no way you’re going to cum already, are you?” Once again, you desperately wish to see him, to see him writhing under your touch, flushed with his eyes rolling back.
“Don’t stop,” he begs, voice cracking.
You oblige, leaning back down to swallow around him, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. He smells like sweat and arousal, and you gag a little when he thrusts too eagerly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan, letting him feel how much you want this, how his desperation turns you on.
His free hand claws at the bed, knuckles white, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, the way he's fighting not to come too soon. You speed up, slurping obscenely, one hand slipping down to cup his balls, rolling them gently. He cries out—actually cries out—head thrown back, and you feel powerful, desired, even as the mean streak in you wants to edge him until he breaks.
But you’re aching too, pussy throbbing with neglect and its slickness soaks your thighs. You pop off him with a wet sound to which he whines in protest, hips jerking forward seeking more.
“Not yet,” you say breathlessly and rise to your feet to push him back fully onto your bed.
He goes willingly, sprawling out with the audible sounds of his pants. You climb over him, straddling his waist, and grind your soaked panties against his thick length. The friction makes you both moan, his hands flying to your hips to hold you there.
“Please,” he pants. “Let me touch you. I need to—”
You cut him off with a kiss, letting him taste himself from where your mouth met his cock. It’s messy and you rock against him harder, chasing that pressure on your clit. But it’s not enough. You need more.
Pulling back, you guide one of his hands between your legs, pressing his fingers against your clothed pussy. “Feel how wet I am? It’s all for you. Now do something about it.”
His fingers tremble as they slip under the fabric and brush against your folds, making you hiss at the contact. He’s clumsy at first, virgin nerves showing in the hesitant circles he rubs over your clit, but the sensation burns with your eyes closed, turning every awkward stroke into fire. You grind down to guide his rhythm and he learns fast, thumb pressing firmer, two fingers finding your entrance.
“Like this?” he asks, voice small and eager, and you nod, biting your lip to stifle a moan as he pushes inside.
He’s not skilled, all bumping knuckles, but God does the stretch feel good. You clench around him, riding his hand, the wet squelch filling the room.
“Faster,” you demand, and he obeys, curling them experimentally, hitting that spot that makes your thighs quake. Sensory deprivation turns it overwhelming, leaving you drowning in the slide of his fingers, the heat of his palm grinding against your clit. You whimper as the pleasure builds and he drinks in every sound, pumping harder, thumb flicking relentlessly.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs in awe, free hand roaming your body, squeezing your breast through your shirt, pinching the nipple until you arch. “So wet for me. Fuck, I could do this all night.”
But you can’t wait anymore. You shove his hand away, panting, and fumble with your clothes, stripping off your top and skirt, panties last. He helps, clumsy but enthusiastic, suit peeled down to his hips. Naked now, you feel exposed and vulnerable, but his hands are everywhere—stroking your sides, cupping your ass, pulling you down.
He positions himself between your legs, leaning down to kiss you deeply while his hands memorise your curves, gliding them over your soft skin. It’s not enough. You roll your hips against him, trying to press him in, seeking that friction you desperately need.
Spiderman lets out a low groan against your ear, his control slipping at your eager movements. He pulls back to watch, to drink in the sight of you writhing under him, at your hands fumbling desperately at his arms to draw him back in.
“Give me a second,” he mumbles. “I want to take my time with you.”
“Please don’t,” you whine. It’s infuriating, having him so close you can feel his heat against your skin and yet, it only emphasises the emptiness inside you. “Please just touch me.”
“I’ve got you, baby.” Unable to resist your needy sounds any longer, he finally gives in. He readjusts his position, guiding himself to your entrance. He thrusts up slightly, his dick gathering your slick at his tip, the both of you moaning at the friction. “Tell me what you want, Y/N. I need to hear how badly you need me.” He all but pleads, repeating the action over and over, eyes closed shut at every nudge against your clit.
You whimper, fingers finding purchase on his biceps. “I’m not going to beg you, jerk.”
He ruts up, the tip catching on your entrance and you almost believe it’s in until it slides right past. “Beg me,” he pleads again, mouth planting desperate kisses at your neck.
The teasing drags on, his cockhead slipping through your folds, bumping your clit with every shallow thrust, but never filling you. It's torture, the heat of him so close, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room. You buck up, trying to impale yourself, but he holds your hips down, chuckling breathlessly against your throat.
“Come on,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “Just say it. Tell me you want my cock inside you.”
Your pride wars with the ache until it’s finally too much. “Fine,” you gasp, nails raking his back. “Fuck me. Please, just—put it in. I need it.”
The words break him. With a guttural moan, he lines up and thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You're stretched full, walls fluttering around his thickness, and you cry out, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.
“Oh God, yes,” he groans, stilling for a moment to adjust, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re perfect. So fucking tight.”
You clench around him deliberately, and he whines, that puppy-like desperation surfacing again.
“Move,” you plead as you rock up, and he does, pulling out halfway before slamming back in. The pace starts slow, experimental as his inexperience shows in the uneven rhythm. But it builds, thrusts deepening, the bed creaking under you. Each snap of his hips grinds his pubic bone against your clit, and with your eyes closed, it’s all you can focus on: the slap of skin, the wet glide of his cock, the way he fills you completely.
He buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking marks into your skin, hands gripping your thighs to spread you wider. “Feels so good,” he mumbles between thrusts. "Like you were made for me. Can’t believe—fuck—”
The tension coils tight in your belly, pleasure spiking with every plunge. He’s hitting deep now, tip kissing your cervix, and you arch sharply.
But he’s greedy, wanting more, always more. One hand slips between you to find your clit again, rubbing in tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyelids. “Cum for me,” he pleads, voice hoarse. “Wanna feel you squeeze my dick. Please, Y/N.”
The command, laced with desperation, tips you over. You shatter, pussy convulsing around him, milking his cock as waves crash through you. He follows seconds later, thrusting erratically before spilling inside, hot spurts painting your walls. He doesn’t even stop then, instead opting to slowly grind against your ass to push it all in. Finally, he collapses onto you as you both pant, bodies slick with sweat.
For a moment, there’s only the aftershocks and his softening cock still twitching inside you. Then he lifts his head and kisses you softly, reverently.
“That was incredible,” he whispers.
You smile lazily, fingers tracing his jaw once more. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t pull out right away, staying buried deep as his breathing evens out, like he can't bear to leave your warmth. His hands roam lazily now, no longer frantic but exploratory as he maps out the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You must possess some kind of iron will because you keep your eyes closed even then such that you can feel every callus on his palms, every tremble in his touch. It’s intimate, this post-climax haze, and it stirs something softer in you despite the teasing edge you cling to.
“You're still hard,” you murmur, shifting your hips experimentally and feel him twitch inside you. He groans, low and needy, burying his face in your shoulder.
“Can’t help it,” he admits, voice muffled. “You feel too good. Like... I don’t want to stop. Ever.”
The confession hangs there, vulnerable and raw, and you can’t resist poking at it.
“Aw, puppy,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair.
He nips at your collarbone in retaliation, but there’s no bite to it. “You like it,” he says, confidence peeking through the desperation. “The way I beg. Admit it.”
You huff, but your body betrays you, clenching around him again. He takes it as an invitation and starts to rock slowly, shallow thrusts that keep him seated deep. It’s lazy and sensual and builds up friction without urgency.
“Maybe,” you concede breathlessly, hands guiding his head. “But don’t think it makes you special.”
“Liar.” He chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending tingles down your spine.
His pace picks up slightly, one hand sliding down to where you’re joined, thumb circling your oversensitive clit. You gasp, the pleasure sharp after your orgasm, but he doesn’t stop, drawing out whimpers you can’t suppress.
The room fills with the soft sounds of your shared breaths, the wet slide of him moving inside you, the occasional creak of the bed. He kisses up your neck, lips brushing the edge of the blindfold.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you whisper, turning your head to capture his mouth.
The kiss is slower this time as you focus on simply exploring and memorising his taste. He pulls back eventually to sit up and change the angle, hooking your legs over his shoulders. The stretch is deeper like this, his cock hitting new spots that make you moan.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes. “I always thought you were but when you’re like this… fuck.”
The praise warms you and you reach for him blindly, fingers finding his chest. “Shut up and fuck me harder.”
He laughs, but obeys, snapping his hips with renewed vigor. The position lets him grind deep, balls slapping against your ass, and you feel another climax building. His hand returns to your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and you shatter again, crying out, though not with his superhero name because that feels a little impersonal.
He follows and spills with a whine, collapsing beside you this time. Now, when the darkness creeps in from the edges, it’s not because you’re making the conscious decision to keep your eyes closed. The afterglow lures you to sleep and he holds you throughout it all.
But Spiderman—no, Gojo—lies there with his heart still refusing to slow, greed silent for only a moment but never truly gone. His fingers trace absent patterns over your back as if committing every inch of you to memory like the repetition might somehow make this enough. As if this version of the night, this version of you, can be folded up and hidden somewhere safe for later.
Because he knows, even now, that this is the only way he gets to have you.
Not in daylight, not with your eyes open and knowing. Not as the boy who sits two rows away and grins when he beats everyone to the answer. Not as Gojo, all sharp edges and arrogance and every stupid mistake he’s made with you piling up behind him like a wall.
He presses a kiss to your hair before he can stop himself.
It is a stupid thing to do, indulgent and dangerous, but there is no one here to catch him at it, no one but the sleeping girl in his arms who doesn’t know the shape of his face and trusts him anyway. That makes it worse, makes his heart hurt so badly he has to take in a shuddering gasp to calm it, if only slightly.
As Spiderman, you had pulled him inside your room by hand. As Spiderman, you had touched his face with your eyes closed and trusted what you found there. As Spiderman, you had kissed him like you meant it, let him close enough to hear the soft wrecked sounds you make when you say his name.
It should feel like a victory. Some ugly, secret part of him has wanted this for too long not to recognise the shape of triumph when it finally arrives. And yet it settles strangely in his chest, tangled up with something meaner and sadder.
He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today.
His throat tightens.
You shift against him again, this time with a sleepy little sigh, and his eyes close at once. If he were better, he thinks, he would leave now before the night can twist this into something cruel, before staying turns this into something impossible to explain later. Before morning puts light on all the parts of him that he intentionally leaves in the shadows away from your gaze.
He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today.
But Gojo is a weak man so he stays.
Long enough for your breathing to deepen fully and for your body to grow loose and heavy with sleep beside him. Long enough that he starts to imagine, against all reason, what it would be like if he didn’t have to move at all. If he could still be here when your eyes opened. if he could watch you wake and let himself be seen, just once, just enough to catch the flicker of emotion across your face. Would you be happy? Mad? Disappointed?
But the universe is rarely this forgiving and patient, and he eventually pulls himself up on his elbows.
You’re still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow now, hair spilled across the sheets, mouth parted slightly on a soft exhale. The sight of you unguarded in such a way makes something ache low and hopeless inside him. There’s a mark near your collarbone he has to drag his gaze away from before he becomes truly pathetic.
“Don't do this to me,” he whispers, though whether he means you or fate or himself, he isn’t sure.
Obviously, no one answers him.
It would be easier if you weren’t like this. If you were messy or careless or cruel in your sleep. If you took up too much space, kicked him in that old wound that still refuses to heal. If you snored. If you drooled on the pillow. If there were anything in the world that made leaving you here feel less like carving something out of himself with his own hands and leaving it on the pillow next to your head.
But there isn’t. So Gojo leans down and presses one last kiss to your temple.
Before he goes, he stands beside the bed for one suspended moment, looking down at you with all the wretched fondness he never manages to contain well enough.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers softly.
Then he’s gone, slipping back through the window into the thinning dark before dawn.
Morning comes gently.
You wake slowly, feeling the ache of too little sleep and something duller lower down, soothed by the warmth trapped under your blanket. It’s a gloomy day outside and faint grey light slips in through the curtains. For one sweet, stupid second, the memory of the night before reaches you before your eyes properly open, and your mouth almost curves with it.
You reach out to touch him and find nothing.
Your eyes snap open.
“Spiderman?”
The name sounds ridiculous in the morning quiet.
The space beside you is empty, no lingering body heat, no weight in the mattress, no messy shape of someone else, just rumpled sheets and a half-opened window blowing a chill into your room. It all looks so unbearably ordinary for a place where your life had felt, only hours ago, like it was tilting into something secret and miraculous.
Something strange moves through you then, too tangled to name cleanly. The first is an easy one to decipher, disappointment, sharp and immediate. Then embarrassment, because some soft foolish part of you had expected to wake up and find him still there. Perhaps not unmasked, maybe not staying forever, but at the very least there to share the same sense of sheepishness you feel. Enough to prove last night hadn’t been a beautiful, selfish thing borrowed from the dark.
You reach out and smooth your hand over the cold sheet once, as if you might find traces of your common sense there and regain some rational thought.
It doesn’t, to no surprise. All it does is confirm what you already know.
Your bed is empty.
Has the sun always felt so good on his skin?
Gojo swings through the city as he does every morning. It’s a habit that comes from the obligation, something Geto had said in passing about the responsibilities of being a superhero—or something. Satoru never really listens when Geto scolds him and he certainly doesn’t care enough now to pull those words to the surface.
His morning patrols are little more than a guilty pleasure anyway. To be above the city made everyone else seem like ants, feeble things that needed saving every minute of every day. But it’s fine.
Because speaking of guilt, that’s what he should be feeling right now. But he doesn’t. In fact, Satoru is having a rather fine and dandy day.
He high fives the police chief when they start scolding him on the mess of webs he left behind during the car chase. He tips the convenient store cashier when he pays for his energy drink, forgoing the whole ‘leave the store and then web cash to the worker’s chest’ bit that he always does. He smiles at the senior citizens when they eye him even though he knows the gesture won’t show through the mask.
He finger guns the kids as they ride by in scooters and bulky, too-big helmets. He graciously rescues a balloon from a tree. He pets a dog on the way to class.
His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jacket that he wears to keep away the winter chill, the new personal phone that he got, not his work phone, and that does a really good job of extinguishing his mood.
Gojo settles down on the ground and ducks into a thin alleyway, pulling out his phone to check.
It’s a calendar notification reminding him that today was the big outing, some aquarium outing he had to beg Shoko to be invited to. Once, he had looked forward to it but now, all he can think of is the hurt in your eyes, the way your mouth falls open in soft pleasure, the slight flutter in your eyes as you arch against his—
He shoves his phone back into his pocket and hurries back to his dorm.
Ignoring Geto's casual greetings, Gojo opts to instead ceremoniously flop into his top bunk the moment he slings in through the open window.
“How was patrol?”
“Don’t ask me stupid questions.”
“Okay.” Geto looks up from his book, turning in his chair to look up at the blue and white lump. “What’s wrong with you?”
Gojo tugs off his mask, ruffling his hair as it falls messy before faceplanting back into his unmade bed. “Nothing.”
“You left the dorm beaming like everyday is just sunshine and rainbows to you, and now you’re back sulking. I wouldn’t call that nothing.” He pauses when he receives no response, before sighing. “Just make sure to ditch the attitude before we meet up with Shoko. And don’t take it out on Y/N.”
Gojo can’t help it, he chokes on his own breath. Geto , of course, notices.
“What was that sound?”
“That’s just how I breathe.”
“You don’t always sound like a kicked puppy when you’re breathing.” His roommate stands to peek over the frame of the bunk bed, raising an eyebrow when he’s met with Gojo's devastated state. “Is this about your tragic loss to Venom? Look, he’ll come back and you’ll get another shot at being a good superhero, I promise.”
“It’s not that.”
“Is it Y/N then?”
Gojo lifts his head just enough to give him an incredulous look. “How did you…?”
“I saw what you were reposting on Tiktok.”
Gojo flops onto his back, hands over his face, feet kicking about in frustration. “God, even when she’s not around she drives me crazy!”
“Not that I’m not super sympathetic about your situation, but maybe it’s not the best idea to freak out about your normal civilian life when you’re Spiderman-ing. It’s better to keep those things separate, you know?”
Gojo grabs his pillow and shoves it over his face.
“Was that an agreement or an act of rebellion? Satoru, I’m serious. You can’t mix your personal life and your superhero activities together.”
He stays quiet, or maybe he’s suffocated himself. Gojo kind of hopes it’s the latter if it’ll save him from telling the truth.
Geto shakes his shoulder. “Dude, stop moping. We have that thing to go to and Shoko won’t be happy if you flake.”
Gojo remains limp and after a few more shakes, Geto frowns with the tiniest hint of worry.
“Okay, out with it. What did you do?”
At this, Gojo finally turns his head to look at his roommate mournfully. A slow, sinking sensation of dread drops in Geto's stomach as he searches this thin glimpse of his roommate’s face.
“Please tell me you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“How bad? Does she know?”
Gojo lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Worse.”
“You kissed her.”
“Worse.”
Geto's mouth drops open. “You fucked her? Satoru, what the fuck?”
“I don’t know, okay, it just happened!”
Geto pulled his hand back as if burnt. “Just happened? These things don’t just happen! Sex doesn’t just happen!”
Gojo groans into his pillow. “We were both consenting adults in this, Suguru, it’s not a big deal!”
“That’s not the issue! She doesn’t know who you are, Satoru!”
“I know that!”
“Do you? Because if you did I don’t think you would have done that!” He runs a hand through his hair. “How does she not know?”
“She kept her eyes closed,” Gojo says.
“You kinky bitch.”
“It was the only way she wouldn’t see!”
“Really? Because I can think of other ways. Have you considered the tactic of just not fucking her in the first place?”
Gojo frowns as if in genuine thought before shaking his head.
“Hell. This is my superhero. We’re all fucked.”
“Suguru, you have to help me.” Gojo sits up, head ducked slightly so as to not hit his head on the ceiling above. “I fucked up okay, I know I did. But it’s complicated, alright? Y/N and I aren’t… good right now. I thought we were and then I dropped my phone and then we fought and now she’s blocked me on everything. Even Linkedin. And Spotify!”
“Satoru, I help you with Spiderman stuff. I help you with last minute homework deadlines because you were too busy saving the world. I help you with lying to our friends about why you disappeared during a bathroom break for an hour that doesn’t involve emptying your guts into a toilet. I’m not helping you when you fumble a girl.”
“But what if I fumbled her because I’m Spiderman. I feel like that counts, right?”
Geto turns and drops himself into his chair, the seat turning slightly at the momentum until he plants his feet down. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You still haven’t told me what happened.”
“Y/N and I broke up.”
“You weren’t dating.”
“A friendship break up then. A situationship break up.”
“Fine, whatever you want to call it. What even happened? Because every time we talked about her before that it sounded like things were going well.”
“Things were going well. I almost kissed her like, five times. The sixth time would have definitely been the charm.”
Geto makes a face.”I feel like that’s an indication that things aren’t going well, but okay.”
“Anyway, remember when venom showed up a few days ago and I broke my phone?”
“And how you were knocked out for a night? I remember.”
“Right well,” Gojo takes in a deep breath that indicates he’s about to ramble, “because I broke my phone I wasn’t able to tell her something came up and I wouldn’t be able to make the presentation. I only woke up after we had to present, meaning she had to do it herself and now she hates me because she thinks I don’t take her seriously. and I can’t clarify that I do take her seriously because, again, she blocked me on everything. She also unadded me on every Google Doc she shared to me.”
“Damn, she’s serious.” For a moment, Geto seems genuinely apologetic. “That sucks man, I’m sorry you were cockblocked by Venom.”
“Well, it comes with the powers and responsibility and all that.” Gojo falls back onto his bed, starfished as far as his limbs can go before they hit the sides of his bunk bed. “You always have a solution to everything. Can’t you fix my love life too?”
“I can’t perform miracles, dumbass.”
“That's not your line. You’re meant to be sympathetic and helpful. Do you even care about me?”
“No,” Geto says mournfully. “Unfortunately you’re the only one saving our city these days so I kind of have to stick around to make sure you don’t mess that up.”
Gojo grabs his Agumon plushie and throws it down over the side of the railing. He doesn’t have to look over the edge to know it hit its target. “I’m serious, Suguru.”
Geto catches the plushie with ease and gives it a pat on its head, placing it gently on his lap. “I’m serious too. Maybe this is a good thing. I keep telling you that you have to keep your superhero life and your boring, normal person life separate. This just shows you what happens when you don’t do that.”
“Woah, thank you, Mr sunshine and rainbows.”
“Life isn’t sunshine and rainbows.”
“It is when you have the eyes to see it,” he sighs dramatically. “Is it too much to ask that I can just be Satoru and Spiderman without losing anything?”
