without a trace | gojo satoru x reader [one shot] 18+
❀ pairing - spiderman!gojo x black cat!reader
❀ summary - gojo has always prided himself on being a hero- the kind who upholds the standard for justice. only one person has ever made him question that moral line: you. and when you disappeared, he thought that part of him disappeared with you, burying himself in this new title of your friendly neighborhood spiderman. but when you return, he realizes there's almost nothing he wouldn't risk if it meant keeping you this time.
❀ warnings/tags - 18+, ex situationship, spiderman canon violence, very bad flirting, banter, mutual pining, angst, hurt/no comfort, toxic (ish) situationship, self aware gojo, reader is a cat burglar, cheating (kinda sorta depending how you look at it), reader is the other woman, geto being the voice of reason as always, pistol whipping, author uses y/n, selfish gojo, gojo is hard on himself, edging, dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, possessive gojo
❀ wc - 13.8k
a/n - hi guys! this has been sitting in my drafts for a loooong time but i finally hunkered down and finished writing (instead of studying for my boards oopsies) funny how much u can accomplish when ur procrastinating sth else. anyways this is loosely based on some spiderman blackcat edits i saw on tiktok from the marvel video game. fanart creds here[x] also i didnt rlly proof read bc i was rushing to get it out so if you see typos, no u didnt. as always, hope u guys enjoy this absolute BEAST. see u at the end! <3
Gojo slips in through the skylight of the Tokyo National Museum, leaving it cracked open juuust enough for him to slide out later–in case he needs a quick escape. He makes an effort to creep through the shadows, though the flicker of moonlight that spills in from the windows catches the white of his hair occasionally.
There was a tip sent in that there’s supposed to be a break-in at the museum tonight. Something about some crown jewels–an irreplaceable artifact so he hears–that’s already being auctioned off on the dark web.
Every tiny sound echoes in the silence of the building–aside from the hum of electricity emitting from the silent alarm system he was careful not to trigger–including the sound of his footsteps. He moves along the polished marble flooring, conscious of the tapping of his boots on tile.
He stands out against the darkness of the building, blue light glowing faintly where the web pattern traces his muscles. The spider emblem across his chest pulses soft light–the spider-tech having been synced to his heartbeat.
Then, the faint static of a voice in his ear–Mei.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight. Don’t tell me you’re actually focused for once?”
The corner of his lip quirks under his mask as he side-steps around a display pedestal. “I’m always focused.”
“Mhm, sure. What’re you looking at?”
“Whole lotta nothing. Starting to think your tip was off.”
“It wasn’t my tip–”
He half-listens to her speech as his eyes scan the room. Nothing seems off, no spidey-senses tingling yet–he doesn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Either absolutely nothing is wrong or everything is about to go horribly terribly wrong. Like baby shower fireworks setting off a forest fire wrong. He continues his pace through the museum, moving methodically towards the next exhibit. His eyes flicker towards different display cases every now and then to ensure nothing is out of place.
But Gojo is by no means a history buff nor had he ever really cared about artworks created by a bunch of dead people or historical artifacts stolen from other countries so he can’t exactly say if something’s been replaced by a fake or a decoy. He’s just relying on that spider-induced sixth sense of his.
Then, something breaks his rhythmic stride. The hum of the silent alarm system he was so careful not to set off cuts out–silence–and then sound that doesn’t belong. A soft metallic clink of a vent or pipes or something from somewhere above him.
His entire body stills instantly, senses sharpening as his eyes track the sound, following the ceiling panels. Mei’s voice through the comms device in his ear continues but it’s mostly tuned out as he focuses his hearing.
The air shifts, the faintest whisper of movement behind him.
Gojo turns toward the sound instantaneously, catching a blur of black and silver in his peripheral vision.
A dark figure drops through an opening where the ceiling vent was, twisting midair in a controlled flip before landing in a crouch on top of a glass display case. Moonlight slides over the sleek black fabric of a skintight suit–leather he assumes. A pair of mask-covered eyes lift from the glass to lock on his cerulean ones from across the room.
You.
“...You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Gojo breathes out a sharp exhale. He’s not sure what the feeling curling through his chest is, something between bewilderment and curiosity.
The last time he saw you…
The memory is simultaneously fuzzy in his brain yet crystal clear.
“–What’s going on? Are you okay?” Mei’s voice cuts through the slight static in his earpiece, pulling his attention.
He’s staring up at you with rounded eyes, a little dumbfounded as you look down at him from your position.
“Uhh… I’m gonna have to call you back.”
“Wait–Gojo, what’s–”
He hangs up before she can finish.
The echo of the disconnected line fades into silence. The smile on your lips is dangerously sweet and he starts to feel that spidey tingling sensation in his fingertips screaming at him that something’s wrong.
You tilt your head, tone light and teasing. “Miss me, Spider?”
His jaw tightens at the sound of his alias on your tongue
“Black Cat.” His voice comes out low, rough–firm like your name is an announcement as opposed to an acknowledgement.
You hum in response, grinning as you propel yourself into a forward flip, dropping down from the display case. You land lightly only a few feet from him. Always showing off, if he recalls correctly. The sound of your boots hitting the floor is barely audible as you take another slow step toward him.
Your movements are cat-like, prowling toward him and invading his space. You’re close enough now that he can smell you, catching the sweet and sharp traces of your perfume. Like poison disguised as sugary syrup.
“You look good,” you murmur, gaze dragging down the lines of his chest, voice dripping with amusement. “You been workin’ out?”
He blinks. He wonders if you can sense his hesitation or the slight falter in his breathing before he’s chuckling awkwardly, “Oh, um, yeah… heh.”
His hand reflexively moves to rub the back of his neck.
“Mmm,” you hum as you circle him slowly, “And, uh… you got a girlfriend nowadays?”
The words come out like a purr, lazy and relaxed. He wonders if the question is a setup.
He hasn’t seen you in years.
Would you know if he has a girlfriend?
Do you keep up with his personal life?
Are you jealous?
The thought settles warm in his chest, scratching something deep and territorial (and possibly toxic masculine) inside his gut. Not exactly something he’d be proud to admit out loud to anyone.
You reach out to him, slow and deliberate with a gloved claw. The sharp nails of your suit drag against the thin material of his suit. The fabric catches as you trace the hard lines of his shoulder, then down the slope of his chest. You stop abruptly just under his sternum.
He inhales sharply, a quiet sound that betrays him more than he’d like. A chill runs down his spine.
“Uh… that’s a lot of questions,” he manages to get out finally, voice a touch higher than usual.
“What?” You feign genuine curiosity as smile at him, lips curling up mischievously. “I’m just curious…”
You look up at him through your lashes, batting your eyes with faux innocence. You continue drawing a path past his sternum, sharp claw moving along the defined muscles of his abdomen. You’re close enough now that he can see the reflection of the spider symbol glowing blue in your eyes.
Your eyes. Wow.
He forces a swallow, throat bobbing. His large hand closes gently around your wrist, stopping your gloved claw and pulls it away from his torso. He doesn’t drop your hand.
“Heard that’s bad for cats.” The amusement is audible in his tone, even through the mask.
Your grin fades for a split second when somewhere outside, the sound of sirens begins to rise. Still faint but approaching rapidly. His eyes drop to your lips and when they make their way back to your eyes, the cat-like smile is back on your lips. You take a step back from him and he releases his grip on your wrist easily.
“Still funny, I see.”
“Still stealing things that don’t belong to you, I see.”
The statement feels like it’s about more than just the multiple burglaries he’s caught you in.
“Are we still talking about these?” You reach into the small compartment of your suit, pulling the jewels into the slant of the moonlight. The gems catch the traces of lowlight, scattering color across your face. “Hmm,” you drag your gaze from the gems to meet his, “guess I’ve got a type.”
You say it like you’re going to shoot him a wink but it never comes.
He instinctively reaches for them and then you’re gone, sending yourself into a backwards flip with feline adjacent grace. The distance opens between you and him in an instant. You tuck the jewels back into your suit, smoothing the fabric over them, sealing them seamlessly. You launch yourself again, higher this time, to the top of a display case positioned directly beneath the skylight.
Gojo thinks you look beautiful with the moonlight framing your figure. Like something out of his dreams. He shamelessly lets his eyes trail over the curve of your ass in the catsuit.
“Thanks for keeping an escape route open for me,” you call down, teasing laced in your words.
He just stands there dumbly, staring up at you as his pulse thrums against his throat.
It’s been years but you’re still you, you talk the same, smell the same, move the same.
And then he’s struck by the sudden realization he doesn’t know where you’ve been. You just vanished one day without a trace. He told himself that you’d finally stopped stealing and that it’d be better if he stopped caring.
Maybe you found a better life for yourself.
Or maybe you stole the wrong thing from the wrong person and died.
Though there was never a body.
And Geto convinced him that he eventually had to stop calling the morgue to ask if any unidentified bodies showed up.
And now you’re here again.
He remembers how it used to be.
When he first became Spider-Man, before you had made the name Black Cat for yourself and you were just you. Just a girl who was trying to fill some void by being a Robin Hood of sorts.
When the two of you would play this game of cat and mouse. Sometimes he’d catch you, corner you mid heist and web you so he could take back whatever it was that you had stolen.
Sometimes, he’d catch you. Sometimes, you let him. Sometimes, he’d let you go. It became like a game to the both of you.
It happened once or twice when the two of you had to team up, unlikely allies with two different goals in mind. Something mutually beneficial. He sought justice and you sought whatever you could steal. Whether it was from a corrupt political figure or some yakuza affiliate. If it helped both of you, he’d sometimes turn a blind eye.
And somewhere in between all of that–the blurred lines and adrenaline rushes, the way you both stopped keeping track of who won last time—it got messy and addictive. And then turned unresolved.
You eventually disappeared and when he couldn’t track you down, he figured it was only right to move on. Kind of.
Sure, you were always in the back of his mind but whatever he had with you wasn’t right. It was morally incorrect, all things considered. But he had met Mei. And even though they aren’t really together, she was right. Someone good, safe, someone who doesn’t make him question which side he’s really on. Someone who keeps him on the right side of history. And it wasn’t like you and him were ever really together.
Maybe he really just has some strange non-commital thing going on deep in his psyche. He should really see a therapist about that.
And then, he looks up at you now, standing there in the glow of the moon, body silhouetted against the open skylight, light rain dripping through the opening.
His voice drops, quiet and almost hesitant. “Let’s… let’s talk.”
You glance down at him, eyes low and humor in your voice. “Little late for that, hmm, Spider-Man?”
You shoot him a wink then rise to your feet. Your arm reaches up, catching the edge of the skylight. In one smooth, quick motion, you pull yourself through and then you’re gone.
Gojo stands there for a moment, staring up at the space where you once were. He exhales, long and slow, debating his decision. He should move. He should have shot a web, closed that gap, and stopped you. But he couldn’t. He feels that same ache in his chest that he had years ago.
Does this begin the game of cat and mouse again?
Or will you disappear again like last time?
Outside, the sirens grow increasingly louder.
A beat.
He decides not to think and just moves. He shoots a web from his wrist, firing toward the ceiling. The thread sticks just beside the open skylight. The line draws tight as he launches upward, muscles tightening as he slips through the glass frame and into the Tokyo night.
The night air hits him cold and sharp as rain falls gently. The neon lights of the city paint colors across the wet skyline, reflecting the slick rooftops in flashes of blue and pink. The sound of the city folds into the wind rushing past his ears as he swings, trying to get to a higher position.
There you are, sprinting across the roofline. Your movements are smooth, each leap landing calculated like you’re floating across the rooftops despite the rain wetting the tiles.
With a newfound surge of energy, he slings himself through the city, desperate to catch up to you. He moves in short bursts, opting to propel himself rather than taking the leisurely swings he normally does. He watches as you glance over your shoulder, surprised at the pace he’s moving.
You vault over a railing, pushing yourself off of it to clear a gap between buildings, back arched and legs extending in perfect rhythm. He fires his web from both arms, shooting himself forward like a slingshot as he increasingly closes the gap.
He’s close behind you now and he can tell you’re panicked. Your movements are becoming more erratic as you try to lose him, cutting between buildings and making unpredictable turns.
He swings low, web stretching wide before he releases and fires another. The web lands right behind you as you backflip to dodge the web. You cut left, disappearing behind a building. It takes him a second to redirect his shot, pulling from his shoulder as he forces his body in the new direction. As he rounds the corner, he watches as you flip down another level, slipping through scaffolding.
In a juvenile way, the chase almost feels fun again.
He fires another web from both hands, pulling himself up and over instead of down to where you’ve just landed. You give him a glance over your shoulder, gauging where he is and he hopes his idea works.
He swings above the building, landing on the rooftop. He doesn’t give himself time to breathe before he’s sprinting to the other side, praying you’re not as unpredictable as you seem. He dives off the edge of the roof headfirst.
As he’s falling, he sees your form sprinting in his direction, though it doesn’t seem like you’ve realized he’s free-falling right in front of you. He fires another web from directly above you, the line whips through the air and catches your ankle mid-stride.
You stumble, momentum yanking your leg back to where it’s attached to the rooftop by his web. Your reflexes, fast and instinctual at this point, force your body to tuck and roll, twisting midair to break your fall. Your palms slide against the concrete and land on your feet in a crouch position.
He barely has time to launch a web to catch himself, catching onto a metal beam jutting from a half-finished construction site. He nearly pulls his shoulders from their sockets from the pure force of momentum.
When you finally get to your feet, Gojo is there, hanging upside down. The beam is a part of a rooftop renovation with scaffolding scattered around it. Orange safety lights blink weakly in the rain, illuminating your face as he’s suspended in front of you, the line holding him steady.
“Black Cat.” His mask glows blue, a stark contrast to the dark. “Now, can we talk… like normal people?” His tone is teasing and nonchalant, despite being upside down.
You tilt your head, eyes glinting in the rain, a smirk playing on your lips. “What’s not normal about this?”
Before he can muster a response, you take a step forward and tug his mask just past his mouth. He freezes. You lean in, lips brushing his in a quick, soft kiss.
It’s over before he can fully register it.
His heart catches in his chest, every thought blanking for half a second. He’s not exactly sure if you only kissed him to throw him off or because you actually wanted to.
Probably both.
“Soo…” you pull back with that same sly smile, voice sweet and taunting, “No girlfriend, huh?”
“Always worried about the wrong thing.” He exhales, half a sigh and half a laugh, as he drops down from the web and lands in front of you. “She’s just a friend.”
“Right.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Neither was I.”
So you have been keeping up with him.
He steps closer, hand brushing your waist as he starts feeling along the seams of your suit, searching. His hands travel from your hips, up past your waist and then wrap around your ribcage. You watch him, amused as his fingertips finally trace the outline of the jewels hidden beneath the thin material.
“Someone’s forward,” you purr, tone dripping with mischief. Your breath ghosts against his neck as your words seep under his skin. “Better watch out, I bet that girl has trust issues.”
His fingers find the clasp on your suit to open the compartment where you stashed the jewels. Before he can work it open, you place a hand on his chest. Your touch light at first then firmer, feeling the solid muscle beneath his suit. You push lightly, forcing him back half a step. Your touch lingers, even with the newfound distance between you, thumb tracing the seam across his collarbone.
He swallows hard, caught under the feeling of your hand on his body. His hands drop to his sides immediately, unconsciously following the silent direction of your touch.
Your eyes find his, low-lidded and seductive. “Don’t be a stranger, Spider.”
You take three quick steps backward toward the edge of the rooftop, giving him one last look before flipping backward off the ledge. Your body twists midair before catching a lower rooftop beam. In seconds, you’re gone.
Gojo stands there, rain beading down his mask, staring at the empty space where you’d just been. The night feels quieter without you in it.
Cat and mouse.