There’s something in Gojo's voice that makes Geto pause. Maybe it’s the lack of that whiny tilt to his cadence, maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoved his face into another plushie on his bed, voice muffled and hiding the desperate sound.
Geto wants to tell him the truth, that if the world was good and just he could be every side of him, that he shouldn’t have to pick between being a weapon for the city’s safety and an actual person with hopes and dreams and wants. Geto wants to tell him that he shouldn’t have to pick being a superhero over being a person, but he can’t tell him that. Because as the world stands right now, Gojo simply can’t have both.
“There's still that outing,” Geto finds himself saying. “Look, it sounds like you really hurt Y/N but she’s not unreasonable, you know that. I’m sure if you talk to her you can clear things up. Or just apologise now that time has settled.”
Gojo shuffles a little and sits up to look down at his roommate. "Weren't you just telling me I shouldn’t mix personal and work life?”
“You see Spider-Man as work?”
“Answer my question, man.”
Geto sighs. “The part of me that just wants to make sure you’re not hurt doing this whole superhero thing wants to tell you that. But the part of me that’s your friend doesn’t. It sucks that in this world no one can be their genuine self. But I mean it when I say that I want to see you happy and if you’re happy with Y/N then I hope things work out between the both of you.”
No one says anything for a while. Geto looks up.
“Dude, what did you eat today to make you sprout all that feelings bullshit?” Gojo mimes throwing up.
Geto rolls his eyes, grabbing the plushie on his lap to throw it back up at him. Gojo catches it, his Spiderman instincts never letting him down, and when he puts it down on his bed, he’s smiling.
“So, any tips?”
“Just be yourself.”
“I was and look how everything turned out.”
Geto hums. “Then maybe let’s start with your wardrobe. If you’re going to win Y/N back, you can’t show up to the function wearing the same one shirt.”
The aquarium is a shitty place to take someone you’re no longer on speaking terms with.
It seems even the fish have figured out how to move around without touching. Silver fish turn as one body and never collide. Stingrays glide past each other like silk dragged through water. Even sharks know how to circle without making contact, all smooth instinct and measured distance, and that would be deeply meaningful if you weren’t currently trapped in a dark blue tunnel feeling like shit.
It is, Shoko had said in the groupchat three days ago, supposed to be a fun, normal outing. You should have known then that something demonic had possessed her.
The tunnel curves overhead in a long arc of glass, seawater casting wavering patterns of light over the floor and over the faces of people passing through. Children press their sticky palms to the glass, and a baby somewhere up ahead lets out a delighted shriek at the sight of some broad, ghostly thing drifting above. Couples walk slowly enough to be irritating, stopping every two steps to point things out to each other in soft voices.
The entire place is built for wonder and you are having a terrible time.
“Look,” you say from beside Shoko, pointing upward with none of the enthusiasm the gesture should probably contain, “a fish.”
“I think that’s obviously a shark,” Utahime says, squinting upward.
Geto hums, a telltale sign that he’s about to launch into his typical ragebaiting. “I’m pretty sure sharks are fish though, so what do you mean by that?”
“Oh come on, Geto. You know what I mean. There’s fish, and then there’s shark. If I say fish, no one is picturing that. They’re thinking of, like, a normal fish. Small, swimmy, not that giant thing above our heads.”
“So now we’re racially profiling fish and sharks?” Geto pauses as if in deep thought. “So then by your logic, is a stingray fish-looking fish or shark-looking fish.”
“A stingray is its own thing,” Utahime snaps. “Don’t piss me off in public.”
“Seems complicated. Not very obvious then, is it?”
On any other day, there’d be nothing more joyous than joining in and annoying Utahime. Today, however, you’re still figuring out how to move around without being touched.
“At least give yourself the chance to have a good time,” Shoko remarks from beside you, none too impressed with your sulky mood.
You know it isn’t fair to her but to say you’re in a bad mood is an understatement. Every voice only serves to grind your gears and the way people shove past you here and there makes you want to rip off your skin.
Maybe because you got approximately no sleep. Maybe because your body still feels the phantom touch of another, the roughness in his voice as he utters your name all deprived and pleading. Maybe because Gojo is still six inches to your left, all long limbs and damp shadows under his eyes, and every time the crowd bottlenecks in the tunnel, you catch the faint clean scent of his soap like he took a shower earlier this morning.
The tunnel narrows as it curves, forcing all of you into an untidy line. Shoko and Utahime end up leading, Geto just behind them, pointing out silly little things that pisses her Utahime and makes Shoko laugh. You had slowed down for all of three seconds to let a family with two children pass and made the tactical error of allowing Gojo to fall into step beside you. Now the two of you are trapped by the flow of bodies moving through the tunnel at exactly the kind of sluggish, reverent pace that grates against your frayed nerves.
Above, something glides over the glass. The baby up ahead screams again, only louder, such that it echoes down the winding tunnel.
“See, that wouldn't be a fish,” Geto is saying from up ahead.
You can hear utahime through the murmur of the crowd. “I figured.”
“Can’t be too sure.”
There's another shuffle of people from up ahead as if the presence of the stingray is a thing to fawn over, a stop-start of prams and schoolbags and a father trying to explain in a stage whisper why no, his child cannot touch the stingray, and the whole line compresses.
Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours.
You stiffen before you can even try to pretend it had no effect on you and he shifts back, creating what little space he can in a tunnel full of tourists and toddlers. You can feel his hesitation without even looking at him, that careful slouching in on himself he's been doing all day.
“Sorry,” he says quietly.
You don’t bother with a response, looking in the opposite direction as if you had suddenly gained a deep appreciation for marine life.
Shoko glances back over her shoulder to make sure she hasn’t lost either of you, and catches the way the two of you repel from each other. Her eyes flick from your face to Gojo’s, and narrow.
Great, so not only are you miserable, but now you’re probably going to get grilled.
“You two are weirdly quiet,” she cleverly deduces.
“We’re in an aquarium,” you reply. “The whole point is to be quiet and to look at the fish. Or the sharks or—whatever.”
“Are you at least having fun?” she tries again, though judging from her look, it’s clear she already has an answer in mind.
“Definitely,” you mumble at the same time Gojo says, “So much fun.”
You keep your mouth shut, refusing to look over at him. And Shoko, bless her patient heart, only tries again.
“We’re about to reach the actual shark section. You love sharks, don’t you, Y/N?”
“Partial at best.”
“Or we could divert to look at the rock pools and touch some starfish. Doesn’t that sound like fun, Gojo?”
“I guess.” He kicks at the ground, stubbornly glaring at the path.
Shoko rolls her eyes, dropping her gentle parenting act just as the tunnel begins to open up again. The two of you separate like magnets of the same charge when there’s space to move, only heightening her annoyance.
“You both are impossible! You’re acting like kids! Let’s age check real quick, how long are you two going to keep up this silent treatment act for?”
Gojo sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just drop it, Shoko? It’s really none of your business.”
“Woah,” Shoko says. “Gojo’s arrived.”
“I’m serious.” He grits his teeth. “Leave it.”
Shoko looks over at you for your input but you keep quiet, hiding your own guilt by looking away. You’re acting like a kid, you know you are, but it’s hard not to when you have this man child walking beside you.
And because Gojo has never won an argument against with Shoko, never has in the many, many years they’ve known each other, she grabs your hand and his arm and pulls you both together, positive versus positive charge be damned. You visibly flinch when his skin brushes yours, but her hands keep you together.
“I don’t know what happened between you two,” she says, “but you’re going to sort it out right here right now, you hear me? The shark section is up ahead. I don’t care what happens in there, but when you walk out of it, you’re both going to get along. Understood?”
Gojo looks up from where he’s staring at the point of contact where your bodies touch.
“I said, understood?” Shoko presses, drawing you both closer.
You grimace and relent. “Fine, fine. Just let go, won’t you?”
She doesn’t, turning her fierce gaze to Gojo. “Your turn.”
“Shoko,” he starts, but his eyes are fixed over her shoulder. “Let go.”
“I won’t until you tell me the two of you are going to start behaving like adults again."
“Shoko, seriously—”
“Gojo, I’m not letting go until—”
You let out a frustrated exhale. “Just get it over with and say that you will.”
“That’s not it.”
His voice sharpens so suddenly that the three of you freeze. His hand closes around your arm, knocking Shoko’s grip off him in one abrupt movement, and you almost wince at how tight his fingers are.
“Duck!”
Considering you’re at an aquarium and not a zoo, his words confuse you. But the word barely leaves his mouth before the world ends, or at least the tunnel does.
One moment you’re upright and irritated, and the next you’re on the slick aquarium floor with Gojo half over you, his hand clamped around the back of your head as glass bursts somewhere overhead in a noise so violent it seems to deafen you. Water follows half a second later, a freezing, roaring wall of it that slams into your legs and floods the corridor in one breathless rush.
You gasp, inhaling panic with it. For one awful second, all you can see is dark water and something silver whipping past your face so quickly you can’t process whether it’s debris or fish or some secret third option. Gojo’s arms tighten around you just before the current hits full force, shielding you from the bulk of it.
When the initial wave passes, he pushes himself up first, still braced over you, blinking the water from his eyes. “Are you okay? Actually, don’t answer straight away because then you’re probably lying. Are you hurt?”
You stare at him for half a second with your chest heaving, before snapping back into your body. “I think so. Was that enough time to seem genuine?”
“Yeah,” he says, then grabs your hand and hauls you upright with startling efficiency.
A jagged hole has been torn through the glass overhead and water is still pouring through in punishing sheets, waves upon waves lapping at your feet. You ignore it all.
“Shoko!” you shout immediately. “Utahime? Guys?”
“We’re here!” Shoko’s voice comes from somewhere to your right, thin through the alarms and the water. “We’re all okay!”
Through the flashing red light and beyond a rush of water you can’t imagine brushing past, you spot them.
Shoko has one arm around Utahime’s waist and the other braced against the wall, her hair plastered to her face by spray. Utahime is upright, but only just, one hand pressed over her calf where blood is already mixing into the water in thin red ribbons. Suguru is beside them, shoving a fallen display sign out of the way so a knot of panicked visitors can force themselves toward the nearest exit.
“We’re fine!” Geto yells. “Utahime got cut by the glass, but she can walk. We’re heading for the side stairs.”
Shoko twists back, catches sight of you and Gojo still standing there, and immediately cups her hands around her mouth. “What are you two doing? Move! I paid money for this outing and frankly I’d like at least four of us to live!”
Before either of you can answer, something booms deeper in the aquarium hard enough to rattle the glass beneath your feet. All around you, people are still trying to push toward the exits in a mess of uncoordinated panic. One aquarium staff member is shouting for everyone to stay calm in a voice already fraying at the edges and there’s a child sobbing somewhere to your right. Another tank further down the hall has cracked into a spiderweb of fractures that spread wider with every violent thud from beyond.
Gojo tenses, sensing something you can’t before he turns to you, hands on your shoulders. “Get to the exit.”
“Right, okay,” you say automatically, already reaching for his hand to drag him with you. Your fingers slide around his wrist and tug. “Come on.”
He doesn’t move.
You look back at him. “What are you doing?”
“You go with them,” he says, already looking past you toward the ruined hall. “I’ll follow after you.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Um, no?”
Your voice comes out louder than you mean it to, sharpened by the cold and the adrenaline and the immediate, furious certainty that no, absolutely not, you are not doing this with him again. Not here, not now, not when the floor is flooding and the walls are breaking and he still thinks he can look you in the face and say I’ll follow after like you were born yesterday.
“Do you have a death wish?” you demand. “Come on, the water is rising!”
“Look, I can handle myself.” His fingers tighten once against your shoulder, almost pleading. “I know what I’m doing so just wait outside. Don't worry about me and go.”
It is such a stupid thing to say that for a second you can only look at him.
Don’t worry about me.
As if that has ever worked. As if you haven’t spent weeks trying to ignore him and failing every single time. As if he hasn’t somehow made himself your problem since the moment he had called your grade out in the middle of that irrelevant tutorial room.
You glare at him, at his stupid fluffy white hair gone damp at the edges, at the thick-framed glasses he always pushes up his nose when he starts rambling about something ridiculous, at the stupid blue eyes that seem to shift colour with his mood and are now fixed on the corridor behind you instead of properly on you.
“I can’t,” you say.
His head snaps back to yours. “What?”
“I can’t just ignore you.” The words come out thinner than you want them to, but there’s no taking them back now. “I’ve tried and I just can’t.”
“This isn’t the time for that,” he says, brows furrowed in that way he gets when he’s annoyed.“Don’t be ridiculous, you could get hurt.”
“You could get hurt.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” you scoff before looking back at him. “You know what your problem is?”
He rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Oh, here we go. Tell me, tell me what my problem is—”
“Oh, I will. I’ll tell you what your fucking problem is—”
“Oh yeah, you’ll tell me? Cause you know me better than I know myself?”
“Someone has to,” you snap, stepping toward him, daring him to take a step back. “Because clearly you’ve got no clue what you’re doing. Not with this, not with women, certainly not with me.”
He exhales. “Yeah? Well, you’re stuck up and impossible to control and you piss me off.”
“Are you a kid? You sound so dumb right now—”
A crash tears through the corridor hard enough to shake the ground beneath your feet and whatever insult you’ve both had gearing up immediately dies. You both look toward the corridor then to each other.
“Probably not the best time for this,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s shelf this for later.”
“I’m still not going to ditch you so get that through your thick skull and whatever vast air bubble hugs your brain.”
For one ridiculous second, despite the alarms and the flooding and the horrifying sounds of public infrastructure being turned inside out, Gojo actually looks like he wants to laugh.
“Did you just call me an air head?” he asks, the words breathless and almost fond. “You’re never going to make things easy for me, are you?”
You shoot him an incredulous look. “People are dying, Satoru. Lock in. What’s the plan?”
He shakes his head like a dog.
“Okay,” he says, back in motion now, words quick and sharp and all business because he clearly doesn’t trust himself to stay in the other mode any longer. “New plan. We get everyone we can to the exit, and then if you still want to tell me what my problem is, I’ll stand there and let you monologue. But don’t leave my sight and don’t try to be self-sacrificing.”
“You’re telling me?” You snort. “Says the guy who was just about to run off and do exactly that.”
You brush past him, heading towards the tunnel where the sound originated.
Despite every instinct telling him to grab you and pull you out, Gojo finds himself just standing there. He’s always been weak to you, this revelation is not one that comes with any surprise. All you’ve ever really had to do was look at him—properly look at him, with that sharp little glare that says he’s annoyed you again—and some pathetic part of him was already halfway to heel, tail practically wagging. It’s degrading almost, the Spiderman, reduced to nothing but a desperate man in love, but for some reason Gojo can’t find himself hating it completely. That was just how far he had fallen.
He drags a hand through his hair and exhales sharply through his nose as he catches up behind you. The mask in his pocket feels impossibly heavy, like it knows better than he does, like it’s already calling him toward the moment he’s been putting off for too long. But he doesn't yet, and settles instead for following behind, every muscle bracing for the second this goes wrong.
You are having much less sophisticated thoughts.
You wonder to yourself as you trudge through the ankle deep water, what the fuck are you doing?
Your shoes are full of cold, disgusting salt water and what is, realistically, probably fish shit, when the safe outside had been right there within reach moments ago. You could have left. You could have gone with Shoko and Utahime and Geto and let the staff and the police and whoever else handles aquarium disasters deal with the rest. Instead, you had willingly walked back into where disaster struck. And for what? A boy?
Well, you think. At least you have the experience of fighting off two villains now. One and a half. Okay, more like two halves. That made one. So you’ve had one (1) moment of experience. That was enough, right?
“Don’t worry,” you tell Gojo, noticing his uncharacteristic silence. “If anything happens, I’ll protect you.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but whatever smart thing he had lined up dies the second the tunnel widens into the main shark gallery.
A man in a torn aquarium polo staggers through the burst corridor with black slick crawling up one arm and along the side of his throat, jerking in wet, ugly pulses under the emergency lights. A member of staff, who looks maybe nineteen and one bad shift away from quitting forever, is trying to wave people toward the side exit while very obviously trying not to cry.
Gojo is already moving, ignoring the way the room shudders when the symbiote host slams his fist into a pillar.
“I’m going to distract it so the people have time to get out of here. Stay here or go help them but do not get in the way.”
He doesn’t check to see if you’ll agree before grabbing the nearest floating wet floor sign and hurling it at the man’s face with a pitcher’s accuracy. It smacks the figure’s shoulder and bounces away harmlessly, but it does the important thing.
The ex-aquarium staff turns toward him and subsequently, you.
“Okay,” you mutter, already moving. “Looks like you’ve got it from here!”
The host makes a low, distorted sound, half growl and half wet static, and barrels toward Gojo with one blackened arm swelling grotesquely around the elbow. Gojo ducks the first swing, grabs the edge of an overturned brochure stand, and yanks it into the path of the next. It shatters immediately, but the delay buys the nearest cluster of trapped visitors just enough time to break into motion.
You hurry to the sobbing staff member, a girl with her short black hair tied to one side, two hair clips holding her bangs away from her eyes. “Hey, hey, it’s okay! Just think of all the hazard pay you’ll get after this. For now, grab those two and head to the side exit.”
She blinks at you, tears still flowing freely down her cheeks, but eventually nods. “What about you?”
You jab a thumb behind you. “I’m kind of stuck here with this idiot. Now hurry.”
Behind you, there’s a huge crash followed by Gojo saying, “You know, this is why no one likes staff team building exercises. There’s always one guy who takes it too far.”
The villain seems to not enjoy Gojo’s commentary because it roars. You turn in time to see Gojo skid sideways through the floodwater, one hand catching the low railing to keep from going down entirely. The black slick lashes for him again and misses, carving a line of ugly cracks through the decorative panel behind him instead.
It’s not hard to tell that Gojo is losing and in fact, you’d be severely deluded if your nerd situationship sort-of close friend would win against a seemingly inhuman sentient black goo. At least he isn’t losing without dignity. He makes valiant attempts to shove the thing back a step, ducking under a swing only for the next to catch him high in the shoulder and throw him sideways into the viewing rail.
Your heart drops to your ass quick, watching as Gojo drives himself back upright with a wince and a desperate glare for you to stay there.
The symbiote host lurches toward him again, blackened arm distending with a wet, horrific ripple.
Your brain finally catches up.
Okay. Okay, think.
You have seen this stupid black goo twice before now, which feels like two times too many. The first time, you used a fire extinguisher. The second, the steam wand from the cafe had done enough to make the goo retreat. So this thing clearly does not enjoy pressure or heat.
You spin in place, eyes skittering wildly over the wrecked shark gallery.
There’s debris everywhere, broken signage, upside down benches and a cardboard cutout of some mascot shark swims past you in ankle deep water. There’s a staff-only closet near the back, more brochure stands, maps on the wall, when your eyes finally see it. There, near the entrance of the tunnel, is a thick industrial hose line feeding into one of the side filtration systems, its pressure valve mounted low on the wall, bright red against the blue gloom.
One of the sanitation steam lines that run along the upper maintenance track has ruptured where debris struck, hissing softly in the rumble of the crumbling aquarium. White vapour coughs out in fitful bursts, weak now but still there.
“Satoru!”
He glances your way at the exact second the host slams him in the chest, sending him skidding through the water on his back. You wince. “Oh, sorry. Whenever you have the time.”
“I’m fine,” he chokes out, rolling out of the way in time to avoid a second blow. “Thanks for asking.”
You splash toward the pressure valve, shoes slipping against the tiles. “Shut up and use the environment! There’s a pressurised line here and steam up there. You’re just going to have to trust me on this one but I think I have an idea!”
The host, as if sensing your plan, turns towards you. Gojo curses, any sarcasm vanishing in an instant.
“No! Don’t get closer!”
“Too late!” you yell back, already grabbing the valve wheel. “You’re getting your ass beat, Satoru, I’m not going to stand here and just let your ego handle it!”
He rises to his feet, running to you though in the water, it’s only a pathetic sloshing that almost gives you the ick. “My ego? And you think your pride will handle it any better?”
No.
“Yes!”
You wrench at the valve and, because your life has always been full of miracles and good fortune, nothing happens.
The host lunges in your direction again. Gojo catches him from the side, arm hooking around his neck for one desperate second before the black slick ripples up and flings him off. He crashes shoulder-first into the low barrier by the shark viewing glass.
He gasps and coughs, eyes blearily finding yours. “Get—get out of here. Now, Y/N.”
“I’m not giving up.” You brace one foot against the wall. “No pressure, literally.”
You yank at the wheel again but nothing still happens. There’s got to be a safety catch, a pin or latch or something. Your eyes dart over the assembly frantically even as the figure draws itself back on its legs.
“Y/N!” Gojo calls out again, water sloshing around his body as he tries to follow.
Your eyes skim frantically over the valve housing, over rusted bolts and warped metal and a tangle of pipes slick with spray, until they finally catch on a metal locking pin bent half-flat against the side.
Without another thought, you lunge for it and wrap both hands around the pin.
Behind you, there’s a sharp, ugly sound—Gojo sucking in a breath through his teeth—followed by the violent splash of him slamming back into the host. You risk a glance over your shoulder just in time to see him catch the thing by the arm, twist with the momentum, and drive a punch into its face hard enough to make black slick spray across the floodwater.
Pulse spiking, you put your whole weight into the pin. And finally, it gives all at once, slipping free so suddenly you nearly fall backward into the floorwater.
“Got you!” you hiss at the valve before throwing yourself against the wheel.
This time, it turns. The line shudders to life with a deep, violent thump and water pressure surges through the pipes hard enough to rattle the wall.
“Satoru!” you shout, looking up wildly. “To your left! Bring him here!”
He turns his head fast, sees the line, sees you, and somehow understands immediately despite looking one bad hit away from passing out. You suppose he isn’t a genius for nothing.
Gojo stands with more purpose, moving in a tight arc through the floodwater, letting the thing follow. His movements are messier than they should be, attributed to the wounds he’s sustained. You can see it every time he favours his right side, every time his mouth tightens with every dodge.
But he still keeps moving, still keeping the thin on him, keeping it away from you. Trusting your ridiculous plan that was concocted in under a minute.
“Come on,” he calls, breathless and taunting all at once. “Come on and get me, you big ugly thing. I’ve had worse nights.”
The host lunges under the broken steam line.
“Now!” you shout, a command for just yourself really, and crank the pressure line open fully.
A brutal blast of high-pressure water erupts across the gallery and catches the host broadside, slamming into its blackened shoulder and neck with enough force to wrench it half off its feet. At the same time, a fresh burst of steam hisses from overhead where the damaged line gives way under the renewed vibration. And just as you’d hoped, the black slick convulses.
It peels back in twitching bands from the host’s throat and shoulder, recoiling from the steam with an ugly, wet shiver. It starts to back away on unsteady feet.
“There!” you yell, voice cracking with triumph and panic all at once. “Again, use it again!”
Gojo doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the dangling steam pipe with both hands and yanks hard enough to shear the remaining bracket loose. The line drops lower, shrieking vapour across the host’s side.
The thing—not the man, but the thing—lets out a shrill cry, a sound so wrong it feels like it goes through your bones instead of your ears.
Gojo uses the opening immediately, slamming his shoulder into the host’s chest and driving him back into the support beam beside the shark viewing glass. The whole gallery shudders under the impact, but this time the host goes down hard, knees buckling under him as the black slick writhes and spasms under the steam.
You don’t realise you’ve moved until you’re already splashing toward him, relief making you stupid and light all at once. In your head, it should have been graceful, some dramatic run into his arms after shared survival and mutual competence. In reality, the water turns it into a pathetic, uneven waddle that Gojo, in an act of true mercy, only pretends not to notice.
“We did it!” you say, breathless and bright with adrenaline. “That was insane, but we did it. And I’m taking at least seventy percent of the credit, by the way, because without me you were just getting beaten up in a public aquarium—”
He smiles, just barely, and turns to look at you.
“Yeah,” he says, chest heaving. “I guess we—”
Something moves in the corner of his eye.
It isn’t the frantic, wild sort of movement from before, but something uglier for how deliberate it feels. A last-ditch effort. The host drags one arm free of the steam and the floodwater just enough for the black slick to surge violently down its length and gather into one long, brutal lash of muscle and tar.
It comes not for Gojo, but for you.
Gojo sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, his whole face changing before you can even register why. His mouth opens around the start of your name, warning already there, panic rising faster than the sound can leave him.
You are still a few crucial seconds behind.
By the time you catch the movement in your peripheral vision and start to turn, Gojo is already lunging forward. But the thing is too fast, the distance too wrong, and you can see the exact instant he realises he won’t make it to you in time as himself.
You turn just enough to see it.
Ah.
So this is how stupid people die.
Something white snaps through the air.
The strike jerks violently sideways before it can hit you, yanked off course so hard it slams into the side wall instead, cracking the tile with a wet, horrible impact. A scream tears from your throat, loud and sharp in the aftermath, but the thing barely registers to you now, not even when the goo gives one last shudder and forms something like a trembling fist aimed in your direction.
You don’t care about that anymore.
Instead, your eyes track the white line stretched taut across the gallery.
You follow it all the way back.
All the way to Gojo.
He stands there with his arm still half outstretched. His face is stricken with lingering panic, but there is something else there too, something like resignation, like he knows whatever happens next might end his world right here in a crumbling aquarium.
You look from his face to his wrist and then back again.
“What,” you say, finding no other words that fit the moment. “What the fuck.”
Gojo lowers his arm very slowly. Water drips from his sleeve, from his fingers, from the impossible thin connecting him to the wall beside you.
“This is not how I wanted to tell you,” he says, his voice suddenly rough in a way you recognise far too well.
The host roars, and it’s that sound that snaps both of you back into motion.
Gojo’s hand goes to his pocket and comes back with the mask—of course it’s the mask. Blue and white, worn at the edges, and, hell, maybe you’re hallucinating now, but is that still the little tear you left in the fabric that night?
He hesitates just before pulling it over his head, eyes darting back to you as he says, “Please wait for me. Just this once, please wait.”
There is no time to process the fact that his eyes look almost frightened. No time to process the fact that the voice you’ve heard in your ear and the voice that has said your name in two different ways now belong to the same infuriating man. There is really no time to process anything at all.
So, shockingly, you do the mature thing.
You nod.
“Okay,” you say, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. “Okay. Go.”
You watch as Gojo stares at you, hopeless and pleading all at once, the mask slipping over his face. But now that you’ve seen him—seen him bare and vulnerable and desperately hoping—the blue and white can no longer hide it.
Spider-Man keeps looking at you even as he slings onto the adjacent wall, the sticky material catching with a faint smack.
“I’m going to explain everything,” he says. “I promise. Just—please. Please still be here when I come back.”
He doesn’t wait for your response, not properly. Maybe because he’s worried whatever words leave your gaping mouth will be a rejection. Maybe because if he waits another second, he’ll stay here looking at you until the whole room caves in around you.
Spiderman slings out onto the adjacent wall, the web catching with a faint, sticky smack, and for one absurd second all you can think is that even upside down and half-bleeding he’s still showy.
Then he launches and whatever restraint Gojo had been fighting with until now is gone.
The host lunges towards you but you don’t flinch. There’s simply no fight in your body anymore. Not that it matters because Spiderman meets him in the centre of the gallery.
What had looked clumsy and desperate when Gojo was still trying to pass for your average citizen becomes something else entirely now that he’s abandoned his facade. His body understands the room in ways you never could, every rail, every shattered edge, every unstable surface becomes a part of him when the web attaches to it, part of the fight. He lips under the host’s first strike and plants a hand against the flood tile, driving both feet into its chest hard enough to send it skidding backward through the water.
He flicks his wrists out before the host can recover, pinning one arm to a fractured support beam, another line catching its ankle.
The black slick surges and peels away from the first web, but it's too slow. Spiderman is already gone from where he was, slinging upward into the steam and dropping back down from above with enough force to slam the hose into the floor.
The black mass writhes and lashes and tries to reform over the host’s body, but now there is no hesitation in the man fighting it, no room left for restraint. Spiderman moves with frightening precision, using every opening, every recoil, every half-second where the thing peels back under heat and sound. He webs one wrist, then the throat, then the opposite shoulder, dragging the host back into the pressure line each time he tears free. The slick recoils violently, shrieking, trying and failing to hold together.
Was it just you but did it look like Gojo was taking his frustration out on this thing?
Your mind keeps trying and failing to fit the pieces together. It all comes together anyway, the way Gojo had always disappeared at the wrong times, the way Spiderman’s voice had felt familiar even when you told yourself that was ridiculous and known things about you he couldn’t have. The way he touched you, the way the other never quite did, not completely, as if afraid of what would happen if he started.
All of it was him. Every humiliating, infuriating, impossible piece of it.
The host tears free one last time, black goo surging over his chest in a final desperate wave. But by now, it should learn that doing something over and over again is a sign of insanity because Spiderman is already there.
A webline catches high overhead and with a yank, the hanging steam pipe drops lower. Another shot takes the alarm cable and rips it loose in a shower of sparks. He drives forward, one hand wrapped around his web, the other braced against the host’s chest, and hurls him back into the flooded floor beneath the full force of the steam.
The black mass writhes and shrieks then tears free all at once. It peels from the man’s body in one final, violent shudder and streaks away through the fractured wall paneling, vanishing into the dark beyond the gallery even as Spiderman attempts to stop it.
Then the host collapses, dead.
Then nothing. Of course, not complete silence as the alarms still ring and water still drips. But between the two of you, across the room now suddenly empty of the thing that had stood there, there is a different kind of stillness.
Spiderman straightens slowly. He stands in front of the steam and the ruin and the broken shark glass, chest heaving, mask still over the face you now know too well, and even from here you can see the way his body sags just slightly under the cost of what he’s just done.
You stare at each other, the gap between endlessly vast until you decide to close it.
Your shoes drag through the floodwater, sending up ugly little splashes with every step, and by the time you reach him, any dignity you might have salvaged from the reveal is long dead and buried beneath three inches of fish water. He stands there waiting, one hand hanging at his side while the other presses hard against his ribs.
Your hands fist the front of his hoodie and he lets you.
“You are the biggest liar I have ever met in my entire life,” you say, voice trembling with the weight of everything.
Spiderman—Gojo—lets out a weak laugh. “That sounds about right.”
You yank the mask up without another word.
It catches for half a second on his nose before sliding free, damp and warm in your hand, and there he is. Just Satoru now. He’s pale, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around the hard pull of his breathing. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth and more blooming darkly beneath his hoodie where he’d been hit, but his eyes are on you and only you with that same awful, naked openness they had before he put the mask on.
“Satoru,” you say, and his name comes out rough, almost wounded.
His eyes lift to yours at once, terrified of what he might find there.
You slap him. And honestly, compared to everything he went through less than a minute ago, compared to what he deals with everyday, you’d call the slap a puny, pathetic hit. Still, the hand from his side flies up to cup his cheek, looking more startled than in pain.
“That,” you start,” is for lying to me.”
He gapes at you wordlessly.
Then all at once, the rest of it rises inside you—the fear, the relief, the horrible rush of seeing that black strike coming at you and knowing, with perfect clarity, that Gojo would throw it all away to save you, even if it meant revealing his identity.
You lift your hand again but this time not to strike. Instead, your fingers brush his jaw, trembling against the damp skin there, tracing the shape of him you thought you knew so well. You feel his pulse leap, hear his breath catch.
“This,” you whisper, steadier now that you know this is what you want, “is for saving me.”
You go up on your tippy toes, lean forward, and kiss him.
Gojo freezes, arms held out in the air as he pieces together the scene. You’re not mad, well maybe you’re mad, but you’re over that now because you’re kissing him. Wait, you’re kissing him? Then what is he doing just standing there?
A soft, startled sound escapes him, swallowed immediately by your mouth, before he’s drowning in it. The kiss turns desperate, all relief and fear and weeks of restrained feeling collapsing into one reckless, aching moment.
One wraps around your waist and the other catches at your back, hauling you flush against him with desperation. You feel the wound in his ribs in the way his body tightens, the way his breath catches sharply through his nose, but he ignores it completely, pressing you closer like he needs the proof of you there, solid and real and choosing him.
When you finally pull back, it’s only because breathing becomes a necessity again.
His forehead knocks against yours, his eyes fluttering close as he rests there, panting.
The alarms are still going off somewhere beyond the ruined gallery. Water still laps around your ankles, cold and foul and full of things you would rather not identify. Security is shouting in the distance, voices getting closer, but here, in this stupid little pocket of aftermath, the world has narrowed down to the heat of his hands on you and the shape of his breath fanning over your mouth.
When he finally opens his eyes again, he looks a little dazed. Not concussed, though probably that too.
“You kissed me,” he says, and his voice comes out low and rough and almost disbelieving. “After everything?”
You stare at him. “Do you want me to take it back?”
His hands tighten instinctively at your waist. “No!” The answer leaves him quickly before he swallows, eyes flickering over your face to gauge your response. “No, please don’t do that.”
“I’m still angry at you, you know.”
“I know.”
“You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“You kept lying to me.” You stop. “You also knew. This entire time you knew and you just played me twice over.”
He winces a little at that. “Yeah. That one’s harder to defend.”
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before climbing back to your eyes, slower this time, more careful.
“I kept thinking there’d be a better time to tell you,” he says. “A version of this where I could do it right. Then every time I almost said something, it got harder because the longer I waited, the worse it got, and I knew that. I knew I was making it worse, I just—I was scared. It was easier for me that way but I also know it was cowardly and I’m sorry.”
You nod once. “And?”
“And?” he repeats before he catches the disapproving look in your eyes and starts scrambling for more. “And… I’m sorry for—well. Actually I’m not sorry about that part.”
You hit him lightly on the arm. “Say you’re sorry for deceiving me.”
“Right, right. Sorry for deceiving you.”
“And that you won’t do it again.”
“And I won’t have sex with you in the Spiderman suit again.”
You hit him again but your mouth twitches before you can stop it, the familiarity of the banter easing the uncertainty. He catches it, of course, that tiny almost-smile, and his expression softens.
“I really am sorry,” he says again. “For all of it. The disappearing. The missed presentation. The lies. Being me, I guess.”
“Being you is, unfortunately, one of your biggest issues.” You pause, eyes flickering down to his lips. “But I think I’m willing to work around that one.”
You watch his eyes drop to your mouth in turn, watch the decision happen in him, quiet and unmistakable. He leans in first this time, just enough for his breath to warm your lips, just enough to make your pulse trip over itself—
“They’re in here somewhere!”
The shout tears through the gallery from the corridor behind you, followed immediately by the unmistakable chaos of multiple people splashing through floodwater at once.
“Please save them!”
“Utahime,” Suguru’s voice says, strained and much closer now, “if you scream at the police one more time, they’re going to leave us here—”
You jerk back so fast you nearly headbutt him and then his maybe concussion would have been a definite one.
Gojo blinks at you, dazed and breathing hard, his mouth still parted from the kiss you almost had before he too regains his senses and pulls back just enough to stop sharing the same air. Then, the both of you turn to that tunnel.
Utahime barrels into the gallery first, wild-eyed and soaked,hands cupping around her mouth as she calls your names, the wound on her leg now wrapped up. Shoko walks in right behind her with a tight expression that immediately crumbles at the scene. Geto is just behind them followed by two officers and what appears to be the entire remaining aquarium emergency staff.
You shove the mask still in your hand into your pocket, fingers fumbling once against the wet fabric, but don’t do much more to break away from the incriminating position. His hand is still on your waist, your own fingers are still hooked into the front of his hoodie, and your chest is pressed flush against his.
Shoko is the first to say something. “Well. I guess you guys did make up after all.”
“Did this happen before or after you took the crazy madman down?” Utahime says, deciding that is the most important detail to clarify.
“Are you two not done yet or should we come back in a bit?”
It’s Geto’s words that finally has you pulling apart, blushing madly and eyes looking frantically away from each other.
And when the police finally reach the two of you, shouting over one another and very tactfully ignoring your swollen lips, you feel something brush against your hand. Gojo’s fingers curl carefully around yours, warm and tentative despite everything, and, more importantly, despite the very audible snickering coming from your right where your friends have been herded aside to let the officers work, you lace your fingers through his without hesitation.
Because with Gojo’s thumb brushing against the side of your hand while an officer asks if either of you can walk unassisted, it’s hard to feel like the world is ending anymore. You had spent so long acting like meeting Gojo Satoru on March 15th at 10:12am was the beginning of your personal apocalypse. Granted, he is still infuriating and he is still a liar. But standing there in a flooded aquarium with his hand in yours and his blood on his shirt and a superhero mask hidden in your pocket, you can’t help thinking maybe you’d been a little dramatic.
Or maybe not. Maybe the world really had ended when you met Gojo Satoru. It’s just that, now that you’ve survived the aftermath, you’re starting to think the next one might be better.
a/n: PHEWW thank u for making it to the end! this has been the unwanted child in my drafts for three whole years and rewriting it was a pain considering how unfunny i was but if there’s one less lonely girl in the world then it’s worth it <3 this was a lot longer but i had to cut down for tumblr’s character limit ☹️ rip to all the shoko + utahime silly scenes and the injured spiderman scene and the lab satoru scene and the—[GUNSHOT] regardless !! shoutout to flatline as always and to all the national days we missed the deadlines to <3 see you guys on the 28th for national burger day on this fine burger month 🍔
summary: You had always heard a weird, mocking voice in the back of your head telling you that the things were going to end just like that between you and Satoru. The Prince and the Pauper. You were destined to eventually drift apart.
Or not?
tags: AU, angst to fluff, breaking and making up, classical disparities, insecurities, gojo is a certified loverboy and a yearner as usual. mdni! eventual smut, p in v sex, soft emotional sex. nobamaki cameo!
MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! PLEASE HAVE YOUR AGE IN YOUR BLOG!
word count: 13.9k
author's note: hi everyone!! this is not the oneshot i wanted to finish in may, but i had some ideas brewing for quite a long time, though the concept is not really original. happy ending won, soooo enjoy and let me know your thoughts! art in the banner by @/yamada_souko. dividers are mine.
Looking back, you realised you had never got it easy for Satoru.
The tale as old as time: the Princess and the Pauper. Or, in your case, the Prince and the Pauper.
And you couldn't put it in a better way.
Satoru Gojo — the Prince of the campus, the heir to the Gojo Enterprises, the man who would get the business world in the palm of his hand, the captain of the university basketball team, whose face was plastered all across the campus, the president of the Alpha Delta Nu, so on and so forth. You got the gist. The crowd parted before him, the Universe shifted itself to accommodate his presence: he walked in every room as if he owned it, which he pretty much did — ruling every place with a charming grin and a quick wit. Guys were wishing to be like him. Girls were dying to be beside him. He barely granted anyone more attention than needed — keeping people at arm's length, except for a couple of his friends. Of course, you didn't belong to them. Not like you desperately wanted to. You were well aware of the hierarchy of the university: people like Satoru Gojo rested at the top, eyeing the crowd down. People like you? Scrambling to get to the middle. If you were lucky enough.
One spring day, you realised that either Satoru Gojo didn't know about those unspoken rules or couldn't care less about them. Because you couldn't come up with a plausible explanation for why he suddenly started pestering you. Or, in his eyes, flirting.
It began rather innocent: him accidentally bumping into you, flashing an apologetic grin; asking for a vacant place at the cafetery at your usual table in the corner, the one where the noise cut down a little and you had a better view on the students — naturally, that place become the center of everyone's attention, because wherever Gojo was, the crowd followed; helping you to get a book from the highest shelves in the library and then crushing your study sessions; waiting for you after the classes just to walk you out to the next campus with an excuse that it was on his way (it didn't. Business majors classes were hold in the corpus 20 minutes away from yours).
At first, you politely declined every single invitation to a frat party or a match. Then you tried to ignore him, but your disinterest would even more pique Gojo's attention. After this, it turned into clipped, gritted-out "no's". You even attempted to talk to his friend, Shoko Ieiri, the girl you shared the Advanced Chemistry class with.
"I don't think there's something I can do," she would murmur, eyes firmly set on some sample through the microscope, when you turned to her as a last resort. The sigh that left your lips was truly desperate. Shoko's gaze softened a tad as she looked up finally, since your presence kept looming over her like a tiny, grumpy cloud. "Satoru can be pretty stubborn, unfortunately. Especially, when he's pretty set on something."
"Yeah," scoffing under your breath, you crossed your arms, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. "Unfortunately for me. Am I another check mark on his to-do list? I just don't get it." The pencil in your hand almost snapped from the strength of your grip.
"Listen, I am not in a position to advice your something or anything," Shoko's lab chair screeched — the sound annoyingly loud in the tense silence of the lab — as she turned to face you fully. The irritation at her words flared up in you, but you forced yourself to listen to her. If not her, then who?! "But you might try to hear him out. He's not that bad of a guy."
Grimacing at her, you turned to return to your own table. "If he's not that bad, he would've taken a hint long ago."
An indifferent shrug was the only response you got.