He lets out a strangled noise, the sound like a resigned huff.
“Mei’s gonna kill me…”
-
The sun is low, honey-gold rays spilling past the blinds in Gojo’s high-rise as he wanders into the living room from the kitchen, barefoot. The wrapper of his mochi crinkles obnoxiously as he tears it open with his teeth, stuffing the scraps in his pajama pants pocket. The TV is set to the news, something Mei had insisted would be beneficial to his alter ego.
Then, the voice of the newscaster–
“First Suspect to Escape Spider-Man in Years – Hero Losing His Edge?”
Geto snorts in response from his spot on the couch, one ankle over the other as his feet rest on the coffee table. The footage looks like something taken from a helicopter– no sound and horrible quality. A short clip of your flip over the ledge of that rooftop and him watching you leave. Not a good look.
Though, he has to admit he’s enjoying seeing how you look in your skin-tight suit from all angles.
Gojo takes a bite of his snack, tearing away at the chewy dessert.
Mei doesn’t look up from the tech setup as she scrolls through the TMPD liaison comm feed. “Losing your spark, Satoru?” Her tone is light, teasing, even a little flirty.
Gojo watches as Geto drags his eyes from the TV over to him, shooting him a knowing look after seeing the clip that they keep replaying. Mei finally twists in her chair to look and Gojo nearly winces as she squints, leaning in slightly to make out the dark figure in the blurry footage. Her spine straightens immediately, recognition evident in her face. She presses her lips together and turns back to the monitors.
It’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of the reporter moving onto the next segment fills the room.
Shoko breaks the heavy silence by clearing her throat, shuffling into the living room from the balcony. The faint smell of cigarette smoke follows her in. She slides the doors shut behind her. “Anyywaays…” She sings, “we have bigger things to be worried about.”
“Right. Okay,” Mei prepares to dive into her debrief as the four gather around the computer screen. “So there’s this arms broker. Arai Kenji. Geto’s been keeping up with him for months now and we think that we finally got a perfect window. Tonight.”
Arai Kenji has plans to meet with a transporter crew in the warehouse district. The crew is supposed to be handing off some new drug shipment that they’ve just cooked up in a lab. During the handoff, they’re also giving him a flash drive which is the most important part. The drive is supposed to have some highly classified, extremely valuable information.
Doesn’t seem like anyone knows exactly what it is.
It’s probably just regular bad guy stuff like buyer routes, illegal weapons blueprints, black-market contacts, stuff like that.
Gojo’s part of the plan is to trail Kenji from one of his hideouts to the meeting point. Lay low, stay out of sight until the trade happens. Swoop in, get the drive, get out. Tokyo Police is on standby until they get the go-ahead from him to move in.
Apparently, the drive is also supposed to be a secret from the police as well. Something about potential bad seeds in the force.
He agrees it’s probably for the better that he checks something like that out first anyway.
He’s also admittedly a little distracted from the mission breakdown with the thought of you. He wonders if he’ll see you again anytime soon. And if it’s ridiculous that he’s thinking about that at a time like this.
It’s just that–
He’s known you for years and sometimes it felt like he knew you more than he knew himself. But also like he didn’t know you at all.
You had become such an inconsistent constant in his life.
But somewhere in the ebb and flow of your relationship over the years, you became intertwined with him. Like there was no Spiderman, no Gojo Satoru without you.
Outside, the sky has turned into a deep shade of indigo.
Gojo stands at the center of the room, the lower half of his Spider suit resting on his hips. He’s shirtless still, messing with the mask of his suit to double-check the earpiece. He tucks the mask between his teeth as he continues to work on getting suited up. He pulls the upper half of the suit over his head, the nanofiber material molding to his chest and shoulders once its in place.
Across the room, Geto leans backwards lazily in his desk chair. He tosses a basketball between his palms then spins it on his pointer finger.
“Soooo…” Geto drags his voice, “What’re you gonna do bro?”
He starts tossing the ball up and then catching it with one hand.
“Right now,” Gojo starts tugging the thin fabric up over his torso, then his shoulder. The material molds to his biceps. “I’m gonna get this damn flash drive.”
“Can’t avoid the topic forever.”
“Yeah well,” Gojo sighs, slipping on the gloves one after another. He flexes his fingers once they’re on. “I can when I don’t know if she’ll be back forever.”
“Do you want her to be?”
He avoids eye contact as he tugs the mask down over his face, ignoring the question. He rubs his face exhaustingly over the mask then clears his throat. He brushes past Geto towards the open window, one leg after the other over the sill.
Then, he dives out the window, launching himself across the skyline.
He moves fast, wind biting at his sides through the suit. He shoots a web from his right wrist, pulling himself forward. His momentum arcs before he fires another line. The movements become a secondary thought as he makes his way through the city. The spider emblem across his chest glows light blue against the dark of night.
He angles down, landing on the neon-lit rim of a billboard. He crouches low, eyes focused on the warehouse compound a short distance away– Kenji’s reported hideout.
He’s almost surprised at his perfect timing.
A matte black SUV rolls out of a wide garage door. The tinted windows of the vehicle reflect the city lights. He watches as the car turns into the road, tires rough against the street.
He waits for some distance then drops from the billboard, firing a new line as he tails the van from above. He manuevers from rooftop to rooftop, creeping through the back streets at a safe distance from the SUV.
The car moves toward an older distract, neon lights fading out to dim street lights until it turns into a dead-end alley, tucked between two shuttered up shops and an old apartment complex.
Gojo slips onto a rooftop and tucks himself just behind the ledge. He’s high enough where he can blend into the darkness but close enough to be able to pick up on the interaction.
The comms device in his ear crackles with a flash of static.
“Yoo.”
Geto’s voice.
“Soo no Mei tonight, huh?”
“Mm, she’s not exactly feelin’ it tonight. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Gojo’s pretty sure that’s code for she’s mad at you. He really shouldn’t be thinking about you this much. He’s not exactly sure what he has going on with Mei but he knows she probably wouldn’t be very happy with him right now. He’s got this strange feeling in his stomach, one he can’t quite put his finger on. And he doesn’t think it’s guilt.
He forces out a huff of a laugh through his nostrils. “Just like old times.”
He’s been having a lot of thoughts about old times lately. He shakes his head as if he can physically shake the thoughts from his brain.
“Alright, quick rundown.” Geto tells him, “Two-part exchange, first the product, then the flash drive. Once they hand over the money and Kenji’s got the drugs, we’ll have police come in but you have to get the drive first. And don’t make any moves until the other group heads out.”
Gojo nods, forgetting that he can’t see him.
“Got it.”
He watches the alley as the van sits idly. He steadies his breath as he surveys the layout of the alley, peering to hopefully count the amount of people seated in the car but he’s too high up and it’s too dark. No luck.
“Y’know, we’d understaaand, right?” Geto’s voice is casual through the earpiece, like he’s shrugging as the words come out.
Gojo’s eyes narrow in confusion, “... Understand what… exactly?”
“If you… and Black Cat…” Geto’s voice trails off suggestively.
His brain stutters for a second, scrambling for a believable denial as heat slides up the back of his neck.
But before he can find one, a second car rolls into the alley. The wheels of a sleek silver sedan crunch quietly on the uneven pavement.
Flashy.
‘Wait– wait– shh…” Gojo’s voice comes out in a hushed whisper.
The SUV doors swing open, Arai Kenji climbs out and he’s followed by four men in some sort of tactical gear. They stand behind him in a pyramid-adjacent formation.
From the smaller car, two figures step out. They keep a safe distance from Kenji and his men, opting to only stand a few feet in front of their own car. Some words are exchanged but they’re speaking at a hushed volume. Gojo can’t pick up any specifics of the conversation so he relies on reading their body language.
They’re stiff, clearly tense. One person from each side cautiously moves toward their own vehicle, each pulling out a duffel bag. The drug transporters hand a bag over to one of Kenji’s henchmen, then a second– and a third bag follows. The bags seem heavy, sagging under the weight of the contents.
“Okay…” Gojo whispers into the comm, “They just handed off the duffels.”
He watches as one of Kenji’s men haphazardly throws one of their own duffels in front of the transporters’ feet. One of them slowly bends over, gradually tugging the zipper undone, revealing the wads of cash stuffed in the bag.
Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight.
That’s a lot of money.
His mind flashes to you.
How you’re the type to swoop in, steal the bag, leave it at the doorstep of an orphanage or homeless shelter or something.
The “wrong thing” feels like the right thing, sometimes, with you.
“And the flash drive?” Geto’s voice is also low, as if they’d somehow be able to hear him through Gojo’s earpiece.
The transporter zips the duffel bag back up. He takes the few small steps to the backseat of the vehicle, switching the duffel bag for a silver briefcase. Simultaneously, Kenji’s team is loading up the SUV with the new bags they’ve just received.
A briefcase.
Gojo’s voice dips impossibly lower, barely above a breath. “There’s a briefcase. Is that it?”
“Has to be.”
His eyes flicker around the alley, mapping it out. His eyes narrow behind the mask, focused. He counts the one– two– three– four men, paying close attention to their positioning. He’s trying to be tactful about it, picturing the approach. The big one to the right of Kenji might be the biggest immediate threat but he might move slower so Gojo’s got him there. Though the one right behind him looks a lot faster so he might beat him to it.
How can he get in and out quickly with the least amount of damage?
If he comes in at the right angle, he might get fast enough access to the case and he can hopefully swing out without having to fight anyone.
He’s visualizing his attack route– hopefully a quick drop in, web the briefcase, he should be able to use that fire escape rail for swing trajectory and if he comes in from the right angle, he may only need to knock out the guy standing in the back.
The drug transporters start to slide into their vehicle, preparing to leave.
His eyes dart around, imaginary diagrams of angles and lines fill his vision as he continues to map the battleground. The sequence of movements he comes up with feels familiar.
Familiar in that way that sinks into his bones, that sounds like your voice in his ear, that feels like your limbs clashing with his when you’ve fought, this had you written all over it.
He used to go into any situation, guns blazing, ready to fight his way through it. It was you who would always tell him to slow down, sneak around, find a way.
Quiet as a cat, sneaky as a spider.
The headlights from the smaller car flicker to life, washing over Kenji and his men as they stand with the briefcase in their possession.
Gojo flexes his fingers out of habit and slowly rises to his feet, ready to swing down. He forces the thought of you back into that deep part of his mind, where it’s been residing for the past two or three years.
The sedan starts reversing, slowly gliding out of the alley. He watches as it turns the corner and disappears.
Fuck it.
The whole sneaky thing looked better on you anyways.
He jumps from the ledge, webbing at a rusted pipe. He arcs through the alley as quietly as he can manage, the only sound being the wind that slides against his suit. He lands in a crouch a few feet from the front of the van, hiding in the shadows of the alley. The driver rounds from behind the van, keys in hand as he approaches the driver’s seat.
He shoots a web from his left wrist, the sound of the netting flying through the air cuts through the quiet night. The web wraps around the man’s torso and Gojo yanks the guy straight into the darkness. His right fist meets him halfway. The punch sinks deep into the man’s gut. He lets out a thick, choking wheeze as he folds over, heaving.
Without missing a beat, Gojo anchors a web to the ground, sliding low under his nearly collapsing body. He lets out a grunt as he pivotes, using the momentum to shove upward at the guy’s chest as he pops up from underneath him, sending the guy sailing backwards like a ragdoll. The man crashes spine-first onto the concrete, crumpling upon impact.
Geto’s voice crackles through the comms in his ear. “Doin’ okay still, Satoru?”
“Oh yeah, doin’ fantastic,” tone dry, borderline sarcastic as he catches his breath.
Footsteps thunder from either side of the vehicle. Gojo’s head snaps up toward the sound. On the passenger side, a man approaches with a gun and on the other side, a metal bat.
Even though logic tells him his priority should be the gun, the guy white-knuckling the bat is much closer– sprinting towards him while yelling something incoherent.
Gojo fires a tight shot, the web zips through the air and attaches itself to the metal bat. He uses his web to whip the bat backward. It ricochets off the graffiti-tagged wall, clanking as it rolls away. The man doesn’t even flinch, continuing his charge towards Gojo. He dives towards him, ready to tackle but Gojo plants his foot, webbing the ground again and slides under him to dodge the attack. In the same breath, he fires another web at his torso and jerks him sideways mid-air. His redirected body slams into the goon holding the gun with full force.
The gun fires off wildly, a shot sparking off the concrete wall behind Gojo, missing him.
The two men smash into the wall together, disoriented, limbs tangled.
He turns on his heel, surging towards Kenji to get the briefcase. From his peripheral, he sees one of the men back on their feet, swinging at him full speed. Gojo uses the opening to sink a sharp right hook to his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He slides under him between his open legs, the reinforced material lining his suit helping him grind against the asphalt and then pops up behind him, delivering a reverse hook kick to the back of his skull.
That had to be concussive, he thinks.
The man’s head whips forward as a result and he goes flying forward, eventually landing some distance away.
The second guy lunges towards him. Gojo webs at his ankle, sending him stumbling. He catches him by shooting another web into his chest and yanks him into a kick–boot to sternum. He can almost hear the breathless wheeze the man lets out but the sound is drowned out by the sound of the stretch of his web-line. Web still attached to the man’s chest, Gojo pivots and slingshots the man over his shoulder into a stack of crates. The wooden boxes splinter, sending debris crashing down.
He uses a web to assist in a jump that has him right above the man then fires a final web downward, the material sticking to the pavement on either side of the man. The line goes taut and he uses it to slam himself feet-first onto the man below who was scrambling to get up from the debris. The man’s body goes limp under his feet.
Gojo barely has time to straighten himself, steady his breath before the sound of a machine gun spraying echoes within the narrow alley. The bullets carve sparks against the brick walls and the sound is nearly deafening.
Damn. So much for keeping a low profile.
Kenji’s voice is coming from somewhere behind the SUV, screaming something incomprehensible. Gojo’s body moves instinctively toward his voice until the sound of a boot scraping metal makes him freeze. His attention is pulled toward the sound, head snapping up just in time to catch the last one of Kenji’s men launching himself from the roof of the vehicle, diving straight for him.
Oh, come fucking on. Can he catch a break?
He fires a web at the wall, jerking his body upward hurriedly then, mid-swing, something flickers in his peripheral vision. A streak of black and silver. Just the slightest flash of familiarity but it’s enough to make his head turn.
You.
The slight head turn costs him. In his moment of unfocused, the man clamps onto Gojo’s calves mid-swing and they both go crashing down toward the concrete. The landing knocks the air out of his lungs and he’s gasping as they roll from the impact. The concrete scrapes against his suit and the guy manages to get on top of Gojo first, throwing punches wildly. He raises his arm in time to block the first one, the second clips his jaw and the third grazes his forehead.
He grits his teeth, using the millisecond he had while the man drew his fist back to plant his forearm across the guy’s throat, pushing up and over, using the momentum to flip them. Gojo throws one solid punch with his left fist and then brings his elbow down to his temple, knocking him out. The man’s eyes roll backwards until they close, his head hanging limply.
Gojo barely has a moment to push himself off the ground before a sharp, heavy crack explodes at the back of his skull. Metal on bone, the sound of metal and steel parts clanking against itself.
Searing white hot pain detonates behind his eyes as his knees buckle. He hits the ground with a grunt, palms scraping against the pavement as he tries to catch himself.
No fucking way he got pistol whipped with a semi-automatic gun. SMG-whipped? Is that even a thing? These new gen bad guys are coming up with all sorts of new things. This has to fall under the category of cruel and unusual. He’d probably be a lot more pissed if he wasn’t actively trying to get a hold of his senses.
Kenji’s voice booms from behind him. “Spider-Man,” he acknowledges, “Never thought I’d see the day–honestly, thought you were a myth.” His voice is taunting, like he had one up on him.