After talking to Shoko, Gojo's pitiable attempts at "courting" you had weakened severely until coming to a complete halt. You couldn't believe your luck. But what annoyed you even more than Gojo himself was the way you would jump at seeing the familiar spark of frosty white hair in the crowd; the way your heart would do a little flip at the sound of his distant chuckles. The way the loneliness would engulf your usual table in the corner of the cafeteria without his company: you subconsciously craned your neck to see him, for all his persona and the impossible height were impossible to miss, and slumped in your seat, when he didn't happen to stroll in with a familiar effortless grace in his stride. In the quietness of the library, after the countless hours of studying, you could basically hear the grin in his voice as he handed you a couple of blueberry muffins and the bergamot tea from your favourite bakery — you didn't have the slightest idea how he managed to find out your usual order — and tapped on your nose, remarking that you actually should eat.
Somehow, Satoru Gojo annoyed you enough to...like him. Managed to creep under your skin like an itch you couldn't get rid of.
Or… didn't want to?
***
One basketball match changed everything.
"Sorry, sorry, oh— sorry again," you mumbled awkwardly, navigating through the crowd and somehow managing to balance two beer cups on your way to your seats.
"Geez, finally, where have you been?"
Rolling your eyes at Nobara, your bestie slash roommate slash the only person who made your university life not so miserable, you handed her the cup and tried to shout through the cheerladers' voices, the endless roaring of the crowd and the music coming loud from the speakers.
"There was a line!"
"Huh? What?"
"THERE WAS A FUCKING LINE!"
She took a sip from her cup with a satisfied nod and grimaced at you. "Don't scream at me."
Her audacity stole your voice, and you slumped down in your seat, huffing rather indignantly.
"Hey, don't pout. Sorry for that." Nobara lightly elbowed your side and opened a pack of salted peanuts, offering you a truce.
"Can't believe I agreed to go with you," a light grumpiness coloured your voice as you drank from your own cup.
"Aw, that's because I am awesome and you love me so, so much," she chirped gleefully and planted a kiss on your cheek. With her head on your shoulder, Nobara sighed dreamily at the sight of Maki Zenin — the manager of the university's basketball team. "She's so cute, isn't she?"
Meanwhile, Maki gestured widely, screaming something at her phone (not very pleasant as you might assume from your seat) and threw her bag at a guy in front of her. The guy followed her figure with puppy eyes.
Your lips twitched with a barely concealed smile that you hid behind another swig. "An angel, truly."
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"
Her words fell on deaf ears because at that moment, some airy melody rang from the speakers, followed by the joyful voice of the commentators to finally announce the start of the match.
Swallowing nervously, your eyes darted across the court, and the moment your gaze landed on the tall figure with stark white hair, your heart galloped at a racing speed.
"Who are you gawking at, huh?"
Gojo might've really had the eyes on the back of his head — he wasn't called Six Eyes for nothing, some weird sixth sense that you assumed related only to the basketball court — because that very moment he turned around and briefly scanned the audience. His eyes widened in surprise as he spotted you: the bright blue of his gaze and the joyous smile that broke on his face caught you so off guard you nearly dropped the cup. Like he was happy to see you there. Actually happy.
You offered Gojo a shy wave — a subtle move of your fingers — that only made his grin wider. Then, Suguru Geto tapped on his shoulder, and he quickly turned back.
Your hand fell limply to your side.
"Babe, what the hell was that?" Nobara hissed, jerking her chin towards the players gathered around for the last guides from the coach Yaga. "Have you just casually flirted with Satoru Gojo? Don't you hate his lungs?"
The next words came in a breathy voice. "I don't know anymore."
Your knowledge of basketball was rather... limited, but you dutifully roared along with the crowd the moment your university scored yet another point. The people's excitement was contagious, seeping right into you as well and lacing your voice with joy. You booed at the judge when he gave advantages to the rivals, screamed at the top of your lungs and held your breath at the last quarter. Your team went neck-and-neck with the other, and every point was crucial. You could see it in the way the player's uniform was drenched in sweat, their hair stuck to their temples, and laboured breathing. The stakes were too high.
The scorebox showed the fifteen seconds left — mere moments for you and the whole eternity for those at the court. Your eyes drifted to Gojo, as driven to him by some unknown force. His sharp gaze quickly darted from one teammate to another, calculating the last opportunities to score. And then...it found you amidst the sea of spectators. Cheeks flushed, hair a total mess, chest expanding with deep breaths. A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he took you in. Adorable.
But for you, the moment Gojo's gaze landed on you felt completely different — resembling more of a bolt of lightning that sent every nerve in your body on fire. You couldn't hear your own thoughts with the blood pounding at your temples.
Gojo barely tilted his head, nodding towards the basket and mouthed.
"This is for you."
He dodged one guy, then the other with perfect dribbling — you barely saw anyone in their element as much as Gojo was at the basketball court — and finally went for a shot.
Time seemed to stop moving in the gym of the Jujutsu University. The hundreds of eyes watched the ball cutting through the air with an impeccable trajectory.
Until it went through the net without hitting the rim and sealed the win.
You barely released a shuddering breath when Nobara crushed you in a hug, her beer mercilessly spilling on you both, but no one gave a damn. The crowd erupted with an ecstatic cheer and rose to their feet right then and there. The commentators were on the verge of crying, judging by their voices, but your world narrowed to one particular person. Gojo's teammates ruffled his hair, patted his back, and hugged him by the shoulders; someone even put him in a playful headlock, to which he responded with a wide grin.
A tight knot in your chest slowly seemed to loosen a bit.
Gojo found you later, at the party.
You stood a little away from the crowd, watching Nobara laughing with Maki Zenin near the bonfire. The light painted her auburn hair in copper tints every time she tilted her head, and judging by the way Maki's gaze lingered on her form, she noticed that too. A little smile curled your lips at the sight of lovey-doveys.
"Your friend has a crush on Maki, huh?"
Putting a can to your lips, you mumbled absent-mindedly, "She's pretty obvious."
"They both are, actually."
A light brush against your shoulder finally caught your attention. You lazily shifted your gaze, only to gulp at the sudden proximity to Satoru Gojo.
He stood beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, watching the rest of the party unfold with a faint smirk on his face. Standing there, existing, like he wasn't the one who flipped your world upside down a couple of hours earlier.
A forced smile made your cheeks hurt as you tumbled out nervously, hastily wiping your mouth, "I am— I, I mean, congratulations! You did so great! I don't understand much about basketball, but you—," your worried your bottom lip for a second before breathing out, "you were magnificent."
At your words, Gojo finally turned around. His grin softened into a gentle smile that showcased a pair of dimples on his pale cheeks. The firelight danced on his hair strands that seemed more ivory tinged now.
"You think so?"
"I do!" A sudden feeling of boldness flooded you as you stepped forward and reached for his arm to show how sincere you were. Or maybe it was just a beer.
Gojo immediately cast his gaze down and slowly wrapped his long fingers around your wrist. You gulped, but didn't look away from his face. The gods clearly spared nothing in sculpting it, otherwise you couldn't explain the sharpness of his jaw, the plumpness of his lips and the prominence of his cheekbones.
No one had a right to be that beautiful. Satoru Gojo wasn't aware of it.
His thumb pressed just a tad against your soft skin to feel an erratic pulse beneath it, but you did not attempt to pull your hand away. On the contrary, it felt strangely...natural.
"I am glad you were there." A gentle murmur hit you harder than expected.
Breath bated, you searched Gojo's face for any hint of the usual theatrics and grandeur until you saw none.
"You are?"
"Yeah".
The words about the last shot were on the tip of your tongue already, but they quickly died at the sight of shimmering blue in his eyes as Gojo finally looked up and released your hand from his grip.
You already missed its warmth.
"Listen, I knew I was a jerk towards you. Crowding and flirting and so on. I know, I know," a self-deprecating chuckle left his lips as the ironic roll of his eyes followed. You watched every expression, soaked it like Gojo was about to disappear again from your life. "I am not proud of this, I admit. I want to apologise to you for this."
You parted your lips to answer, but Gojo cut you off with a slight shake of his head.
"But I am not going to apologise for my feelings," his voice grew stronger, rising from the gentle murmur to the steady tone, eyes boring into you with an unsettling intensity that left you speechless. The people's cheerings fade into the background, and that chilly evening, thick with emotions so deep you couldn't name them, enveloped both of you in its bubble.
"I meant everything. I do like you. I like the way you smile when you finally grasp the concept you've been studying. The way your voice goes all that animated when you talk about the book you were reading. That little sparkle in your eyes when you saw the last cherry pie in the cafeteria...I love it all. And that shot was for you. I really meant it."
"I am gonna ask you just this once, and if you reject me, I will step back and never bother you again. You have my word," the weight of Gojo's promise would almost physically pin you to the ground, if not for the desperation lurking behind his gaze, darting between your eyes and your lips. He forcefully tore it away to glance right into your face. "Will you go out with me?"
You didn't believe what you were about to say. But hey, that day was already weird enough. You offered Gojo a crooked smile. "Yeah."
"Just one date, you won't — ", he blinked in surprise, a light frown crossing his handsome face. "Wait, what?"
You stifled a laugh and nodded, stepping closer, until you felt the hard planes of his chest. "I will go out with you."
A slow, almost dopey in its joy, grin curled Gojo's lips, until a small disbelieving chuckle left him. "You will? Just like that?"
Now you couldn't contain a smile either. "Just like that, Gojo."
A whoop full of happiness cut through the air and the noise of the party that slowly came to its eventual end as Gojo swept you off your feet and twirled you in a bone-crushing embrace. Your laugh was the prettiest sound Gojo had ever heard.
"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear you won't regret it!"
Satoru Gojo kept his promise. And many others he whispered in the dead of the night to you beneath the star-spilt sky. His hand was a steady anchor amidst the stormy life that awaited both of you. His voice offered you peace of mind when the world was a little too harsh for you. His fingers traced reverently the silk of your skin every time he shared a night with you. His gaze was the first you searched for in every crowded room. His arms had become the safest place in the world.
Satoru memorised the way you organised your life, but you were more than happy when he eventually disrupted your usual order. Not because he was doing that on purpose. Rather, since that was Satoru: he was too big for your world, and you didn't want him to shrink himself into someone he wasn't. Dimming Satoru's light was the last thing you wished.
He had learnt by heart the things that even you didn't pay attention to: for example, your toothbrush always had to face the door — Satoru wordlessly turned it the way you preferred; your favourite plant was Zamioculcas that he made sure was always watered visiting you; you usually carried a few packs of wet cat food for the stray babies in your enormous bag — he ordered large boxes, so you wouldn't run out of them; your drink of choice was Margarita that you shared only while hanging with Nobara — Satoru learned on his way to pick you up; you hated the loud harsh sounds, and Satoru was the first one to whisper sweet nothings to you and rub soothing circles against the small of your back until you calm down. In other words, he made your life easier.
You, on the other hand, only added more difficulties to his. Satoru never told you that, not even mentioned in any way that you were somehow different from him. But some things didn't have to be pointed out to catch your eye.
Like his Prada glasses, which cost like your monthly rent or two. Satoru could leave them somewhere without batting an eye. Or the luxurious gifts he would get you out of nowhere just because you barely glanced at something while strolling. That warmed your heart, yes, but the cheque that Satoru couldn't care less about startled you. You stayed in the lab until you almost fainted from fatigue just to finish the project before the deadline to get an extra payment to spend on the gift, since you were adamant that the relationships were about taking and giving in equal measure. Not to mention the one social gathering he invited you to, just off-handedly, before the day it actually happened; you drained your bank account to look presentable by his side, and lived on the instant ramen the entire month after. Maybe if you had accepted Satoru's offer to live together, none of that would have happened, but you learned the hard way to rely only on yourself. Luckily, the iron argument sealed the deal: your tight schedules at the lab and his as a pro basketball player didn't match well.
The Gojo family was another... topic. While no one said anything directly to your face, you noticed the way their brows knitted in confusion for a fleeting second, eyeing you up and down. Sensed the baffled glances and fake, saccharine sweet smiles behind your back, questioning the fact of your presence. No. Your existence. The mere raise of the brow from one of Satoru's distant cousins at the sight of your shoes — the ones you borrowed from Nobara, who got them after the Fashion Week in Paris, albeit last year's Dior collection — had you doubting your entire life.
Complaining had never been on your list, though some thoughts did cross your mind. You made sure not to voice them, stoically listening to all the hushed whispers. Not once did your smile falter in front of them. It was the least you could do for Satoru. You knew he didn't have a lot of joy in standing up for you every single time, so, eventually, the gatherings got shorter, the invitations came rather rarely, and the calls, already small in number, would always leave him in a bad mood. The sound of your name appeared quite frankly between the gritted words and heated yells.
"Don't worry, baby," Satoru's lips always found the crown of your head in the reassuring kiss when you asked him what was going on. The bitterness in his voice poisoned your already tired, insecure mind even more. He was a master at hiding his emotions, but never from you. "I got this."
A strained smile — the corners of your lips lifting just barely — was your usual answer.
"Of course."
Satoru then offered you a quick grin that never reached his eyes. His large hands cradled your face in the gentle, trembling grip, and the faint murmur would twist yet another knife between your ribs. "I love you. I love you so much. You know that, right?"
Leaning into Satoru's palm like a kitten, seeking warmth, you bit inside of your cheek not to cry. Your hand came up to cradle his hand against your cheek just to memorise the way it perfectly engulfed your face.
"I love you."
Not to dwell on the way you voice cracked, akin to ice beneath one's feet, you simply moved forward to capture his lips in a kiss, until all you could taste were tears. Yours, his... Did it matter anymore?
And then, under the pale moonlight coming from the lone crescent peering right into the bedroom of his large penthouse, your gaze drifted unabashedly over Satoru's face, taking in every flutter of the long, snowy eyelashes. Every breath that left his lips. Every faint twitch in his expression, and even every tiny snore. Your finger tenderly traced the bridge of Satoru's nose, making its way to the perfectly sculpted mouth and down to the sharp cut of his collarbones. Committing each pale freckle and beauty mark to memory.
For you knew that night would be your last one.
Satoru loved you, and you loved him. He loved you fiercely, with the force so burning it could rival the Sun itself. It was only fair for you to step back and let him shine. Not to drive another wedge between him and his family. You loved Satoru enough not to burden him with your presence. He should soar up in the sky, not stay chained on the ground by the dead weight of you and waste his time knocking some sense into his parents.
A muffled sob escaped your throat as you pressed a small kiss between his collarbones. The next thing you felt was Satoru's strong arm curling around your waist to pull you against his strong chest. The faint smell of musk still clung to his skin, but you had never revelled in it as you did now.
"Why aren't you asleep, baby? Something's wrong?" Satoru's voice came in a deep, throaty tone that would usually have your toes curling.
The edge of the blade dug deeper into your heart, drawing blood.
"Nothing, love. Just some weird thoughts, that's all."
A boyish grin adorned his face — so handsome even in the middle of the night — as he lightly flicked your forehead.
"Your head will hurt from all the overthinking. Head so tiny, yet so many thoughts. Come here," Satoru let a shuddering yawn and tucked your head under his chin, nuzzling gently against your hair. "Better?"
Biting on your lip, you prayed to all the gods that Satoru wouldn't hear the tremble in your voice. The steady beat of his heart lulled you to sleep, but you knew you wouldn't close an eye that night. "Yes."
"Try to sleep, okay?" Satoru's finger came to play with a lone strand of your hair. The smile in his voice was evident. "And if you don't, just wake me up. We can talk or watch that documentary you mentioned earlier. I mean, did Tyra really not take any accountability?"
You gathered any ounce of your strength not to fall apart right then and there.
"Of course, Toru. Go to sleep now."
He sighed in mock exaggeration. "Always so bossy."
His chest rose steadily under your cheek. His skin felt warm under the weight of your palm. You registered it all subconsciously, clinging to every part of Satoru.
And only when his breath fully evened, you allowed yourself to whisper to the night.
"I love you. And I am so sorry."
***
You sincerely thought you were a nice girlfriend for scheduling your breakup over the weekend. Waited until Satoru finished showering and emerged all smiley and happy from the bathroom. Waited until he recalled all the TikToks he sent to you in the early morning, not even knowing you already had blocked him on all the socials. Waited until he dug in the last breakfast you cooked for him — fluffy pancakes with strawberry jam.
"Babe, this is so delicious," Satoru hummed, pointing a fork at you. "Are you sure you didn't wanna become a chief? I mean, this is the gift from the heavens."
"I think we should break up."
Satoru paused mid-way, mouth still open. He slowly closed it and heaved a hollowed chuckle, chewing on the pancake with more force than necessary. "Very funny, sweets. An excellent joke."
Straightening in the seat, you furrowed your brows in confusion. Weren't you clear enough?
"I said we should break up."
That time, Satoru finally stopped chewing and slowly lifted his gaze at you. The electric blue pierced deep in your soul as he pressed again, "And I said it was an excellent joke."
"Satoru," the movement of your throat was sharp as you fumbled with words. "I am not joking."
The desperate flex of his fingers caught your attention immediately when Satoru curled them into a fist before taking a deep breath. The smile that carved into his lips was as sharp as the knife.
"Care to explain why?"
A thousand thoughts twirled in your mind those days like a restless whirlpool, each of them seemingly worse than the previous: "I don't love you anymore", or "You suffocate me with your love", and the traitorous "I cheated on you."
All of them lie, of course.
So, you settled on offering Satoru the least you could do — the truth.
"We just don't work out, Satoru. It's better to break up before — "your voice was so tiny and fragile, Satoru thought he was hallucinating: his worst nightmare coming to reality, " — things get more serious."
The loud, screeching sound of the chair being pushed away, followed by a self-deprecating, disbelieving laugh, filled the room. You glanced up at Satoru only to find him pacing around like a caged animal. Your words punched him right in the gut.
"We don't 'work out?' Before 'things get too serious', huh? Sweets, that's gotta be a joke. The most shitty, not funny and cruel joke you have ever pulled on me, but okay," he nervously carded his fingers through the white hair, before walking to you. "Tell me this is it. Please."
You cast your gaze down, not able to see the way his eyes frantically searched your face for any hint of a joke and hear the crack in his voice, usually so steady and certain. A rock, a lighthouse in your stormy ocean.
The shake of his hands was violent as they came up to frame your face. You choked on a heavy sob, trembling like a leaf with the tears blurring your eyes so hard you couldn't see anything.
"But we were —, are working just fine. Have I done something wrong? Is it because of me? Just tell me what to do, I swear I'll fix everything!"
"It's not about you, Satoru. Never has been. It's about me."
His white brows furrowed in confusion. "You? What about you? But you are perfect for me," he chuckled almost tenderly — a small sound frayed around the edges — that only ripped your heart out. "You listen to all my stupid jokes, know how many sugar cubes I put in my coffee, and put the curtains down because you know how sensitive my eyes are. You stayed with me at the hospital after the injury and cheered for me the loudest." His voice rose just a tad to coax a smile from you. "You have never told me how to be someone I am not. Always seen me, not the Gojo heir. Not the star player. How can it be about you? No one in the world knows me as well as you do. Like —," his gaze swept across the room like something might've helped him to talk you out, "like your last Christmas gift, huh? That premium card you swore you just stumbled upon in the store, but I knew better how much it — Wait."
Satoru's smile slowly died as the realisation downed at him like a wicked joke of fate. "No, no, no, no. That can't be it. Is that because of money? My status? I told you countless times that it doesn't matter to me! What I have is yours." His voice dipped into the fragile, almost sacred warmth that he reserved only for you. "All I have is yours."
You couldn't do that anymore. Not even in the wildest thoughts did it occur to you that breaking up with Satoru would hurt that badly. It rather resembled a never-ending torture.
He never understood it. Growing up in a family that barely made ends meet. Pouring your blood, sweat and tears into studies to get a tuition fee waiver, because there wasn't any other option for you to get into the university. Scraping by taking double shifts at the cafe. Fighting tooth and nail over the place in the chemistry lab.
And never would.
Pushing Satoru away, you closed your eyes in defeat before forcing yourself to look back at him. He didn't dare to mutter a word, watching your face twist with pain as you shouted.
"It matters to me! It matters to me, Satoru, how fucking inferior I feel next to you!"
Something in his gaze faded away. He didn't recognise his voice when it came in a short, fractured breath, devoid of all strength.
"What?"
A violent sob rattled your frame as you hid your face in your palms. You cried and cried and cried until your chest tightened with pain, and you managed to utter hoarsely. "Every time I get into your home, or every time someone sees me besides you, I want to run and disappear into the cave. Don't you see that, To — Satoru?" No. He wasn't your Toru anymore. "I am like, dunno, a disastrous glob of ink on Monet's painting. A patch of dirt on the Versace gown. A bling-bling amidst Graff's and Harry Winston's. Well, you get it. Something to wipe away or hide in the closet. Someone who doesn't deserve to stand by your side."