Gojo crawls, his hands shaky as he tries to scramble away from the direction of his voice but his body won’t–can’t coordinate. The alley spins harder with each breath he takes. His vision rebounds between flashes of bright white and complete darkness, the strobing makes it worse and then nausea, either from the sickening taste of iron in his mouth or his ears ringing. He tries to blink it away like it would help but everything is still blurry around the edges.
Fuck.
“Shit…” He manages to grit his teeth and mutter into the comm, “I take that back… not doin’ so hot.”
Geto’s voice comes through, crackled, alarmed, “Satoru–?”
The sound of boots scraping closer on pavement sends Gojo into a panic. He forces his body to move, dragging himself away from the sound. Fuck, he thinks he’s concussed. Is this what he usually does to the guys he fights? Damn, he’s starting to feel a little bad.
His stomach is churning and then he hears the sound of the SMG clicking, an empty mag being discarded on the ground and a new one being reloaded.
Gojo’s breathing hitches. His eyes would probably be blown wide right now if he could see out of them.
This is how I die, he’s thinking. He’s gonna get shot with this machine gun and die all because something in his fucked up brain hallucinated you and he got distracted. He can’t even be sure it was you in his hallucination but his brain cells must be completely fried at this point in his life. Probably from all the blunt force trauma that comes with the job.
He thinks he’s gonna throw up.
Then a sound–sharp and and heavy–draws his attention. Like a body smashing into metal. He can make out the sound of a crash, some heavy grunting, boots scraping against the pavement. It sounds like fist connecting to skin and bone.
Is this also a part of his hallucination or is the fight happening right next to him? Is he even hallucinating or is he just freaking himself out? His vision is still somewhat dark around the edges, everything comes through like skewed shapes and static-y lines.
He’s trying to focus himself and then the sound of who he can only presume is Kenji shouting and then a heavy thud follows. Then silence.
The only sound is Gojo’s ragged breathing as he’s on all fours, trying to push himself to his feet. He’s wobbly and can’t get himself fully upright, stumbling a bit but his vision begins to sharpen. Blurry figures becoming more solid forms, stabilizing a bit.
And then a pair of smaller hands sliding under his arm, tugging his body upright from his crouched position with surprising strength. His fight or flight kicks in, his body flinching violently as he fights against the hold. He shouts in protest and then–
“Easy, Spidey.” The voice of his dreams. Or his nightmares depending on how you look at it. “Just making sure you didn’t die on me.”
His pulse spikes. This has to be some sort of concussion-induced hallucination. Like a fever dream but from when you get hit in your head a little too hard. Is that a thing? He makes a note to look into that later. He’s also not sure he’s even able to get a concussion–what, with his spidey powers and everything.
He feels–who he’s pretty sure is–you haul his weight up. He’s heavy, nearly deadweight against your frame. He feels bad that he can’t offer you much help from his end but the little soft grunt you let out as you hook one arm around his waist has his mind reeling. The sound shoots straight down below the waist.
You shift against him and he feels you raise one arm and tighten the other around him. He hears the familiar little hissing noise from the miniature grappling hooks hidden in the fur at the wrists of your suit. Your shoulder stiffens as the hook latches onto something and the line tightens under your grip. There’s a jolt as both of your bodies lift.
Gojo’s stomach lurches as you both ascend the side of a building, head swimming. The second your feet hit the rooftop, your bodies jerk again as you hook onto the next building and you both go swinging at an angle.
He blinks hard, trying to focus his eyes. He can just barely make out the shape of your face, the features slowly coming into vision. His vision is starting to clear just enough to make out your silhouette, kneeling in front of him. The city lights behind you blur beneath his half-blind sight, his mechanical lenses in his mask doing absolutely nothing to help him.
There’s two—maybe three of you—dancing in front of him as his eyes slowly focus until the multiples of you merge into one.
And then like an absolute idiot with zero self-preservation instincts, he hears himself say:
“...have I ever told you that you’re gorgeous?”
Your snicker is soft, so soft he hardly catches it but he knows he missed the sound and he’d do anything to hear it on repeat.
Like those ASMR videos that Mei watches sometimes.
Fuck.
Mei.
Gojo knows he is absolutely fucked.
“Mmm,” you purr, leaning into him slightly, “so I’ve heard.”
The wind hits his face as you swing the two of you onto a rooftop a few blocks away from the alley. You land as gentle as you can with the added weight of his body and he hears the shhhk of the hook retracting back into your suit.
You set him down softly until his back meets the brick wall behind him and he slumps against it, legs splayed, breath uneven. His vision, now much clearer, can just make out your silhouette, kneeling in front of him.
You give his cheek a light pat, something almost affectionate. “You alright there, pretty boy?”
He pretends the pet name doesn’t fry every single neuron he has left.
Before he can find a response, the comm in his ear sputters with violent static and then Geto’s voice cuts through. It’s warped and barely audible.
“Sato–? Is th– Cat? Wha–” And then it cuts out entirely, the tiny speaker fried from his earlier beating.
He huffs out a breathless laugh, half-delirious and half-resigned, opting to completely ignore his best friend’s message. His voice comes out thick with exhaustion.
“Never better,” he fights through a groan as he tries to push himself upright.
You hum out a suspicious little mhmm, like you don’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. And rightfully so because he hardly manages to stand, hand braced on the wall for balance. You shuffle back a few steps, enough to give him room to collect himself. He’s wobbling but his balance is back enough. Though he kinda wishes he’d stumble just a tiny bit so you’d catch him.
Oh shit.
The hard drive.
“Fuuuckk,” he groans under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. His skull throbs with the movement. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”
A soft hum answers him from a few feet ahead.
“Looking for this?”
His head snaps toward your voice so fast, he gets a fresh spike of dizziness.
You’re standing there, one hand on your hip and the flash drive dangling from the claws of your other gloved hand.
He feels his stomach drop.
He pushes off the wall, crossing the short distance between you. He reaches out once he’s standing directly in front of you.
“Not happening.” You pull your hand back, just out of reach. Your voice comes out sharp, “I need this.”
“For what?” Gojo’s eyes narrow behind his mask.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Your head tilts like you’re messing with him, holding back a teasing laugh.
“Yes,” he deadpans. “That’s why I asked.”
You pause for the slightest moment and then turn to walk away, moving towards the edge of the rooftop.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He shoots a web, the sound of the synthetic material slices through the air. He follows it as soon as it leaves his wrist, sprinting toward you.
You twist your body out of pure instinct, narrowly dodging the web. It snaps right past your shoulder instead of your wrist where he had aimed. His eyes track your movement as you tuck the drive back into your suit in one smooth motion.
Then you launch a kick at him. He brings his forearm up and your boot collides with the guard on his suit. You swipe at him, once, then twice, steel claws glinting under the moonlight as they cut through the air. He leans back, weaving the first swipe then he pivots his shoulder, dodging the second swipe under your arm.
You’re pulling your punches. He can tell you’re not attacking him with the intent to cause him any real harm. Whether that’s because you don’t actually want to fight him or you’re just being mindful of his near concussion, he’s not sure. He also gets the idea you might just be trying to create enough of a gap to run.
But he’s not letting you go again.
You go for a punch this time, claws retracted, closed fist. He catches your wrist mid-punch and uses the momentum to pull you toward him. He steps in, meeting your body in the middle and slides an arm around your waist as a second anchor to pull you in. Your bodies collide and he can feel your chest rising rapidly as you catch your breath.
He says your name.
Your real name.
He can feel it when it hits you. See the shock crossing your face, eyebrows knitting together.
You go still in his arms, every inch of you goes taut. Your fingers curl in reflex against his suit, like every muscle in your body stiffened from the sound of a name you fought heaven and earth to forget.
He takes advantage of the moment. Dirty trick, he has to admit, it’s not his proudest moment but his hands move, patting along the lines of your torso. His fingers find the small, hidden compartment he remembers from the museum. He had replayed that moment in his head over and over and over again (for more reasons than one) trying to memorize the map of your suit. Though it may have done him more bad than good.
Your breath stutters when his fingers brush over the outline of the drive through the thin fabric. You jerk in his grip, half-heartedly pulling back. Like your body had to force itself out of something so comforting, something so deeply ingrained into your very being. His grip on your waist doesn’t falter.
“I-it’s my way out,” you manage to blurt out. The words sound like they’ve been ripped out of you.
He pauses. Your voice sounds so… desperate? The sound is so unfamiliar to him.
“Are you lying to me?” he asks, flat. His eyes narrow at you again through the mask lenses.
He watches your eyes flicker between his, eyebrows pinched together. You force down the lump in your throat before you speak, chin tilting to the side to avoid eye contact.
“No, I’m not.” You’re almost pleading. “I-I’m supposed to be done after this.”
Supposed to be.
He doesn’t necessarily trust it fully. He’s known you a long time which means that’s a long time of giving you the benefit of the doubt. While you’ve never exactly flat out lied to him, you’ve definitely skirted the truth.
Though you usually don’t sound this defeated.
“Yeah, I don’t believe you,” he answers after a pause, feeling a little guarded.
His fingers slide along the seam of your suit, finding the hidden lining. He slips past the hidden lining, pulling the flash drive free. He’s barely able to retract his hand when you grab his wrist, holding tightly.
“Satoru, I’m serious,” your voice steadies, “I need it.”
He turns it over between his fingers, cool metal pressing into his skin. Even though your bodies are still pressed together, you don’t move to snatch it from him.
“Why?” He asks, tentative, “What’s on it?”
He wants to know what you’re not saying, what’s got you this desperate–what kind of corner you’ve been backed into, and what he can do to get you out of it.
He’s asked you before–to leave with him to somewhere, anywhere. That he’d be so ready to forget everything that’s ever happened, everything you’ve ever done. That you didn’t have to live this life–cracking safes and running heists.
But you were always a girl with a vendetta, with something to prove. And you’d always tell him that you can’t.
But you can always do anything–breaking into vaults, stealing artwork, cat-burgling–anything but be his.
When you don’t answer, he takes his mask off, letting it hand limply from his fingers. His hair is ruffled from friction. A few loose strands stick to his damp forehead.
A second ago, you couldn’t seem to look at him but now, your eyes refuse to leave his.
“y/n, look me in the eyes,” he says, voice quiet but unwavering. “and tell me what’s on this drive.”
You hesitate.
His expression softens when he sees your face. The moonlight reflects in your eyes, painting them in pale silver. You hold his eye contact now, rounded eyes looking up at him.
For a second, he can’t seem to get a read on you. Like usual. You’ve always been so impossible to pin down, always ducking and dodging him.
But then, your shoulders drop a fraction and your lips part. Your voice comes out a little hoarse like you’re fighting yourself. “Everything,” you breathe, your words come out in a whisper, “It has identities, accounts, blackmail, leverage on… on everyone. Politicians, crimelords, weapons dealers.” You swallow, then drag in a shaky breath. “Me.”
He searches your eyes, aching to find the truth. He doesn’t speak, urging you to continue.
“I-it was supposed to go to some guy who was gonna use it against some politician, to control them to be able to pull strings from behind the scene,” you explain carefully, “All I know is that I needed it first, okay?” You break eye contact for a second, looking away, “I get rid of everything tied to me, my name, my identity, everything I’ve ever been involved in and then I’m finally out.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?” The question comes out firm but his voice is still gentle. He almost feels… bad for you.
You’re looking up at him now and you look tired. The most beautiful yet exhausted person he’s ever seen in his life. Your eyes are glassy and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you cry before but here you stand in front of him, eyes welling up.
“I swear,” your voice trembles like it’s your first time making a real promise, like you’ve never sworn anything out loud before in your life, “I heard this stupid drive existed and it’s the only reason I came back.”
He can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt knowing the only reason you came back was for the drive and not for him. Even though he knows it’s selfish because he’s (somewhat) moved on with his life so it’s only fair that you get to.
You tear your eyes from him again and sniffle.
The city lights glow behind you and around you, illuminating your face. The wind toys with loose strands of your hair, ruffling the fur at the collar of your suit. You’re standing here, in front of him, looking so guilty and defeated and so painfully, achingly beautiful that it physically hurts him to look at you.
And Gojo knows he’s supposed to be thinking about the mission, about Geto and Mei and Shoko, the good thing, the right thing.
But instead, all he can think is that you came back. And now he’s realizing you’re just someone who made a life altering decision too young, felt the weight of the world on your shoulders before you could even understand it, and suddenly he sees you. Really sees you.
Your eyes lock onto his, pleading in a way that makes his chest feel tight with too many emotions and too many memories. And before he can think about what’s right or morals or common sense, he steps in. His free hand slides up, fingers curling around the edges of your face, thumb grazing your cheek.
He leans in, until your noses are brushing. “We can go anywhere you want. Y’know that right? We can leave together. I’d do it for you.”
“I could never ask you to do that, Satoru,” your eyes flutter shut when his warm breath fans across your face, “you’re too good.”
He hates that. He’s good, you’re “not.” He doesn’t even know if that’s something he should care about anymore. Like that’s all subjective to him when you’re standing here, looking so small and fragile for the first time ever.
And he can’t even help himself when he closes the last inch between you, mouth crashing onto yours.
For a second it’s clumsy and awkward, both of your bodies tense but then something clicks. Like your bodies remember each other before your minds do. Your lips move together, seamlessly like muscle memory, coming together as naturally as breathing.
Gojo doesn’t even realize when he clumsily fumbles the drive into the pocket at his hip, using his now free hand to slide down your frame, splaying his large hand against the small of your back so he can push you flush against him. His grip is firm like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even the slightest.
Your fingers bury into his pale, silvery hair and it tears a deep sound from his chest before he can stop it.
“Satoru…” you breathe against his lips and he thinks he would spend every single last dime he had if it meant hearing the sound again.
He answers by kissing you harder, licking at your lower lip. Your lips part in response and he takes it as permission, slipping his tongue into your mouth. Your tongues dance against each other’s and his chest is burning from the lack of oxygen but he would much rather suffocate than be detached from you for a single second.
He uses his body to usher you against a brick wall, hand on the back of your head to protect you from the impact. The stone is rough against the smooth fabric of your suit, a stark contrast to how warm and steady his body is against yours. You’re both half-hidden, tucked behind a rooftop enclosure and hidden from sight from surrounding buildings by half-finished construction beams.
The hand on your lower back slips down, gripping at your thighs before he lifts you, muscles straining and stretching at the fabric around his biceps. Your legs lock around his waist, the movement rocking you against him. The sound that escapes your lips only sends more blood rushing to below his waist and he knows you can feel him pressing against you, solid through the thin material of his spider suit.
With his grip on the back of your head, he tugs at your hair gently, tilting your neck back enough to give him access. He swears under his breath against your lips before dragging his mouth down your jaw, leaving open wet kisses along the smooth skin. The kisses turn soft, his desperation melting away into begging, pleading for you to stay. Hoping his lips against your skin says more than he’s ever been able to say out loud. That this won’t be the last time he’ll see you.
He selfishly wants to keep you from getting the drive weighing heavy in his pocket. If it meant keeping you around. If you wouldn’t disappear from his life again, forever, without a trace.
There’s that little voice in the back of his head telling him that he shouldn’t be doing this with you. That it’s not fair to you–if you really did need the drive and if you really wanted to disappear from the face of the earth–not fair to his friends and to the city. He’s supposed to be a hero and he’s not doing anyone any good right now. But he also knows he can’t stop. That corny saying if it’s wrong, why does it feel so right?
“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, goosebumps raising as his breath fans over your collarbones, “tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
He knows he can’t stop himself, it’s beyond him at this point and maybe it’s selfish to fully burden you with the weight of that decision but he’s also beyond caring at this point. The feeling of you in his arms is just too right. He presses his forehead to yours, noses brushing, breath hot and uneven. His eyes search your face and for the first time ever, it’s like he’s really seeing all of you. Unsure and torn, scared and uncertain.