"I don't get it," Satoru dragged his hands over his face and shook his head, letting out a humourless laugh. His eyes flashed with a weird gleam. "Did my parents or anyone at that point say something to you? Because if they did, I fucking swear —"
"No one said anything to me, Satoru! It doesn't matter. Because they say it to you —"
"And as I said, I don't care — "
"BUT I DO!" The rise of your voice to a frenzied cry startled both of you. Satoru stared at you with a gaze so desperate that a kiss of the gun would've been more merciful. You fiercely wiped your snotty nose — hell, you must've looked so ugly — and walked over to cup his face. He watched your every move as if you were about to disappear. In a way, you were going to.
"I do not want anyone to say something about me to you. I do not want you to fight with your family over me. I want you to be happy. Do not be torn between me and the world you belonged to."
Satoru wanted to shake you by the shoulders just to knock some sense into your head, scream and shout what a total bullshit your words were, but instead, he got rooted to the spot by your doe eyes. His stomach twisted at your next words.
"You'll meet a beautiful, smart, and kind girl, who wears pearls that cost more than I will ever be able to make, plays Brahms at the family gatherings, and who doesn't turn red in the face, while asked about favourite Japanese modern artists. Well, now I know plenty." You couldn't help but huff a tiny chuckle. Nothing twitched in Satoru's face. "And you will fall in love with her, and your whole family will like her. Everything will be just fine."
Satoru couldn't believe what was happening. Nothing in his life could ever prepare him for the pain that would follow with your leaving him. It didn't feel real. Probably, never would.
He slowly tilted his head down and rested his forehead against yours, whispering, barely audible. Like every word cost him a fortune. "Please, baby, please. I swear on my life, I will do everything. Just don't leave me. I don't —," Satoru's hands slip up your face as well, but you closed your eyes in defeat. Any ounce of strength left in your body evaporated. His arms fell to his sides as he croaked out helplessly. "I don't know who I am without you."
"You are you, Satoru. Always have been and always will be. A brilliant, wonderful, kind boy with a golden heart. And I..I am just me," you pressed your lips in a thin line before forcing a smile. "But I will work on it. As I said, it's all because of me."
"You don't get it." Somehow, Satoru's lifeless whisper hit you harder than any scream would. Because Satoru never raised his voice at you. Even now. There was a hunch to his shoulders that you rarely saw, if ever, as he turned from you and gripped the edge of the table. "I want to marry you. To become your family. But guess that doesn't matter anymore. Before things get too serious, huh?"
The room spun around you as you knitted your brows together, slumping in the nearest chair. Marrying… you?
But, on the other hand, it didn't change anything. You were still miles away from each other, standing on opposite sides of the societal hierarchy.
"I am so sorry, Satoru," words clawed up your throat as you shook your head.
Satoru finally turned around, and the dimmed, utterly devastated blue of his gaze tore you apart at the seams. "You are not sorry. If you were, you won't be leaving me now."
You didn't have enough in you to counter this. Words seemed meaningless, slipping like sand through your fingers.
"Please, Satoru. Let us go. It is for the better."
You had never seen an expression that hopeless and defeated on his handsome face.
"Is that what you want?"
"No," you wanted to scream, to shout, to cry out loud. "How can I possibly want to leave you? I have to. For both of us."
The silence stretched thin between you for so long, Satoru sincerely thought you didn't hear him. He stepped forward only to see you giving a short nod, almost cruel in its curtness.
After all, he never denied you everything. Even that. Even if it killed him from the inside.
Standing by the door with your bag, you couldn't help but steal a last glance at him. You parted your lips to say goodbye, but nothing even remotely plausible came to your mind. Satoru sat on the couch, shoulders slumped and gaze fixed on the floor. His name left your lips for the last time.
"Satoru."
His head snapped up as if he had been waiting for it that entire time. Maybe you changed your mind?
"Yes?"
That fragile hope in his tone twisted your insides.
"I love you."
Before he could answer, you slipped out of his apartments. And his life.
***
These months, the four agonising months, marked by Satoru's absence in your life, had sucked. Mildly put.
You sincerely thought you were doing the right thing — well, still were — breaking up, sparing his life from your presence, but it didn't mean it hurt any less. In a way, it was the opposite.
Pushing the love of your life away and then grovelling in the silence of your small apartment after putting on a brave face and assuring everyone that you were okay sucked. Crying yourself to sleep sucked. Feeling your heart breaking to pieces each time your gaze stumbled upon something that instantly reminded you of Satoru — like a photo on the fridge, his note with a smiley, kissy face between the pages of your comfort book and the tome of the manga he was reading — sucked. Walking around the places you used to hang out sucked.
What sucked even more was the fact that Satoru's presence seemed to linger everywhere. His laugh haunted you while you were lounging on the couch. The look of pure happiness on his face was ingrained in your mind while you were walking in a familiar park. And when your eye caught sight of a ball? Didn't even mention it. Perhaps that was your punishment. Now you were subjected to a lifetime of loneliness.
Still, you tried to do the thing you promised Satoru the final time you saw him. Attempted to go out of your shell. Took on some hobbies. Had a lot, a lot of time for self-reflection (given that you were free most of the evenings when you didn't throw yourself into work). And took small steps to discover what made you whole.
What and not who. That realisation sank on you with the force of a tidal wave. Kept you awake in three of the morning. Occupied all your thoughts until you finally, finally, were getting used to it. Still, there was a lot to be done. You only wished for Satoru by your side, though. Were you allowed to think about him, after all?
The revelation, of course, only made your mind drift to Satoru even more. How was he? Was his injury getting better? Did his father officially appoint him as the next CEO?
Gods. You sure had no right to worry about him anymore. Not after breaking both of your hearts. An utterly desperate and lifeless look on his face flashed every time before your eyes when you closed them.
You dragged your feet back from the nearest combini: Friday had finally marked the end of a long, exhausting week (not like you had many left, huh) and you treated yourself with sushi and a bottle of wine. There was nothing you wanted more than to run a bath and put Sex and the City on, rotting under the blanket. It would've been thousands of times better if Satoru were there, but alas...
A few raindrops fell on the asphalt, successfully putting the train of your miserable thoughts to a halt, and you hurried to the entrance of your block. Quickly fishing a pair of keys, you glanced up from your bag as something caught your attention in the periphery, and you got immediately rooted to the spot.
You would recognise the set of those shoulders, now slightly hunched, everywhere. A grey hoodie did nothing to hide his figure. White tufts fell over his forehead under the hood, and something twisted viciously in your chest at the sight. Your fingers twitched with the urge to feel the silk of that hair under your touch.
You took a deep breath, trying to take a rein over your hammering heart, and stepped closer, calling the man out softly. Rather hesitantly.
"Satoru? What are you doing here?"
Satoru went rigid for a moment at your voice. His shoulders tensed even more. Your throat clogged up.
But then he turned around and smiled. A tiny, almost pathetic lift of his lips, and he offered you a small wave. Just like the one you gave him at that basketball match.
"Hi, ba —" Satoru immediately corrected himself, wincing just for a second. His smile wavered, as did your composure. "Hi."
The effort that took you not to drop your things right then and run into his arms was only between you and the gods.
"Hello to you too." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stepped forward. That totally wasn't the way you imagined that meeting would go.
"What are you doing here?" You prompted again, trying not to sound either harsh or desperate. Desperate to hear his voice. See his eyes. Look at his face.
"Just... was going around. Stumbled at your place. You still live here." Satoru lifted one shoulder in a nervous shrug, and his little smile morphed into a quick, uneasy grimace.
You didn't question those stalker-ish tendencies, but the doubt was clearly evident in an arch of your brow, because Satoru instantly raised his hands in surrender.
"No, really. I guess my legs just carried me there. Some memory, you know," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, but then sighed, seeing your suspicion. "Come on, sweets. If I had been stalking you all that time, I would've done it way more discreetly."
That brought you some relief. "Guess you would've."
His Adam's apple bobbed with an effort. "Can we, uhm, talk?"
Something in your guts was telling you had a pretty good sense of the way this talk would go. You weren't sure it was the right time and way.
Casting your gaze down, you worried on your bottom lip before breathing out, "I'm — I'm not sure this is a good idea, Satoru."
"Please", his voice took on a pleading edge. You closed your eyes for a brief moment. "I just want to know how you are. That's all."
He was lying. And he knew you were well aware of it.
But, in the end, wasn't that what you wanted? To see him, at least? Well, here Satoru was.
Thunder roared somewhere in the distance, and you were pretty sure that soon you both would be drenched to the bone.
"Besides, you don't want to get me standing under the rain, do you?" An amusement curled Satoru's lips before he let a humourless chuckle. "Have some mercy on your ex-boyfriend."
That sounded like a slur coming from Satoru. You glared at him. His smile turned even sharper.
Torn between the current state of your... relationship, and the fact that Satoru was standing right in front of you, you completely didn't know what to do. You didn't part your ways that badly. And you had never wanted to be that person who would resent his ex and scowl at every mention of them.
Because that was never true. You loved Satoru. And, judging by the yearning lacing his gaze and the nervous flex of his hands as he awaited your response, he still loved you, too.
After minutes of debating, with the rain intensifying, you finally gave in and nodded towards the entrance.
"Get in."
Satoru's wide smile now resembled more of a child's on Christmas.
"Yes, ma'am."
The weight of Satoru's gaze, burning a hole in your back, felt rather physical. The tension in your kitchen threatened to suffocate you both, while you busied yourself with making tea and a gigantic cup of hot cocoa for Satoru.
You placed the drink in front of him, and Satoru shot you a small, curious grin.
"Whoa, marshmallows."
"Yeah," you still absent-mindedly bought them at the grocery store. Habit. "You know, three years of always getting your marshmallows weren't in vain."
Satoru looked at you as if he seriously considered offering himself as a sacrifice at your altar.
Damn those puppy eyes.
Rubbing your palms up and down your thighs, you cleared your throat and offered an awkward smile. God, you wanted the ground to swallow you. "So, uhm, how have you been, To — Satoru?"
He pressed his lips together and leaned back in his seat, right hand on the back of it, like he was incapable of sitting straight. Well, some things never changed.
Satoru didn't look at you, instead glancing out of the window at the heavy rain, drumming against the windows.
"Not so good."
You immediately dropped your gaze, hugging the cup with sea buckthorn tea. The scorching liquid might've burnt your hands a little, but it was nothing in comparison with the sharp pain in your chest.
Licking your lips, you forced yourself to look up at Satoru. He was still staring at the rain like it held something only visible to him. The muscle in his jaw jumped.
"I am sorry, but —"
Satoru released a long sigh and turned to you. You almost flinched at the sight of his eyes — usually so bright blue, flashing with mirth and charm, now reduced to the lifeless, dull grey. Under the better light, you also noticed the dark bags under Satoru's eyes, the hollow in his cheeks and even the light stubble. You had never seen him like it. Like he aged ten years or more in those months.
That was all because of you, right?
Tears filled your eyes so fast you couldn't even blink them away, when you felt salt on your lips.
You wanted to apologise once again, but then Satoru leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, feverishly running his fingers through the white strands. Were you a little crazy, or even his hair seemed more…ashy?
"I am not gonna lie, I have never felt more awful and pathetic and miserable — well, you get it, in my entire fucking life," he waved his hand dismissively, and you closed your eyes just for a fleeting second, because you couldn't afford even a moment of not looking at him. That talk went even worse than you imagined. "But after you left, something has…changed."
You sat upright and drawled hesitantly, "Like…what?"
He huffed a humourless chuckle, and his eyes flashed with a weird, almost malicious glint. Your insides went cold.
"Well, I just told my father that he can suck my dick —"
You slowly covered your face with one hand. That was not good. Very, very bad, actually.
" — if he even for a moment thinks I was going to marry one of the girls he and my grandfather suggested. And then he started threatening to cut my trust fund off, blah blah, blah. Like I've ever given a single fuck about it."
Something in his tone was telling you that wasn't everything that had changed.
Satoru's voice sharpened in a way that could cut even the hardest steel.
"That was okay. Nothing I've heard before. But when he started talking about you," his voice dropped to a whisper and dangerously cracked. You couldn't hear it anymore. "That's where I draw the line. He knows that. Now everyone knows that."
A loud groan left you as you dropped your head in your hands.
"What have you done, Satoru?"
He just rolled his eyes. Harsh and sharp. "What I should have done, obviously. A long time ago. Tell all of them to fuck off."
"Oh —"
"Mildly put," Satoru scratched his head with a mild grimace. "And then got kicked out of the house. Trust fund cut off, obviously."
You couldn't believe what you had just heard. Satoru might've thought that his words would somehow soften you, so you could coo at him or whatever. But never did he expect you to slam your fist against the table and grit throught your teeth.
"Have you fucking lost your mind?"
Satoru blinked in shock, watching you suddenly stand up and turn from him, your hands curled into fists by your sides.
"What?"
Taking a deep breath, you tore your gaze from the windows and threw your hands in the air.
"Are you an idiot?"
Well, that kind of hurt. "I don't understand."
"Satoru." Oh no, he knew that tone. That only meant you were seething with rage. There were no means of escape, especially as you loomed over him. "So let me get it straight. You fought with your entire family, they kicked you out of the house and left you with no money."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"All because of me!?"
Satoru didn't like the way you said "me". As if you were something not even worth mentioning. The dirt beneath his feet.
"Satoru, we are not together! I am not your girlfriend anymore, I am not even in your life! We don't even talk! You can't throw your life away because of me! That's stupid!"
"Well, maybe I am stupid, hasn't it occurred to you?"
"Satoru," your voice trembled on the edge of tears. Why didn't he understand you?! "I am serious. This is serious. This is your life! This is all you have— had, especially given you can't damn play with your injury now!"
Satoru didn't answer you. You only saw the way he swallowed with effort, and the look of utter longing on his face told you everything.
You helplessly slumped back in your chair and hid your face in your palms for a small eternity. Satoru didn't dare to interrupt. He just watched you, soaking up every feature as if you were about to kick him out of your apartment forever. That was an option. You were pretty pissed.
He attempted to soothe you, "But there's something good."
You slowly glanced up, and Satoru almost snorted at the look of total disbelief in your eyes. "Such as?"
Satoru quickly stood up and kneeled between your chair, taking your hands in his. Cold as usual. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed your palms with his thumbs. As usual.
"I mean, you said it yourself, sweets. That is all I have known for my whole life. Rich kid, golden youth, spoilt guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, all that stuff. I thought maybe it was it? My chance to find myself, huh? I don't want to be their toy to boss around all because of money."
Something crawled up your skin and twisted sharply in your chest as you breathed out, "What do you mean?"
Was he serious? So you both were doing the same thing all that time?
Satoru squeezed your hand harder and gave you a crooked smile.
"Just been here and there. Doing…some stuff."
You tilted your head in a silent question. He chuckled breathlessly and shook his head.
"Don't laugh, okay? I am teaching some kids basketball at school."
"Oh," your lips curled up in a tender smile as something warm bloomed in your chest. "That's really nice. You like it?"
"Yeah," Satoru's answer was immediate. And for the first time that evening, you saw a familiar spark in his eyes. "Kids can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but they are really cute. Listen to me, call me Gojo-sensei. Kinda gets in your head, you know."
A small snort escaped you, and the wide grin broke on his face. Oh, how he missed that precious sound.
"Where do you live now?"
"Crashing Suguru. He's not particularly happy when I drown my misery in another pint of strawberry ice-cream — "
Your smile slowly disappeared.
" — when he brings in some girl, but I bribe him with dark chocolate. You know he can't live without it."
"That he can," you uttered in a strained voice. Satoru's grin wavered as well, and he hesitantly reached to tuck the lone strand of your hair behind your ear. His hand trembled a little.
"What about you? There are boxes everywhere," he leaned back with a soft murmur, glancing around your apartment with packed staff around. "Moving out?"
Your heart suddenly felt twice its size, thumping violently against your ribs. "Uhm, yeah. Moving out."
"Where?"
Well, that was it. You squirmed in your seat, and Satoru's hand slowly fell to his side. He just waited.
"Eh…France."
He pinched his brows together with a slight frown and repeated incredulously, "You are moving to France?"
Satoru's sharp blue gaze seemed to pierce through you. Unable to meet it, you looked away.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Sighing deeply, you stood up and leaned against a kitchen counter, hugging yourself. Satoru immediately rose to his feet.
"That was a pretty much hard time for me too. Not delving into details, but…yeah. I felt like shit. Everyone was dating someone, or building a successful career, or, I don't know, just doing something meaningful," you gestured vaguely and combed your hair with a shaky hand. Satoru just stared at you like a lone, kicked puppy. "While I willingly kept fucking my own life over. Cooped yourself in that place. Left the love of my life."
Something in your face softened at the last words. Satoru forgot how to breathe.
"And that certainly shouldn't be…in vain, whatever. I told you I was going to work on myself, and I kind of do. Step by step, but I am going there."
"I still don't understand. I am happy for you, really am, but why are you leaving Japan? What about your mother, your job?"
What about me?
"My department's had its financing cut. My presence is not required anymore, as they said. I am just working the last two weeks, and that's it."
"Oh. I am..I am sorry to hear it."
"As for my mom," you didn't seem to hear Satoru's words at all, staring somewhere past him. "You know, she's never really cared that much about me anyway. She'll survive."
As cruel as your words might've seemed, you were right. Your mother was an…interesting woman indeed.
Satoru desperately cling to anything that could make you stay here like a lifeline.
"What about Nobara?"
Surely, you couldn't leave her. You two had been together from the first time he saw you at the university campus.
"Actually, she was the one who offered me that."
"Huh?!"
"She's recently been promoted at her job to the French edition of their magazine. Fashion weeks, runways, photoshoots… You know her, she's been ecstatic about it. So, when she asked me about it…I said I would give it a thought. I mean, it will be a nice fresh start, won't it? I don't have anything left here, so…why not? Gotta take risks, something like that."
Satoru couldn't believe his own ears. That would've been his nightmare coming true, if not for the fact that his worst one already was real. No. He wouldn't let you go that time. That was the stupidest thing he had done in his life, and if he had to beg…well.
The worst thing that you seemed pretty confident about it. But looking closely, he saw your hands trembled a little by your side, and your gaze darted nervously around. So, there still was some chance.
He ran his fingers through his hair. The gears seemed to work nonstop in his mind as he glanced around for any clue or sight for support. Until…
He weakly breathed out, "I am going with you."
Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "You what!?"
Satisfied with your reaction and his genius mind, Satoru smirked lazily, "I am going to France with you."
Did you stare in The Office or something? Was there a hidden camera to look at?
Helplessly blinking, you finally managed to utter, "Excuse me? You going to France? With me?"
"I know, I know what you are thinking. He's crazy, an idiot, proper name, last name, backstory stuff, but hear me out!" Satoru walked to you and squeezed your shoulders, his eyes frantically searching your face for a hint of understanding. You still stared at him as if he had just announced he was going to fly to the Moon, no less. "You broke up with me because, citing "you felt inferior to me," right?
Pressing your lips into a thin line, you gave him a flat look. "Correct."
"But I am not superior in any way to you now! You're discovering yourself, me too, so why don't we do that together? Start everything from scratch? Including," his Adam's apple bobbed with effort as his hands slowly slid down your figure to rest on the dip of your waist. Your skin tingled at the contact. "Including us."
Blood defeaningly roared at your temples, and your heart jumped right into your throat. Wouldn't it be strange and weird? Getting back together after you pushed him away? After breaking both of you?
One of Satoru's hands drifted upwards to cradle your face, while the other pulled your figure closer to him. Your head spun at the sudden proximity. His thumb delicately traced the line of your jaw and settled on the apple of your cheek.
"How is that stupid and weird, if I love you?" Shit, had you been musing aloud? "And you love me."
You parted your lips to answer, but then Satoru tilted his head down just a bit, and it was enough to feel the faintest brush of his lips against yours. With knees slightly trembling, your hand flew up and twisted the fabric of his hoodie for support. Your tongue darted out to lick your lip for a mere second; it was enough for Satoru's gaze to flick there and stare at your mouth as if hypnotised.
"Or you don't?" You almost leaned in for a kiss when he suddenly pulled away, despite being a breath away from devouring you. You gulped and lifted a pleading gaze at him — and not like the look on Satoru's face was any better. A strange kind of bitterness settled in your chest at the shakiness of his voice: he really doubted it. Well, you gave him a good reason to, didn't you?
It baffled you. No. Weirded out in the worst way possible.
So, instead of answering, you simply stood on your tiptoes and pressed your lips against his. A feathery, almost invisible, but it was enough for Satoru to release a groan and kiss your back.
You forgot how to breathe. The room spun around you, and if not for Satoru's hand holding at your waist, you would've collapsed for sure. The familiar sense of heat shot through you as you boldly slid your hand up Satoru's toned shoulder, grazed his undercut — wait, did he actually whimper at that or what — and ran your fingers through the silky white hair. The months of raw longing, poured in that kiss, laced every brush of your tongues, stifled moan and impatient tug with desperate want. Damn, you almost forgot his lips slotting perfectly against yours, his gently nipping at your bottom lip, and his hot, raspy breath fanning over your cheek when you pulled away before delving in again and again.
Blinking away dizziness, you managed to gather your bearings together just to mumble, "Does it count as an answer?"
Satoru's chest rose up and down as if he had just run a marathon, and he slowly shook his hand in response before tilting your chin up. His eyes resembled more of a stormy ocean than a breezy sea, but his hold was as tender as always.
"I love you, Satoru. Still am and always have been. I told you the same when —," you swallowed the lump in your throat, "— when I left you." Voice sinking into a small, almost miserable whisper, you went on, "And I am sorry for that, so damn sorry, you didn't deserve it."
"No, no, no, baby, stop it," now both his hands cradled your face as his gaze gently caressed every twitch in it, every shift, every freckle and mole. "You did what you felt right to. I accepted that, even though it was the hardest thing in my life. Believe me or not, I felt so stupid and shitty and miserable for letting you go, but I had to respect that. I only wish I had noticed you feeling that way sooner," he ended with a small, bitter smile, placing a kiss on the tip of your nose before gently nuzzling it. "Missed you so, so much."
As much as you wanted to lean into Satoru's touch again with no care in the world, you felt the need to apologise for once again, "No, Satoru, but — Maybe if I told you that instead of going away, we wouldn't be apart these months. I am sorry."
"Stop that," his voice cut you off, not firmly but enough to shut you up. "Really, stop. I am not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. And maybe I need that too. Shook me good to realise what things really mattered in life."
A sad sigh left your lips when you remembered what happened between Satoru and his family. Yes, they were jerks, but you never wanted to be the reason for the wedge between them.
"But hey, now we're two psychos together, trying to figure out what to do with their life! Together, right?" Satoru's gaze carefully searched yours, and as you nodded enthusiastically, his face broke into the brightest grin possible. Maybe only rivalling the one he gave you when you agreed to go out with him at that bonfire party.
"Love you, love you, love you," you murmured between kisses, nuzzling against his jaw, eliciting shaky moans. Your hands slid under his hoodie to feel the hot skin under your palms, but the sudden roaring of the thunder made you jump.
"Oh, fuck."
Satoru wanted to tease you at first, but he quickly bit his tongue, remembering that noises like that still scared you. You mindlessly gripped his hoodie tighter, pressing your frame against his for comfort. His hand cradled the back of your head, and he tucked it under his chin, whispering soothing words.
"Maybe you wanna lie down or something?" Whispering into your hair, Satoru pressed his lips against the crown of your head as another tremble shook your body at the particularly frightening sound. His gaze briefly flicked at the sky through the windows. "Yeah, not getting better soon."
Without further ado, you sighed in response and gripped his hand to walk to your bedroom. In every other situation, his hands would've been on you in a second, but not now. Especially given that you had just gotten back together.
Your bedroom hadn't really changed: your favourite stuffed plush bear sat over the sheets, guarding your sleep; a stupid lava lamp that Satoru once gifted you was still on the bedside table, not to mention the horde of houseplants (he sadly noticed the absence of some) at the windowsill. You hadn't packed the bedroom stuff yet, though a couple of boxes obediently waited in the corner.
After all those months, Satoru's presence felt kind of weird in your bedroom, but now, with his hands enveloping you in an embrace, you had never felt happier.
You both stayed up the whole night: gods, you almost forgot how easy it was to talk to Satoru. He told you more about the kids he was teaching, the school, and that he tried to do some modelling photoshoots. It turned out pretty good. "Might be a nice gig," he shrugged nonchalantly, but you noticed his eyes sparkling with mirth.
You filled him in on the work drama, places you visited in your attempts to go out of your shell, hobbies you tried — his eyes widened at the mention of drawing and pottery, and he demanded to see your works the first thing in the morning.
You snorted quietly. "I don't think they are anywhere as good as your photos."
Satoru huffed under his breath and lightly nudged your shoulder. You both lie face to face now, smiling and giggling like a pair of students you once were. You felt as if you were floating in happiness.
"Come on, baby, don't be shy. I am positive they are nice."
"No, Toru, they are not. Believe me, my first flowerpot was disastrous." You turned a bit and waved at the deformed blob of clay, hiding in the corner. Satoru followed your move: his lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of a poor thing.
"Uhm…well, it's not that bad." His shoulders shook with a barely suppressed laugh, and you rolled your eyes good-naturedly.
"It's okay, you can laugh."
The laugh he let was truly thunderous, and even you, the mighty creator, couldn't help but laugh alone.
"Babe, I am sorry, it's just looking at me like I have to end its suffering," after some time, Satoru finally wept some tears and breathed out weakly with his hand on his stomach. You both looked at the hopeless blob. "Why do you keep it, anyway?"
Sighing in response, you murmured, "Dunno. I can't bring myself to throw it away."
Satoru just hummed in response and settled back against the pillows. "Will you take it to France?"
Your heart skipped a beat at the mention, and you just shrugged indecisively. The light mood you had slowly evaporated. After some minutes, you rolled back to face Satoru again, only to find him already watching you closely.
"Were you serious?"
He tilted his head in question; his hand came up to brush a hair strand behind your ear. "About what?"
The next words came in a hesitant whisper.
"Moving with me to France."
Satoru's thumb traced your bottom lip before he dropped his arm to the side. Shrugging casually, he lifted a steady gaze on you. "Are you still thinking about moving there?"
You swallowed nervously before nodding. "Yeah."
"Then I was serious too. We're dating again, it's only logical then."
You couldn't fight with that argument.
"Guess it is. I just…," you lifted one shoulder, still doubtful. "Can't believe you do that for me."
And he couldn't believe you questioned it. But instead, Satoru just blinked at you and muttered in the most serious tone possible.
"I told you I was going to marry you. Yes, I still want to. I wasn't joking and trying to hold you back in the heat of the moment —"
You wordlessly glanced at him.
" — okay, I did, but I was serious. And still am. Hell, baby," the mattress dipped under his weight as Satoru scooted closer. "You're the only thing — not a thing, person, I mean, you're the most serious I've ever been about anything and anyone in my life. I swear. Where you go, I follow."
His voice cracked at the last words, and you let a shuddering breath, cupping his face.
"Are you sure? What will your family say? Job? Suguru?"
Satoru lifted a corner of his lips in a small grin, recalling the same arguments he used to talk you out of moving.
"I am pretty sure I can find something there. Isn't this a part of discovering yourself, too? It could be pretty fun. Who knows, maybe I have some secret talent for pastries. Not just eating. Baking! Plus, I know French," he beamed at you like the Sun. You couldn't help but grin back. "It's a little rusty, though."
You both snorted, but then a frown crossed Satoru's face, and his tone turned more serious.
"Suguru…he'll understand. We still will be talking, right? Not as we used to, but…hey, now I will have an excuse to send him even more stupid memes."
"I am sure he will be ecstatic about it."
"He won't have any choice, heh. And my family…honestly? I don't really care. We both said everything we wanted to each other. I do not see any sense in bowing and scraping."
Your face crumpled in a grimace as you recalled that you were one of the reasons that entire thing happened, and hunched your shoulders. "Still sorry about it."
"And I am still saying you shouldn't be."
Minutes passed between you in a relative silence, interrupted only by the car noises and distant humming of the refrigerator as you stared at the ceiling. Finally, you turned to look at Satoru. Moonlight painted his features in an even more breathtaking way, highlighting the sharp jawline and illuminating the blue of his eyes.
"So…we are really going to France."
Satoru smiled at you — the gentle one he saved only for you — and reached for your hand to interlace your fingers slowly.
"We really are."
***
The morning sun crept through the blinds, bathing a bedroom in a soft, ethereal light, and its beams lazily caressed your face in feathery kisses. As your nose twitched at the sensation, begrudgingly, very begrudgingly, you blinked and reached for your phone. It came to life with a faint buzz; you tried to focus your bleary gaze on the time and sighed in relief as you still had half an hour before the alarm.
A careful attempt to sink back into the sheets didn't go unnoticed by the whole mountain of heat and muscle beside you. Satoru's arm snaked around your waist with an energy too restless for a sleepy man.
"Where are you going to, huh?" His voice, still deep and thick with sleep, felt like a pure sin against your nape. A shudder ran through your body as he gently nuzzled the soft skin there and pressed his lips against the point that shouldn't drive you crazy like it did. "Morning, ma choute."
Amusement curled your tone as you breathed out a chuckle, "Your favourite word, huh?"
Instead of answering, Satoru hummed something unintelligible against the curve of your neck, nosing it, while his lips found your pulse point.
"Can't help it. Not my fault if it fits you perfectly. So sweet," his head went into a dizzy, hazy state at the whiff of your chocolate shower gel and something so uniquely yours. "So soft." The hand that rested leisurely on your belly lazily drifted upwards to cup the tender swell of your breasts. Your breath caught in your throat as you arched into Satoru's touch with a quiet, sleepy moan.
"Ah, Satoru…"
When your voice dipped into that syrupy bedroom voice, laced with so much want, Satoru never could help himself. His hips bucked involuntarily, eliciting a surprised gasp from you, as you felt the throbbing of his length against your backside.
Your hair fanned over a pillow like a halo, catching the bright light, and Satoru's heart skipped a beat. He gently bit down on your pulse point, and as your gasp rose in a tone, he quickly soothed it with a lick of his tongue.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Can't believe you're mine." The heat crept up your body all the way to your cheeks, not only at the way Satoru rolled your nipple between his fingers, palming at the soft skin there, but at the bewilderment in his voice. As if he were actually shocked.
Another moan left your lips as you closed your eyes in the utter pleasure, coursing through your body and tightening your insides into the sweet knot. Subconsiously, you pushed your trembling thighs back against his front, to which Satoru responded with a low hiss.
"You're in a teasing mood today, huh?"
A sharp pang of disappointment shot through your body when his hand left your chest.
"Satoru…"
"Shh, patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait, don't they?" You almost whined at the loss of the contact, but then his hand — god, that hand — wrapped around your throat with a light grip, just enough to turn your face and capture your lips in a lazy, unhurried kiss. He licked at the seam of your mouth, and you immediately opened it, granting Satoru access. Your tongues lazily tangled, exploring each other; you slid your free hand down his toned pecs, sharp abs and wrapped it around the already hard cock. Giving it a few unhurried pumps, you heard Satoru moaning unbashfully against your mouth.
"Oh, fuck, yeah, keep going, love. Just like —, oh, just like that."
You fondled his balls with a sly smirk, to which he responded with a sharp, almost desperate cry, and…stopped.
"Hey, baby," the pout was evident in his voice, "That's not fair. Like totally not fair."
With a smirk widening, you turned just a tad to see his half-lidded gaze darkening with lust. "Haven't you just preached to me about patience, Toru?"
Satoru's head hit your shoulder as he let a groan, followed by a disbelieving laugh. "Vixen. You drive me crazy, you know that?"
"Yeah, yeah, yet you're still not inside me." After rolling your eyes impatiently, you finally heard the sheets rustling. Your insides clenched in anticipation.
Laughing quietly, Satoru kissed your shoulder, pulling you closer against his front. His hand slid under your hip, lifting it for better access, and hoisted it over his own. You almost whimpered as the thick head of his cock nudged your already wet entrance.
"Look at tha-a-a-t," the heat flooded your body even more at the cocky tilt in his voice and the way his fingers lightly grazed your folds. "For someone so soaked, you have a pretty big mouth running, ma chérie."
You attempted to glare at Satoru, but it ended rather poorly with the way your eyes were glazed with desire. Giving you a smirk, not even trying to hide his arrogance and smugness, he hastily fisted his cock and aligned it with your entrance, slowly yet surely filling you up inch by inch.
"F-fuck, you're so tight," Satoru's hot whisper fanned over your jawline as he pressed heated kisses up to your mouth. "So warm, so good, so p-perfect — babe, don't clench me like that, f-for me."
Your lips parted, forming almost a perfect "O" in its shape at the burn of the stretch, and the first loud moan tore from your chest, when Satoru finally gave you a shallow roll of his hips.
"Sa-Satoru, yeah…"
With no hesitation, you reached behind and tugged at the soft white tufts above Satoru's undercut, pressing his head into your nape to seek even more contact until your bodies fused in a messy, unintelligible tangle of limbs, needy touches and wanton moans. His hips built a slow, languid rhythm, moulding your insides into the shape of his cock; each thick vein and ridge of him against your velvet walls made your mind swim in pleasure, so overwhelming it drowned every coherent thought. One of his hands snaked up to squeeze your breasts, eliciting more shaky whimpers from you.
"Love you, love you so fucking much, you don't even, ngh, under-understand, shit, y-yes," Satoru slurred against your cheek after yet another sloppy kiss, his tongue darting to taste the salty skin as you literally cried in ecstasy when he hit that sweet spot inside. You were completely sure he would never let you forget this. His moves gradually lost their rhythm, giving in to a raw, primal desire. A string of desperate whimpers spilt from your lips, and you turned your head to muffle these cries in the pillow.
Wrong move.
Seeing it, Satoru's lips curled into a sharp smirk. He quickly wetted his fingers and dragged them down to press quick, tight circles on your clit, and with all the stimulation, your body jolted in pleasure. Heat, shameless and urgent, built at the base of your spine, coursed through your veins and lit every part on fire. His cock twitched inside you at the way you breathed out his name with such desperation that put all the prayers to shame.
"Give it to me, baby. Be a good girl, yeah? Cum for me."
Your thighs shook violently, which was a telling sign that you were close; he feverishly rutted against yours, rubbing your clit in quick motions, panting against the curve of your neck. His eyes rolled in pleasure as your cunt fluttered around him, coating his shaft in juices, and with a shameless guttural groan, he cummed too.
The sound of your name, spilling from Satoru's lips like it was the only word he knew, brought tears to your eyes. Of love, of longing, or devotion, you weren't even sure.
Satoru was still in you, behind you, wrapping you in his arms and scent, when you awkwardly tried to turn around. He lazily blinked at you — the blue of his eyes resembled the glimmering waves of the Mediterranean Sea, which lapped the shores of the city that had become your home. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you lean in to press a quick, almost chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. They twitched with a soft grin.
"Someone's awfully sweet. Good morning, I guess. Really good, that time. What if — "
Before Satoru finished, your hands framed his face, and you kissed him again, taking your time. He released a quiet, unexpected sigh and melted into it immediately, giving you all the reins. Sweet and soft, your tongue swept over his plump lips and explored his mouth, until you both pulled away to catch your breath. Resting your forehead against his, you muttered quietly.
"I love you."
Satoru didn't answer you right away; instead, he cupped your cheek, his thumb grazed the soft skin under your eyes, and he murmured back.
"I love you more."
You didn't want to delve into the endless fight of who loved whom more, so you just settled against his chest with a soft sigh. Satoru tucked your head under his chin and gently ran his fingers up and down your spine.
"How are you feeling? Wanna cuddle a little or go showering?"
"I wish we could cuddle more, but Nobara and Maki are coming in…very soon, actually."
Satoru stilled for a moment and released a groan, reluctant to let you go and leave that bed, jutting his bottom lip in the biggest pout known to the Universe.
"Is it today? Do we have to go with them, baby?"
"Yes. Toru, we promised them to show the Fine Arts Museum. Maki didn't visit it last time they were in Marseille because it was shut for some renovation. Apparently."
"Geez, I was hoping for a round two. And maybe three in the shower. Besides, we were there with Suguru last summer." His hand slid down to squeeze your butt in the last attempt to persuade you, but you stood your ground. With great effort.
"Satoru, no. We don't see them often. Get up."
Saoru's hand that reached to pinch your side as you hopped off to get to the shower, limply fell to his side. He groaned as his head hit the pillow, but as the sounds of water running filled the space, he enthusiastically got up and padded to the bathroom. He could be pretty…convincing when he wanted to.
Indeed, an hour later, Nobara suspiciously eyed both of you up and down — your hair told her everything she needed to know. Satoru didn't even try to hide a big dopey grin that screamed "I just got laid by the most gorgeous woman in the world". You elbowed him. Hard. His smile got even wider, so you sent him to help Maki with their suitcases.
"You know, I am so happy for you." You gave Nobara a cup of scorching latte, just the way she preferred. Her lips curled into an amusing yet soft grin. "No, really. You both look radiant."
She laughed heartily, nodding in gratitude; however, her gaze was fixed on your front yard. You followed the direction and chuckled as well, seeing Satoru and Maki trying to coax Nobara's cat — a fluffy, totally spoilt Persian named Lady — out of the carrier. She only hissed in response.
"Yeah. Me too. She's…I don't know how to explain it. But I am so happy she agreed to move here. The same is for you, by the way. Provence does wonders for both of you. Even Gojo."
You rested your elbows on the table with a melancholic sigh. Yes, the start of your journey in France was quite turbulent: a total mess with language, documents, fighting with landlords over the rent, and taking up any gigs for money…It only helped that you had some of it saved. Endless hours of work, tears and efforts poured into building your new life finally got its fruits: at one of the fashion shows, Nobara introduced you to the famous photographer, who instantly fell in love with your works. And Satoru…
"Phew, finally," the front door opened, revealing beaming Satoru with Lady in his arms, who…purred in content. Nobara's eyes widened in shock.
"Lady, what? He's a man! Have some dignity!"
"Can't help it if I am that charming," he scratched the kitty under her chin. "Even cats know that."
"That's, unfortunately, true." You squeaked in delight at Maki's tired voice and jumped into her arms. After a few solid minutes of hugging, you finally released her as she begged you to show her the bathroom.
"So, Gojo," Nobara drawled in a voice too casual. Satoru exchanged brief yet pointed glances with you. Lady cracked one eye open and yawned, staring at her catmom. "Do you have, by any chance, some calissons left?"
In Nobara's language, that meant she had been dying to taste them, but she would never admit it to Satoru. "Don't tell him, or his ego would grow even bigger!"
So you just happened to drop that you wanted to have those candies, and of course, Satoru whipped some up: they just waited to be baked. Judging by his cocky smirk, he already figured both of you out.
"Why do you call me Gojo? She's a Gojo too, you know?" The oven beeped a couple of times when Satoru put the tray with callisons inside. Nobara only rolled her eyes and hugged you with a grin.
And Satoru once decided to try his hand at the things that he loved the most in the world (after you, of course): sweets. In particular, pastries. To put it concisely, baking. It took a lot, a lot of time and years of learning in culinary academies under the guidance of chiefs, before he could finally name himself the one.
Marseille greeted you with arms open, the fresh scent of pastries lingering in the air, mesmerising views and the centuries of history ingrained in its walls. You left Paris after you realised it was high time to move forward, and since you mentioned a couple of times that you wanted to live in Provence for some time, Satoru started to look for a home and a place for his own bakery. His own thing. That he built only by himself, with no family barking and ordering him around. He and you. And Satoru could've never been happier for it.
You indeed had never made it easy for him. But now, seeing you laugh with your friends, among the paintings, with the sun casting a soft, almost amber glow on your figure, Satoru realised he would rather have things difficult with you than easy with anyone else. Because you were worth it.
synopsis :: matching stationary and dolled in cute accessories—you’re a girl who’s absolutely no nonsense, determined to get through your college years with nothing short of perfect grades and a stellar reputation, with no tolerance for any idiotic men who seem to want to hurl themselves at your feet. and you most certainly aren’t afraid to let each of them know that you aren’t here to fuck around with idiots that have egos bigger than their dicks. there’s only one tiiiiny problem—you seemed to have caught their attention.
art credits :: @/winterrbluess @/thatsallitchief @/aransmind .
divider credits :: @/dollywons @/pixopix .
meet the roster !
frat!sukuna x mean!reader :: ryomen sukuna thrives on a life drowning in chaos—parties, sorority girls, loud music and everything in between. but what happens when the pretty nerd from his anatomy class has him eating off the palm of her hands, barely giving him ever a sliver of her attention before rolling her pretty eyes and walking away from him? he knows he has to win you over, even if it means having to have every bit of his reputation crumble.
frat!gojo x mean!reader :: charismatic, magnetic, the centre of everyone’s undying attention, frat president satoru gojo is used to having people orbit him. but when he meets a girl who wants nothing to do with him or his mess of a life, brushing him off like dirt, he knows he’ll do absolutely anything to have you simply glance at him.
jock!toji x mean!reader :: tba …
student president!nanami x mean!reader :: tba …
nerd!choso x mean!reader :: tba …
hi im nervous.
all works belong to @lilithkleii do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI, lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
Synopsis: You needed a fake boyfriend to escape an arranged marriage. Your best friend Gojo Satoru volunteered immediately. The problem? He never once acted like it was fake.