When he doesn’t get a response, his chest heaves. No answer.
A nervous laugh huffs out of him, unsure of what to do, “Heh… cat got your tongue?”
You exhale his name, again. He’s sure you meant to sound exasperated–maybe even a little annoyed as you usually are with him–but it comes out softer, needier.
He really wishes you’d stop because the sound of his name on your tongue is only pulling him out deeper and deeper like he’s lost at sea. His jaw is clenched and the pressure threatens to bring on his semi-automatic gun-induced headache again but instead he waits for you to tell him to stop, to say anything. He’s too far gone, too lost in you so he waits for the only command he’d ever obey–yours.
He kisses you again, slower this time, more cautious and when he feels your body go lax against his, he deepens the kiss as your body melts into his. Your fingers tighten in his hair like you’re trying to anchor yourself to him. Heat builds as your mouths part and find each other again and again, messy and desperate like he’s trying to pour every unspoken word, every almost confession into it.
His mind is absolutely reeling.
He thinks maybe he should’ve waited for you, should’ve looked harder when you disappeared and not given up. Instead of eventually telling himself maybe it was better this way. That maybe if he had been more patient, more understanding, more attentive, pushed himself harder to fix the corrupted city that you wouldn’t need some top secret, highly dangerous to obtain flash drive as your ticket out.
Maybe he could have gotten you out.
He thinks of every time he told himself that he could change you, that maybe you were bad for him, that he couldn’t be with you and be Spiderman. Even the him from three years ago didn’t believe that. He knew then and he knew now that he would always let you in, let you escape, put his superhero pride to the side if it meant he could see you, be with you even if it was only for a night.
And here he is again, years later, still thinking that–despite it all–you’re the one who was made for him.
It hits him all at once, a rush of regret and want and something so stupidly hopeful that it makes his chest tight. He pours all of it into his lips against yours because he doesn’t have the words to say to you.
His hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades as he presses your body impossibly closer to his, chest to chest, hip to hip. Your suit is thin enough that he can feel the lines of your body under his palms, the way your ribs expand with every sharp inhale against his lips. You arch into him without thinking and a quiet, broken sound slips out of you, lost against his mouth.
His mouth moves down again, dragging along your skin, along the line of your jaw, down the side of your neck. Each kiss lands hot and lingering, nearly reverent against your searing skin. He feels the small shiver that runs through you when his breath grazes the sensitive skin.
One of your hands slide down from his hair, fingers skating over the seams of his Spider suit then along his sculpted shoulders and the defined ridges of his back, like you’re memorizing him back.
He sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to see you again and something almost animalistic rips through him. His heart is slamming against his rib, breath hitching. Your lips are swollen from the kissing and biting, chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes travel down from your collarbones to the exposed skin of your chest, hardly hidden from your low-cut suit. He has to bite his tongue to keep in the guttural groan that nearly escapes at the sight. There’s just no way your suit can be fully secure in a fight. The urge to touch, to pull at the fabric, to see more flares hot in his stomach.
He slowly lowers you until you’re steady on both feet then one hand is creeping down, thumb toying with your clit through the fabric of your suit. Your jaw falls slack, head tipped back against the brick wall from the contact. You let out a whine and the sound shoots straight downwards, cock already straining against the tight material of his suit. His forehead falls against your shoulder, pressing kisses into your collarbone as he continues to rub gentle circles against the cloth.
“M-more,” you stammer, breathlessly. If he knows you well enough–and he does–he’d bet that your eyes are already rolling back and it brings back his air of confidence.
“Beg.”
“Do I look like I beg, Spidey?” you shoot back, trying to snap but your voice betrays you.
He smiles against your skin, shamelessly basking in how easily he can get you worked up, clearly pleased with himself. “That’s okay,” he shrugs casually, “I’m good here too.”
His thumb continues to work at your clit, painfully slow, feather-light touches. He feels your body shuddering against his, head still tipped against the wall. He noses closer, inhaling your achingly familiar scent. Gojo drinks in every single moment he has pressed against your skin, savoring your warmth like he’s trying to etch the feel of you into his memory.
You clamp your thighs around his hand, breaths coming sharp and fast. Your hand flies down, clutching at his wrist as you grind your hips against his thumb–almost frantically–searching for any friction.
“Pl-please–” you whine out, “fuck– Satoru–”
He figures that’s probably the closest he’s going to get knowing you and he doesn’t want to push you too far. He also doesn’t know how much longer he, himself, can hold out. While he normally is a lot more composed, something about you makes him lose all sense of self-control so he’s slipping past the waistband of your very tight (much to his dismay… or pleasure depending how you look at it) suit bottoms.
Your body all but jolts against his fingers working at your sensitive nub, no fabric separating you from the pad of his thumb. You’ve got one leg lifted up, wrapped around his hip to give him more access while the other is hardly stabilizing you, wobbling under your form.
He gathers your slick with one finger, bringing it up to work as lube against your swollen clit and he’s almost sure you’re about to cry from overstimulation already. He tears his lips from your nearly exposed chest, leaving a trail of kisses along the side of your neck before his lips are hovering right above yours.
Your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, eyes dark with desire as you stare into his. Gojo is almost certain he could cum just from the look in your eyes. He slips his middle finger past your slippery folds, curling it inside you until he feels that far too familiar gummy spot that has you instantly arching into him, moaning wantonly into the night air.
“Fuck, baby–” he groans against your lips, “so fucking wet,” emphasizing each word with a thrust of his finger. You roll your hips in tandem with his movements. It’s all so animalistic, so feral, it has him absolutely reeling. “You get this wet for anyone else, hmm?”
He feels you clench around his fingers at the sound of his words and he’s easily sliding a second finger in, scissoring you open. You shake your head dumbly, words unable to leave your mouth as you’re gasping for air, not breaking eye contact. You start bucking your hips against his fingers, hand sliding down from his hair to his toned shoulder to steady yourself.
“This pussy’s so tight–fuckkk,” he catches your lips in a kiss, “Bet you’d feel so good on my dick.”
He nibbles on your bottom lip, tongue swiping over the sensitive area. He can tell you’re close, between the way you hungrily lick behind his teeth, tongue against his, moaning into his mouth while your hips grinding in rhythm with his fingers working you. And as if he can read your mind:
“Sa–oh my god– Satoru, I-I’m close,” your chest bows into his, pressing against his front as your entire body presses against his.
“Gonna let me fuck you, baby?” His voice is barely above a whisper and he’s not sure if you can hear him over the sound of your impending orgasm but then you nod, quick and eager, face flushed. “Want me to fuck you right here, huh?” You’re still nodding eagerly, no thoughts in your brain other than him. He’s so hard and heavy that his free hand flies down to palm himself through his pants, hardly offering him any relief.
The heel of his palm presses against your clit as you fuck yourself on his fingers and then he feels your body tense, nails gripping into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent-marks along his skin. You throw your head back, exposing your neck to him and he’s quick to nose along your jaw right under your ear, nipping along the supple skin. Your back arches even more, pressing impossibly closer to him, eyes squeezing shut as you come undone, pulsing around his fingers.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” you whine aloud, climax leaking all over his large hand, “Satoruu–-oh my–Satoru.” You cry out his name, repeating it until your voice is a hoarse whisper as you ride out your high on his calloused digits.
He slowly pulls out his fingers, lifting from your jaw to see them glistening with your release in the dim city lights. The look in your eye is almost bashful when they lock onto his fingers, almost self-conscious.
“Open.”
Eyes lidded, clearly fucked out and pliant, you part your lips on his command. Your easy willingness sends heat shooting through his body, as if his cock wasn’t already straining against his suit. He’s sure the tight fabric is going to rip when you take his fingers in his mouth without restraint, tongue swirling around his knuckles. He finds a little pride in his chest knowing he can take you from your sharp mouth, all sass and bite to something unguarded and slack with want. His digits release from your mouth with a pop and now he’s far too eager to feel you pulsing around him.