CW 18+ MDNI - fake dating, best friends to lovers, mutual pining (he’s been down for years), teasing gojo, slow burn, fluff, reader is a jujutsu sorcerer, eventual smut, happy ending
The clock on your phone read 7:15pm., and the soft blue light cast long shadows across Satoru’s living room. You were lying sideways on his massive sectional couch, the kind that probably cost more than most people’s rent for a year, your legs dangling off the edge while one of his oversized hoodies swallowed your frame. The fabric still carried that faint scent of him — crisp winter air mixed with expensive cologne and something sweeter, like the strawberry mochi he always ate.
Your phone buzzed again. Another message from your mother.
The Nakamura family’s eldest son is a respectable second-grade sorcerer. The elders believe this match will strengthen our clan’s position. We expect you at the estate next week for introductions. No excuses this time.
You let out a long, dramatic groan and pressed the phone to your chest, staring up at the high ceiling with its recessed lighting. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below the penthouse windows. Tokyo glittered like scattered jewels through the floor-to-ceiling glass.
Footsteps padded across the hardwood floor. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
A plastic bag rustled, and then something soft and squishy landed gently on your stomach.
“Catch, princess,” Satoru’s voice sang out, light and teasing as always. “You’ve been sulking for twenty whole minutes. That’s a new record even for you.”
You peeked one eye open. He stood there in black sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a loose white t-shirt that did nothing to hide the lean, powerful lines of his shoulders. His white hair was slightly tousled from running his fingers through it, and those brilliant blue eyes — uncovered tonight since it was just the two of you, sparkled with amusement. He dropped into the armchair across from you, long legs stretching out until his bare foot nudged your calf playfully.
“Spill it,” he said, popping a piece of mochi into his mouth. “What did the ancient fossils at your clan do this time? Try to set you up with another guy who probably still believes in the buddy system during missions?”
You sat up slowly, clutching the bag of mochi like a lifeline. The couch dipped under your movement. “Worse. They’ve officially arranged a marriage for me. Some Nakamura guy. Second-grade. Respectable. Boring as plain rice.”
Satoru’s grin stayed perfectly in place, but you knew him too well. There was the tiniest pause in his chewing, a micro-second where his eyes narrowed just a fraction before the playful mask slid back on.
“Arranged marriage? In this day and age?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his chin in both hands like an overly interested schoolgirl. “How very feudal of them. Do they also want you to ride in on a horse-drawn carriage while wearing twelve layers of kimono?”
You threw a decorative pillow at his head. He caught it effortlessly between two fingers, Infinity never even flickering on, and tossed it back lightly so it bounced off your shoulder.
“Not helping, Satoru.”
He tilted his head, white bangs falling over one eye. “Aw, c’mon. You know I live to help my favorite girl. So what’s the plan? Run away to Antarctica? I could probably freeze a nice little ice palace for us. Very romantic.”
You sighed and rubbed your temples. “I panicked when my mom called earlier. I told her I was already seeing someone. Seriously dating. Exclusively. She didn’t believe me, of course.”
The words hung in the air. Satoru’s smile widened slowly, dangerously, until it was that full, heart-stopping Gojo Satoru grin that made curses and sorcerers alike hesitate.
“Oh?” He scooted his chair closer until his knees bracketed yours. “And who is this mysterious boyfriend I haven’t heard about? Must be pretty special if you’re willing to lie to the clan elders.”
You met his gaze, cheeks already warming. “I… was kind of hoping you’d help me find someone. Just for a few months until they back off.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
“Satoru. No.”
“Yes,” he said immediately, voice dripping with delight. He reached out and poked your cheek repeatedly, like he was testing if you were real. “C’monnnn, it’ll be so much fun! We’ve been best friends for six years. I already know exactly how you like your coffee, which side of the bed you steal, and that you secretly hum that one annoying idol song when you think no one’s listening.”
You swatted his hand away, but he just laughed — that bright, infectious sound that always filled whatever room he was in.
“Strict rules,” you warned, holding up a finger. “This is fake. Three months maximum. Hand-holding and pet names only when people are watching. No kissing on the lips. No overstepping each other’s boundaries. And absolutely, positively, no catching feelings.”
Satoru clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Feelings? From me? The strongest sorcerer alive?” He poked your forehead gently. “You’re the one who’s gonna have to be careful, princess. I’m irresistible. What if you fall head over heels for my charm, my good looks, my incredible sense of humor—”
“Shut up,” you groaned, but you were smiling despite yourself.
“Make me,” he shot back, leaning in so close you could count the flecks of lighter blue in his eyes. “Future fake girlfriend~”
That was the moment everything started. You had no idea that your best friend, the man who had been quietly, hopelessly in love with you since the day you first called his infinity technique “a fancy party trick for show-offs” back in high school, had just been handed the perfect excuse to stop pretending.
The first official test came six days later: dinner at your family estate just outside Kyoto. The traditional Japanese garden was lit with soft lanterns, casting golden reflections on the koi pond. The air smelled of blooming cherry blossoms and the faint incense your mother always burned before important guests arrived.
Satoru arrived exactly on time (a miracle), stepping out of his sleek black car wearing a perfectly tailored black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the lean muscle there. He carried an enormous bouquet of your favorite flowers — pale pink peonies mixed with white lilies — and wore that same easy, confident grin.
Your mother’s eyes widened when she saw him. “Gojo Satoru… We had no idea the ‘someone’ you mentioned was… him.”
“Surprise!” Satoru exclaimed brightly, bowing with exaggerated elegance before straightening up and immediately sliding an arm around your waist. He pulled you flush against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand settled possessively on your hip, thumb brushing slow circles through the fabric of your dress. “Been keeping her all to myself these past few months. Couldn’t let the clans know I’d stolen away their brightest star, now could I?”
You pinched his side hard. He didn’t even flinch — just squeezed your hip in retaliation and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“Behave,” you whispered.
“Never,” he whispered back, breath warm against your hair. “That’s not in my contract, fake girlfriend.”
Dinner was an ordeal of polite questions and hidden landmines. Your father sat at the head of the low table, studying Satoru with careful eyes while servants brought course after course.
“So,” your father began, sipping sake, “what exactly are your intentions with our daughter, Gojo-san?”
Satoru leaned back casually, one arm draped along the back of your seat so his fingers could toy with the ends of your hair. He looked completely relaxed, but you felt the subtle way his knee pressed against yours under the table — steady, reassuring.
“My intentions?” He turned those brilliant eyes on you, and for a second the teasing softened into something warmer, deeper. “I intend to keep her happy. Spoil her absolutely rotten. Make sure she smiles every single day.” He poked your cheek right there at the table. “Even when she’s being all grumpy like right now. Look at her — isn’t she cute when she’s pretending not to like me?”
Your mother actually laughed. You wanted to sink into the floor.
Later, as the evening wound down, Satoru insisted on walking you through the garden “to sell the romance,” as he put it. The lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Crickets chirped. He kept your hand firmly in his, swinging it like a teenager.
“You’re laying it on way too thick,” you muttered once you were out of earshot.
“Too thick?” He gasped dramatically, stopping under a blooming cherry tree and tugging you closer. “I’m just being the perfect fake boyfriend. Attentive. Handsome. Charming. Everything that Nakamura guy could never be.” He poked your nose. “Admit it. You’re impressed.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are, dating me.” He winked. “Fake or not.”
The drive back to Tokyo took hours, but Satoru kept the conversation flowing effortlessly. He blasted music you both liked, sang horribly off-key on purpose just to make you laugh, and kept reaching over to poke your thigh or ruffle your hair at stoplights.
“You’re gonna have to get used to this, princess,” he said at one point, voice playful but eyes serious on the road. “Three whole months of me being disgustingly in love with you in public. Think you can handle it?”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart did a small, traitorous flip. “I’ve handled you for six years. I’ll survive.”
He just hummed, smiling that secret little smile.
Over the following weeks, the lines started blurring faster than you expected.
He showed up after every mission. One evening you emerged from a particularly nasty curse site — clothes torn, hair disheveled, a shallow cut on your cheek — and there he was, leaning against a streetlamp with two ice cream cones. The sunset painted his hair in soft pinks and golds.
“Rough day?” he asked, holding out your favorite flavor. Before you could answer, he stepped closer and gently brushed dirt from your cheek with his thumb. The touch lingered. His voice dropped, still teasing but softer. “My poor fake girlfriend. Can’t have you looking all messy like this. People might think I’m not taking care of you properly.”
You took the ice cream, cheeks warm. “You don’t have to do all this when no one’s watching, Satoru.”
He tilted his head, licking his own ice cream with exaggerated innocence. “But I want to. What kind of best-friend-fake-boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?” He poked your forehead. “Besides, you’re cute when you’re all flustered. Makes the whole thing more believable.”
He gradually moved things into his penthouse “for authenticity.” When you protested about clothes and toiletries appearing in his bathroom, he just pouted dramatically.
“What if your clan does a surprise visit? Gotta make it look real, right?” He held up one of your favorite hoodies, pressing it to his face. “Plus this looks way better on my couch than yours. Smells like you now. Best air freshener ever.”
Evenings became strangely domestic. He attempted to cook (failed spectacularly at omurice, burning the edges while you laughed until your sides hurt). He retaliated by teleporting behind you without warning, wrapping those long arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Caught you again,” he murmured against your ear, voice low and playful. “My fake girlfriend can’t escape the strongest. Where do you think you’re going?”
You elbowed him lightly. He released you with a laugh but not before pressing a quick, feather-light kiss to your temple. The gesture was becoming dangerously frequent.
Every single time you reminded him of the rules — “This is fake, remember?” — he would tilt his head, flash that bright, infuriating grin, and say in the sweetest voice:
“Hmm? But we’re dating though?”
The next two weeks settled into a rhythm that felt both thrilling and terrifyingly natural. Your clan had bought the relationship completely, your mother even sent a polite text saying how “delighted” she was that you’d chosen someone of Gojo’s caliber. The pressure for the arranged marriage evaporated overnight. Mission accomplished, right?
Except Satoru showed no signs of slowing down.
It was a Thursday evening when he texted you during a solo mission in Shinjuku.
Toru: Finished yet? I’m bored and my favorite fake girlfriend isn’t here to entertain me.
You rolled your eyes at the screen, wiping curse residue from your hands, but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.
By the time you emerged from the abandoned subway station, hair slightly messy and your jacket dusted with debris, he was already waiting. Leaning against a sleek black motorcycle this time (because of course he’d switched vehicles just to show off), two steaming cups of takeout ramen in his hands and that signature blindfold back in place.
“Princess! You took forever,” he complained loudly as you approached, but his voice was warm. He held out one cup, the rich aroma of miso broth and fresh green onions wafting up. “Here. Extra chashu because I know you’re secretly a glutton. Don’t say I never spoil you.”
You accepted the cup, fingers brushing his deliberately longer than necessary. “You didn’t have to wait. I could’ve just gone home.”
He tilted his head, white hair catching the neon lights from the surrounding buildings. “And miss seeing my girl all tired and cute after kicking curse ass? No way.” He poked your forehead gently with two fingers. “Besides, what kind of boyfriend leaves his girlfriend to eat sad convenience store onigiri alone? Not this one.”
“Fake boyfriend,” you corrected automatically.
Satoru just hummed, that playful grin stretching wide. “Hmm? But we’re dating though?” He swung a leg over the motorcycle and patted the seat behind him. “Hop on. I’m taking you back to my place. No arguments.”
The ride through Tokyo’s glittering streets was exhilarating. The cool night air whipped past as you wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt. He drove smoothly but with just enough speed to make your heart race, occasionally reaching back to squeeze your knee or poke your thigh when you stopped at lights.
“You’re holding on pretty tight for someone who claims this is all pretend,” he teased over his shoulder, voice carrying on the wind. “Scared I’ll drop you? Or just enjoying the view?”
“Eyes on the road, Satoru.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, but you caught him glancing at you in the side mirror more than once.
Back at his penthouse, the space felt even more lived-in with your things scattered around. A pair of your fuzzy socks lay on the coffee table. Your favorite blanket was draped over the couch. He’d even cleared a drawer in the bathroom for your skincare products “just in case.”
You collapsed onto the couch with your ramen, legs tucked under you. Satoru joined you moments later, shedding his jacket and dropping down so close that your thighs pressed together. He stole a piece of chashu from your bowl with his chopsticks, dodging your attempted swat with ease.
“Thief,” you accused.
“Sharing is caring, baby,” he shot back, poking your cheek twice in quick succession. “That’s what couples do. Or are you forgetting the script already?”
You ate in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights twinkling beyond the massive windows. The TV played some mindless rom-com in the background that neither of you was really watching. Satoru kept finding excuses to touch you — brushing imaginary dust from your shoulder, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, resting his arm along the back of the couch so his fingers could trace lazy patterns on your arm.
It felt too real. Dangerously real.
The next day brought the first real test of the jealousy department.
You were at Jujutsu High for a joint training session with a few second-years and some visiting sorcerers from allied clans. Satoru was supposed to be teaching, but he mostly lounged against the wall watching you spar with a tall, dark-haired sorcerer named Haruto from a smaller allied clan in Osaka — someone competent, polite, and clearly impressed by your technique.
“Good form,” Haruto said after you landed a solid hit, offering a genuine smile as he helped you up. His hand lingered on your elbow a second longer than strictly necessary. “You’re even better than the rumors. We should train together more often. Maybe grab coffee after?”
You opened your mouth to respond politely when a familiar presence appeared behind you like a shadow. Long arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a firm chest. Satoru’s chin dropped onto your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear.
“Hi there,” he said cheerfully, but there was an edge beneath the playfulness. “I’m Gojo Satoru. Her boyfriend. And you are…?”
Haruto blinked, clearly recognizing the strongest sorcerer, and took a respectful step back. “Ah— my apologies, Gojo-sama. I didn’t realize—”
Satoru’s grin widened, but his arms tightened around you. He poked your side lightly where Haruto couldn’t see. “Didn’t realize? She’s only the best thing in my life. Hard to miss, right?” He nuzzled closer, voice dropping into that teasing lilt. “Riiight, princess? Tell him how I keep you way too entertained to need coffee with anyone else.”
You elbowed him subtly. “Satoru, behave.”
“Never,” he whispered, then louder “She’s taken. Very happily. Extremely exclusively.” He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, lingering just enough to make a point. “Come on, baby. Let’s go get those limited-edition mochi before they sell out. Wouldn’t want my favorite girl missing out.”
He steered you away with a hand on your lower back, waving cheerfully at the stunned Haruto. Once you were out of earshot, near the training field’s edge under a cluster of trees, you spun on him.
“What was that? That was way more than hand-holding for show.”
Satoru tilted his head innocently, blindfold hiding his eyes but not the mischievous curve of his mouth. “What? I was just being supportive. My fake girlfriend almost got hit on by some no name sorcerer. Couldn’t let that slide.” He poked your nose. “You’re supposed to thank me. I saved you from boring small talk and mediocre coffee.”
“You’re jealous.” you accused, crossing your arms.
“Me? Jealous?” He laughed brightly, stepping closer until you were backed against the tree trunk. The bark was rough through your uniform jacket. “The strongest doesn’t get jealous. I’m just… very dedicated to our little performance.” His voice softened, fingers coming up to brush a leaf from your hair. “Can’t have anyone thinking they can take what’s mine, even if it’s pretend. Right?”
Your heart stuttered at the way he said “mine.” You swallowed hard. “This is fake, remember? Rules.”
“Hmm?” He leaned in, that infuriatingly pretty face inches from yours. You could smell his cologne again — crisp and sweet. “But we’re dating though?”
The moment stretched. His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second. The air felt charged, heavy with something neither of you had named yet. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle shift as he swayed just a fraction closer.
Then he pulled back with a dramatic sigh, poking your forehead again. “Kidding! You should see your face right now. So cute when you’re all serious.” He grabbed your hand, swinging it as he started walking. “C’mon. Real mochi time. My treat. Unless you’re too busy thinking about that guy’s coffee invitation?”
“I hate you,” you muttered, but you let him pull you along, fingers intertwined.
“You love me” he sang back without missing a beat.
That evening, back at his place again, the domestic routine continued. Satoru insisted on “couple movie night” to keep up appearances (even though no one from your clan was watching). He’d ordered an absurd amount of snacks: mochi, popcorn, those fancy imported chocolates he knew you liked — and changed into loose gray sweatpants and a black compression shirt that hugged his torso.
You sat cross-legged on the couch in one of his stolen hoodies, trying to focus on the movie. He kept shifting closer until you were practically in his lap. At one point during a quiet scene, he started playing with your hair, twirling strands around his long fingers.
“You’re distracted,” he observed, voice low and amused. “Thinking about Haruto again? Should I be worried my fake girlfriend has a type for polite, respectful guys who offer boring coffee dates?”
“Shut up,” you laughed, swatting his chest. Your hand lingered there, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “You’re the one who went full possessive mode earlier.”
“Possessive? Me?” He gasped theatrically, poking your ribs until you squirmed. “I prefer the term ‘enthusiastically committed.’ Big difference.” His fingers stilled, resting on your waist. “Besides… it’s nice, isn’t it? Having someone look out for you like this. Even if it’s just me being annoying.”
The sincerity under the teasing made your chest tighten. You looked up at him. The movie flickered across his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the soft fall of his hair. For once, he wasn’t wearing the blindfold, and those six-eyes glowed faintly in the dim light — beautiful and overwhelming.
“Yeah,” you admitted quietly. “It is nice.”
His grin softened into something warmer. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your cheek — all light, teasing touches that left your skin tingling. “See? Told you I’m the best fake boyfriend ever. No one else could pull this off.”
You didn’t correct him this time. The words “this is fake” died on your tongue as he pulled you closer, letting you rest your head against his shoulder. His arm wrapped around you securely, fingers tracing slow circles on your arm while the movie played on.
Later that night, after you’d both grown sleepy, he carried you to the guest room (technically your room now) when you dozed off. You stirred as he tucked you in, the blankets warm and smelling like him.
“Night, princess,” he whispered, brushing hair from your face. “Sweet dreams about your incredibly handsome, not-at-all-jealous fake boyfriend.”
You mumbled something incoherent. He chuckled softly and left the door cracked open, just in case
The weeks following the training incident passed in a hazy blur of domestic normalcy that was becoming harder and harder to label as “fake.” Every morning you woke up in Satoru’s guest room to the smell of slightly burnt toast and his overly cheerful voice calling you out for breakfast. Every evening he found new ridiculous ways to poke fun at you while pulling you closer on the couch. And every time you tried to remind yourself of the rules you’d set — three months, fake, no feelings — the words felt heavier on your tongue.
You were starting to feel conflicted.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Satoru had always been your best friend — the chaotic, untouchable force of nature who made everything lighter with his endless teasing. But lately, when he wrapped his arms around you from behind in the kitchen and whispered “Caught you again, princess” against your neck, your stomach did traitorous flips. When he looked at you with those brilliant blue eyes after removing his blindfold, the playful mask slipping for just a second into something softer, your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the rules.
This is dangerous, you thought one afternoon while staring at your reflection in his bathroom mirror. Your skincare products sat neatly beside his, a visual reminder of how intertwined your lives had become. He’s just playing the part. He’s always been dramatic like this. Don’t read into it.
But then he’d poke your cheek and call you “my favorite girl” and the line between pretend and real blurred even more.
You were still wrestling with these thoughts when a summons came from the higher-ups.
A special-grade curse had manifested in an abandoned industrial district on the outskirts of Yokohama. Reports described it as massive, intelligent, and capable of manipulating shadows into lethal weapons. They wanted the strongest available sorcerers on it immediately.
Naturally, they assigned you and Satoru together.
“Perfect!” Satoru exclaimed when he read the mission briefing on his phone, lounging on the couch with his long legs draped over the armrest. “A little date night mission. How romantic. I’ll even let you take the lead, princess, but only because I’m such a generous fake boyfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, adjusting the straps of your uniform. “This is serious, Satoru. Special grade. Focus.”
He sat up in one fluid motion, that signature grin spreading across his face. “I’m always focused when it comes to you.” He crossed the room in two strides and poked your forehead. “Besides, with me there, it’ll be over in five minutes. Then we can get crepes after. My treat.”
Before leaving the penthouse, Satoru grabbed his usual mission bag while you double-checked your own supplies. The drive to Yokohama was filled with his usual banter. He kept reaching over to poke your thigh or flick your ear whenever you tried to review the curse’s reported abilities. “Stop being all serious. You’re cute when you’re focused, but you’re even cuter when you’re annoyed at me.”
Upon arriving at the edge of the sprawling industrial district — a maze of rusted warehouses, overgrown lots, and crumbling concrete — Satoru parked the car in a shadowed alley. The sun was already setting, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples, but the area felt unnaturally dark. Cursed energy hung thick in the air.
“Veil first,” he said, suddenly more focused. He stepped out of the car and you followed. Standing side by side at the perimeter, he raised one hand toward the sky while you channeled your own cursed energy to support the barrier.
“Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness,” Satoru chanted in that effortlessly confident voice. “Purify that which is impure.”
A massive, semi-transparent black dome began to form overhead, expanding rapidly to cover the entire industrial zone. The veil sealed the area off from the outside world — hiding the upcoming battle from civilians, containing any cursed energy leaks, and preventing the special-grade from escaping. The air inside the veil grew heavier, the outside world now muted and distant beyond the dark translucent walls.
You reinforced it with your own technique, adding layers of stability so it wouldn’t crumble under the curse’s influence. “Solid. Should hold even if things get messy.”
Satoru glanced at you with a proud little smirk. “Look at us, working together like a real power couple. My fake girlfriend is so responsible.” He poked your side. “Cute. Now let’s go shred this thing so I can brag about you later.”
The industrial district inside the veil was eerily quiet except for the low hum of cursed energy. Shadows seemed to twist on their own, reacting to the special-grade’s presence.
The lower-grade curses swarmed first, emerging from the shadows like oily smoke. Satoru handled most of them with casual flicks of his fingers, Blue and Red tearing through them in brilliant flashes of cursed energy. But he made sure to leave several for you, calling out teasing commentary the whole time.
“Nice one! That spin-kick was almost as pretty as me,” he laughed after you sliced through three curses with a condensed energy blade. “But you missed one on your left — oop, never mind, you got it. Show-off.”
You worked in perfect sync, years of friendship translating into seamless combat rhythm. He’d create openings with his Infinity and limitless techniques, and you’d strike through them with precision and raw power. The veil above flickered occasionally as cursed energy clashed against it, but it held strong thanks to both of your efforts.
Then the special-grade appeared.
It was enormous. A hulking mass of writhing shadows and jagged limbs, eyes glowing like burning coals across its torso. It roared, and the shadows around it lashed out like whips, cracking concrete and shattering nearby windows. The force made the veil ripple visibly overhead.
“Finally, the main event,” Satoru said cheerfully, cracking his neck. “You want first dibs, princess?”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you charged.
Adrenaline surged through you as you channeled massive amounts of cursed energy into your palms. The special-grade swung a shadow tendril the size of a car. You dodged with practiced grace, leaping onto a stack of rusted shipping containers for height. With a sharp cry, you unleashed a barrage of energy lances — each one honed to perfection, piercing through the curse’s defenses and exploding on impact.
The curse screamed, shadows flailing wildly. One caught you across the shoulder, tearing fabric and drawing blood, but you didn’t falter. You pushed forward, condensing a massive blade of pure cursed energy above your head. It glowed brilliant violet, humming with power. The veil above strained slightly from the buildup but remained intact.
“Satoru — cover me!” you shouted.
He was already there, Infinity flaring brightly to deflect incoming attacks while keeping the veil stable. “Anything for you, baby~”
With a final, powerful thrust, you brought the blade down. It sliced clean through the special-grade’s core, energy exploding outward in a devastating wave. The curse let out one final, ear-splitting wail before disintegrating into black ichor that sprayed across the area — and across you.
You landed hard on the cracked pavement, breathing heavily, covered head to toe in thick, dark cursed blood. It dripped from your hair, stained your uniform, and clung to your skin in sticky rivulets. The metallic, acrid scent filled the air, but the curse was gone. Completely eradicated. The veil above began to dissolve slowly as Satoru released it now that the threat was eliminated.
Silence fell over the ruined district inside the fading barrier.
You straightened up, wiping blood from your eyes, and turned to find Satoru standing a few meters away, staring at you.
He wasn’t moving. Wasn’t speaking. Wasn’t even grinning.
His six eyes were wide, glowing brighter than you’d ever seen them, fixed entirely on you. The usual playful mask had slipped completely, replaced by something raw and reverent. His chest rose and fell a little faster than normal, white hair disheveled from the fight, but he looked at you like you were the most breathtaking thing he’d ever witnessed.
Like you were the most perfect being to ever exist.
“…Satoru?” you asked, voice slightly hoarse from the battle.
He blinked once, slowly, then walked toward you with deliberate steps. The playful tone returned, but it was softer, threaded with genuine awe.
“Holy shit, princess,” he breathed, stopping just in front of you. He reached out and gently flicked a clump of cursed blood from your shoulder. “That was… insane. You just absolutely shredded a special grade like it was nothing. Look at you — covered in its blood, standing there like a goddamn warrior goddess.”
He poked your cheek, but the touch lingered, his finger tracing along your jaw almost tenderly. “I knew you were strong, but this? This was on another level. You’re incredible. The way you condensed that energy blade… the precision, the power…” His voice dropped, eyes tracing over your blood-stained form with open admiration. “You’re perfect. Absolutely, ridiculously perfect.”
Your heart hammered in your chest. The conflict you’d been feeling all week surged forward, hot and confusing. This wasn’t just teasing. The way he looked at you right now — like you hung the moon and stars — made your stomach twist with warmth and fear at the same time.
“Don’t stare like that,” you muttered, trying to play it off. You wiped more blood from your face, but it only smeared. “It’s just a mission. We shredded it together, like always.”
He tilted his head, that bright grin finally returning, but his eyes stayed soft. “Yeah, but you did most of the shredding. My fake girlfriend is a total badass. I’m feeling a little threatened, honestly.” He poked your forehead twice. “What if you become the strongest instead of me? Then I’ll have to retire and become your house husband. Make you bentos every day. Carry your bags. Tell everyone how my wife could kick their ass.”
You laughed despite the whirlwind in your chest. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stunning,” he replied without missing a beat. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, careful even with the blood. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up before you scare the civilians. Can’t have my girl walking around looking like a horror movie extra — even if she looks hot as hell doing it.”
The ride back was quieter than usual. Satoru kept glancing over at you, his usual rapid-fire teasing replaced with occasional soft pokes and comments about how “stupidly cool” you were. Back at his penthouse, he drew you a bath without being asked, adding fancy salts he’d apparently bought “just because.”
As you soaked away the cursed blood, staring at the ceiling, the conflict deepened. Every sweet gesture, every teasing word, every look of awe from him chipped away at the wall you’d built.
This is fake, you reminded yourself again.
But your heart wasn’t listening anymore.
You stepped out of the bath wrapped in one of Satoru’s oversized towels, the soft white fabric clinging to your still-damp skin. The hot water had washed away the last traces of cursed blood, but it couldn’t ease the storm raging inside your chest. Steam curled around you as you padded into the hallway, hair wet and dripping down your back.
The penthouse was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below. You expected to find Satoru on the couch setting up the movie night, but instead he was leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom door, arms crossed, wearing nothing but loose gray sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips.
His six eyes were uncovered, glowing faintly as they traced over you — slow, deliberate, and hungry in a way that made your breath catch.
“Took you long enough, princess,” he drawled, that signature teasing grin spreading across his face. But there was a roughness to his voice tonight. “I was starting to think you were gonna hide in there all night. Scared I’d see you looking all soft and fresh out of my bath?”
You clutched the towel tighter. “Satoru… the takeout should be here soon. We were supposed to—”
He pushed off the wall in one smooth motion and closed the distance between you. One long finger reached out and poked your bare shoulder, then trailed slowly down your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“Takeout can wait,” he murmured. His eyes dropped to where the towel met the swell of your breasts. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day, you know that? Covered in that curse’s blood like some kind of beautiful disaster… looking at me like you owned the whole battlefield.” He leaned in closer, breath warm against your ear. “My perfect, strong, fake girlfriend.”
Your heart hammered. The conflict you’d been drowning in all evening crested like a wave. “Satoru… this is supposed to be fake. We had rules.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, head tilted, that infuriatingly playful smile still in place. But his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “Hmm? But we’re dating though?” He poked your cheek gently, then let his finger slide down to trace your collarbone. “You really think I’ve been pretending this whole time? Six years, princess. Six years of wanting you and finally getting to touch you like this.”
Before you could respond, he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you.
It wasn’t the careful forehead kisses or temple brushes he’d been giving you for weeks. This was deep, hungry, and devastating. His lips were soft but demanding, tongue sweeping into your mouth the moment you gasped. You melted into it instantly, hands fisting in his hair as all the suppressed feelings came rushing out.
He groaned against your mouth — low and wrecked. “Fuck… you taste even better than I imagined.”
The towel slipped slightly as he walked you backward into his bedroom. The backs of your knees hit the edge of his massive bed and you tumbled down together, Satoru catching himself above you on his forearms. He hovered there, white hair falling around his face like a curtain, staring down at you like you were something sacred.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, voice teasing but raw. “My strong, beautiful girl… thinking you could set rules and I’d actually follow them.” He poked your nose, then kissed it. “Cute. But I’m done pretending.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring every second. His hand slid down your side, tugging the towel open with one smooth motion. Cool air hit your bare skin and you shivered. Satoru pulled back to look at you fully, eyes roaming greedily over every inch.
“Shit,” he breathed, reverent. “Look at you. Absolutely perfect.” He leaned down and pressed open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, then lower, sucking lightly at the curve of your breast. When his tongue flicked over your nipple you arched into him with a soft moan.
He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending sparks through you. “So sensitive already? I’ve barely started.” He poked your ribs playfully. “Don’t hold back those pretty sounds, princess. I wanna hear how much my fake girlfriend likes this.”
“Satoru—” you gasped as he took your nipple into his mouth, sucking and teasing with his tongue while his hand kneaded the other breast. Your fingers tangled tighter in his hair.
He worked his way down your body with the same teasing thoroughness — kissing your stomach, nipping at your hips, spreading your thighs with gentle but firm hands. When he settled between your legs, he looked up at you with that wicked grin.
“Been dying to taste you,” he admitted, voice husky. He poked the inside of your thigh. “You gonna let me, baby?”
You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. He didn’t need more encouragement.
Satoru licked a slow, broad stripe up your pussy, groaning at your taste. “So wet already. All for me?” He circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, then sucked it gently into his mouth. The sensation ripped a cry from your throat.
He ate you out like a man starved — messy, enthusiastic, and relentless. Long fingers joined his tongue, sliding into you with ease and curling against that perfect spot inside while he continued lavishing attention on your clit. Every few seconds he’d pull back just enough to tease you with words.
“Look at you falling apart on my tongue,” he murmured, lips shiny. “My badass sorceress… so sweet and needy. You gonna come for your boyfriend?”
The word “boyfriend”, said so possessively, pushed you over the edge. Your thighs clamped around his head as pleasure crashed through you, hips bucking against his face. He didn’t stop, licking you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive.
When he finally pulled back, his chin was wet and his eyes were blazing. He crawled up your body and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Good girl,” he praised against your lips. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
You reached down and palmed him through his sweatpants. He was rock hard, impressively long and thick. Satoru hissed, hips jerking into your touch.
“Eager, huh?” he teased, but his voice was strained. He shoved the sweatpants down, freeing himself. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly. He was velvet steel, already leaking at the tip.
“Princess… if you keep that up I’m not gonna last,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “Want to be inside you. Been dreaming about it for years.”
He reached into the nightstand and grabbed a condom, rolling it on quickly. Then he was back between your thighs, rubbing the head of his cock against your slick folds.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, suddenly serious beneath the teasing. “Tell me you want me, fake rules be damned.”
“I want you,” you whispered, pulling him down for another kiss. “Satoru, please—”
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open with a low, guttural moan. “Fuuck… so tight. So perfect. Taking me so well, baby.”
When he bottomed out, he stilled, buried deep inside you. Both of you were breathing hard. He kissed you softly, then started moving — deep, rolling thrusts that hit every sensitive spot inside you.
The pace quickly grew faster. Satoru fucked you with the same cocky confidence he did everything else, but there was overwhelming tenderness underneath. He kept one hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head. Every few thrusts he’d lean down to kiss you, or poke your cheek, or whisper filthy praises.
“That’s it… take every inch like the strong girl you are,” he panted, snapping his hips harder. “My perfect woman. Gonna make you come again. Want to feel you squeezing me.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back. The angle let him hit deeper, and soon you were moaning his name like a prayer. He reached between you and rubbed tight circles on your clit, pushing you toward the edge again.
“Come on, princess,” he growled, voice teasing but desperate. “Come for me. Let me feel how much you love your boyfriend’s cock.”
The orgasm hit you like a train, harder than the first. You cried out, clenching around him rhythmically. Satoru groaned loudly, thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release.
“Fuck— baby— I’m gonna—” He buried himself deep and came with a broken moan, hips stuttering as he filled the condom.
For a long moment afterward, the only sounds were your heavy breathing. Satoru collapsed half on top of you, careful not to crush you, face buried in your neck. He pressed soft kisses there, lazy and sweet.
Eventually he pulled out gently and disposed of the condom before crawling back into bed and pulling you against his chest. His fingers traced slow patterns on your bare back.
“So…” he started, voice light again, “still think this is fake?”
You laughed breathlessly, hiding your face in his chest. “You’re impossible.”
He poked your side. “And you’re stuck with me now. Real boyfriend privileges activated.” He kissed the top of your head, voice softening. “I meant every word, you know. I’ve been in love with you for years.”
You looked up at him, heart full. “I think… I’ve been falling for you too. For a while.”
His grin was blinding. “Took you long enough, princess.”
He pulled the covers over both of you and held you close, teasing and sweet as always, but now completely, wonderfully real.
˚ ༘ 🍼𖦹⋆｡˚ a pledge to keep series masterlist ˚ ༘ 🍼𖦹⋆｡˚
summary: getting knocked up by your older brother’s fratbro wasn't exactly apart of your five year plan. least of all with notorious fuck boy ryomen sukuna.
pairing: frat!kuna x reader
content: everything in this series is considered 18+ so not minor friendly! contains mature content such as rough sex, breeding, spanking, spit play, lactation kink, descriptive child birth, postpartum depression, probably more
dividers by: @petalpxl | series moodboard | art by lorinmower
chapter one: how you met \ chapter two: of course it's yours, you fucking idiot!
chapter three: meeting the itadori's \ chapter four: hospitals and hot dad walks
chapter five: fratuncles \ chapter six: more than co-parents
chapter seven: graduation \ epilogue
series oneshots/drabbles:
1. stinky feet bandit ❀ 2. late night feeds ❀ 3. daddy's little poop monster ❀ 4. baby carrier experiment ❀ 5. yuji loves his baby cousin
cw/notes: everyone is 18+ // soulmates/college au // fluff // they're oblivious // hc for my oneshot I'm working on // 'opposites' attract // lil bit of silly goofy stuff
soulmate!megumi who gets on your nerves the second you meet him, every little thing he does somehow managing to irritate the living hell out of you. The way he's always looking at you, always questioning everything you say—which is more annoying when he's so reserved and quiet with anyone else. And somehow, as if the universe hates you, you get paired together as labmates, stuck with each other your entire freshman year of college.
soulmate!megumi is so different from you. At least, that's what you thought for the longest time. Until you're forced to spend hours with him, days, weeks spent together doing countless labs, and one day, when the two of you are in your dorm, finishing up a project, feeling like you're about to rip your hair out if he questions one more thing you do, you start losing it on him, before suddenly bursting out laughing, because this is stupid. All of this is stupid. And a second later, he's joining in, doubled over in a fit of laughter.
From there, all you really remember is you and Megumi. It all happened so suddenly, the two of you doing everything together. How quickly he became your safety, your comfort, like you could tell him anything at all and he'd just listen. You guess that's how you end up telling him about your birthmark… and the weird recurring dreams that keep getting worse, since you moved here for college. And when you admit you think the man in your dreams might be your soulmate, instead of laughing at you, he quietly tells you he's been experiencing the same thing.
That's when the two of you make a pact to find each other's soulmate.
soulmate!megumi and you suck at double dating. Not because you're bad at picking people to date, but because every single person you choose ends up being each other's soulmate. Every date ending the same, the two of you all alone, questioning how this keeps happening. You even start joking about it, how ironic it is that you're both so good at finding everyone else's soulmate, but can't find your own.
Eventually, you both give up on the idea. Honestly, you give up on believing in soulmates entirely. And one night, when it's just the two of you, lying on his dorm bed, he rolls over to face you.
"I know you're not my soulmate," he says, before sheepishly admitting, "but I think I really like you."
"I…" Your heart hammers in your chest, "I… think I like you too."
His eyes flick down to your lips, leaving you breathless, "In another world… If soulmates are real…" He murmurs, his lips ghosting over yours. "I wish more than anything I'm yours."
As always ty for any reblogs, comments, and likesss <3
synopsis: with no friends and a wallet full of cash, you concoct one last idea to make your final semester one to remember. paying everyone's favorite pretty playboy to pretend to be your boyfriend to complete your college bucket list before you start the life your family is forcing you into. but you might be buying far more than you bargained for.
pairings: broke!Geto x rich!Reader x dropout!Sukuna
content: mdni, angst and fluff and smut, college au, fake dating, pining, yearning, falling in love, jealousy, hurt/comfort, piv sex, drunk sex, oral (m! + f! receiving), car sex, making out, drinking and parties, piercings/tattoos, complicated feelings, regret, healing, more tags in each part
bsf!yuji, who’s always so touchy with you—constantly clinging to you like a second skin, his big arms always wrapped around your waist, his cheek always pressed against yours, always hovering close to you whenever he can, ‘it’s what friends do!’ is all he says before pressed his lips at the crook of your neck slowly sniffing your perfume while tightening his grip around your body.
bsf!yuji, who always gets so jealous when you go on dates, constantly pouting when you get home with hickeys hidden under your shirt, staring at you like you did something criminal, still pressing his lips to the hickeys, all but fighting the urge to sink his teeth into your skin, marking you as his.
bsf!yuji, who doesn’t understand why would need anybody else’s help when he’s right there—willing to do absolutely anything for you, picking you up with flowers after shitty dates, taking you out on late night snack runs when you’re in on your head studying for your stupid exams, cuddling you to sleep during thunderstorms, your face smushed into his muscular chest, drowning out the noises outside while you drift away to sleep.
bsf!yuji, who doesn’t exactly understand why his heart beats faster when he’s around you—you’re just friends! buddies! platonic soulmates! or so he says, but he can’t ignore the way his chest tightens whenever you mention somebody you’re talking to, already trying to find ways to critique them and about how none of them are any good for you.
bsf!yuji, who kisses you for ‘practice’. it’s what friends do, right? he needs to know what he’s doing when he kisses someone! his hands are already planted around your waist while you straddle his lap, his soft moans spilling onto your lips while you slide your tongue against his lips, his hands moving closer and closer to your chest while his lips stay planted on yours.
bsf!yuji, who starts kissing you like it’s second nature—the two of you are used to it, after all! it’s completely platonic, or so he says. and your lips are just so soft and warm and fit so perfectly against his, he just can’t help it :c
bsf!yuji, who always shows up dishevelled, hair sticking up at awkward angles when he can’t fall asleep—flopping on your bed and sniffing your sheets, flipping over and pawing the air so he can cuddle you to sleep.
bsf!yuji, who massages your stomach when your period cramps start getting to you, his palms warm while he applies a consistent pressure to your stomach while you try not to curl in on yourself.
bsf!yuji, who’s always at your every beck and call—you could call him at the dead of night, and he’d be dressed and ready to show up at your place. need food? say less, he’s driving to the convenience store, stocking up on snacks, showing up at your door, the two of you sitting on the floor, twilight playing in the background while you stuffed your face with shitty ramen and chips.
bsf!yuji, who cant bring himself to accept that he’s fallen in love with you. wholly and utterly down bad, and boy, he’d do anything to call you his, his girl but he’s petrified that you’d say no—that you’re better off as friends when he knows you guys could be so much better as something more.
i love him :3
all works belong to @lilithkleii do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI, lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