And like you can read his mind–
“Satoru, fuck me please,” you plead, baby hairs along your forehead sticking to your skin despite the cool air of the night. He’s sure he’s not faring any better.
Gojo is quick to start tugging at the waistband of his suit pants, tugging them down just enough to pull his cock out. When he glances back up at you, your eyes are locked on his length, the tip red and flushed. Your eyes travel back up, locking onto his and then he’s got both hands planted low on your hips, spinning you around until you’re facing the brick wall. He presses one hand flush to your back, pressing you against the wall while the other hand hurriedly works at your painfully (for him) tight bottoms. Once he’s got your suitpants low enough, he’s sliding his cock along your slit, collecting your slick and using the remnants of your spit combined with your juices to pump himself.
“Holy shit,” he breathes out, mostly to himself. “Were you always this wet?” He did not mean to say that out loud and he half-hopes you ignore the comment.
You do not.
“Forgot already?” you suck your teeth, pushing your hips back and swaying your hips gently, clearly as impatient as him.
The words die on your tongue when he pushes into you, burying himself to the hilt. A moan escapes from both of you. He’s got one hand braced on the wall next to your head, the other gripping your hip, fingers digging into your flesh. He stays there for a second, forehead resting on your shoulder while you both adjust but then you’re clenching around him and he’s certain that he’s already on the verge of cumming.
He starts to move, pace slow as he unsheathes himself, save for the tip, and grinds into you, savoring the sensation of you tight and pulsing around his length. His hand moves from the wall, coming up to grip your left tit, thumb catching on the nub, hardened through the thin fabric. You let out a moan at the feeling, arching your back further.
“Fuuuckk,” he curses, voice low and ragged against your skin. You shiver in response, goosebumps erupting along the surface of your skin, “How are you this tight–fuckk, baby.”
“Satoru,” you keen, breath hitching as he starts to pick up his pace, “Oh my g– right there, right there.”
His right hand on your hip pulls you back into him until you start moving yourself, meeting his thrusts in the middle as he begins to drive his cock into you. He wishes he could see more of you, more of your skin, more of your face, he’s so painfully insatiable for you but he’s happy to take you however he can.
He presses around your pebbled nub with his forefinger and thumb, rolling it between his fingers, pinching and pulling and you respond with a moan, throwing your head back. He drags you backward until your back is pressed to his front. You’re limp against him, knees weak and fully reliant on him to keep you upright.
Gojo’s lips travel from nibbling at your neck, breath warm at your ear and you turn your head, colliding into his mouth. He shifts lower behind you, adjusting his stance to fuck up into you. The new position has your hand flying up to grip the back of his head, fingers buried in his white strands, tousled from your tugging. He grunts against your lips at the feeling, licking behind your teeth.
You let out a whine, pushing back to meet his muscular thighs, skin flushed from his hips snapping into yours. Your tongue slides against his, messy and clumsy. He can only hope that the sounds of your lips smacking and hips meeting aren’t carrying, hidden to the world. The feeling of you pulsating around him makes him weak in the knees and he has to push through the sensation, rutting into you at a new speed, just hoping and praying this moment you’re having with him is enough to make a difference.
The sound of his hips slapping into your ass and the squelch of your cunt is so pornographic, he’s hardly holding on and he can feel you’re right there with him. You’re moaning and gasping openly into the air, shuddering against his body as your walls flutter around his cock.
“Oh shiiittt, this pussy is mine right?” he pants, breath ghosting over your kiss-bitten lips, not convinced he wants to know the answer but the question slips out anyway. “You like that, baby?”
“Mmmmff–mhm mhm,” you mindlessly nod, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. His fingers move down to your clit, rubbing star patterns as he’s chasing his own climax. You suck in a sharp breath at the feeling, leaning back onto his broad chest for support. The muscles around his thighs tighten as he keeps up his unrelenting tempo, erratic and hungry to feel more of you.
“Fuuckk, feels like you were made for me, baby,” he groans, words stumbling out.
“Sa–oh fuck–” you clamp around him, walls spasming around him as you’re reaching your climax, “Satoru, I’m about to cum.”
The words come out broken and he’s seeing stars, pushing himself through it until you gush around him, driving him to his own climax, hips stuttering. With one last thrust, he’s spilling himself into you, warm release spurting into your cunt, fucking you through your orgasm as you milk him for everything he has.
You both go still for a moment, limp as he rests his forehead on the back of your shoulder, chest heaving. You lean forward into the wall, his hand wrapped around your ribcage holding you up. He feels your back rising and falling with each deep breath you take, aching to catch your breath. His other hand slides up from where it was gripping at your hips, sure to leave bruises there tomorrow and wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close to him.
He slowly pulls himself out of you, feeling you twitch at the loss of the fullness of him. Once he’s sure you’re able to stand on your own, he takes a half step back, tugging up his bottoms from where they haphazardly rested around his thighs. Your eyes are locked onto the ground as you work up your suit bottoms, fingers trembling.
The air between you is suddenly thin.
He didn’t exactly plan for after, didn’t really think of much beyond the heat of your mouth and the arch of your back. You won’t look at him. Your lashes stay fixed downward, eyes darting around, focused on anything but him.
He swallows.
Fuck, it’s awkward.
He can feel the shift in the air, in you. Like you’re withdrawing from him. He’s not sure if he can handle you disappearing from his life again, without a trace. He rubs his palm over the back of is neck, brain scrambling for something to say to ease the tension.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You freeze but you still can’t quite look at him. He steps closer, cautious like you’re a wounded animal and then he reaches out slowly, fingers brushing under your chin. You let him guide your face up, eyes lifting reluctantly until you’re looking straight at him. And the look in your eyes nearly knocks the wind right out of his chest.
You look so lost. And guilty.
And small.
“Let me make things right,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing into your chin lightly.
Your lips part, breath catching, “Satoru…”
He searches your face, memorizing each part of it in case he’ll never see it again. You look up at him, eyes rounded and it’s like he’s seeing every version of you–who you were, who you are, who you could’ve been if the world hadn’t fucked you over before you even had a chance, who you could be.
“I can’t let you go like this,” he tells you, voice soft and broken, “Let me help you, let me do something, anything. I’ll do anything you ask.”
He wonders if he got on his hands and knees if that would make it better. If that would make you stay. If that would change your mind.
“Let me go,” you whisper. Your hand lifts, fingers curling around his wrist where he holds your chin. You hand feels cool against his warmth. “I can’t stay here… and you can’t leave. They need you.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “What about you?”
Do you need him?
The question goes unspoken.
“It’s not about me,” you say, voice thinning.
“It is,” Gojo insists, “Everything’s always gonna be about you.” His voice comes out broken, gravelly as his throat feels tight, like he’s swallowing stones.
His heart beats a painful, reckless rhythm like it’s trying to fight its way out of his chest and to you, who his heart belongs to. If he didn’t know it before, he knows it now.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters, catching in your throat and your eyes widen at his (poorly-timed) confession. Your grip on his wrist tightens, just for a second, like you’re flinching as a reaction. Like he spat daggers at you instead of sweet saccharine words.
Fuck.
Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.
He searches your face, eyes darting between yours looking for any sign that you’ll say it back. He watches the fear and longing crash across your face like you’re at a crossroads.
But he knows it. Even though he tells himself not to assume, not to reach for something he’s not sure if he’s earned. And even though he knows there’s no logical explanation for it, there is no universe where this could be one-sided. There’s no way you could look at him like that, like he hung the moon and the stars, speak his name like it belongs to solely you, care the way you do in that strange way that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else–no one else would hear it, see it, understand it. But Gojo does.
He knows you. And because he knows you, he knows what you’ll say and it’s too late for him to take it back so he commits.
“Can you honestly say you don’t love me too?” His hand trails up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, so unbearably tender. He thinks he can see the tears begin to form along your lower lash line but for your sake, writes it off as a glare from the city lights. “If you can… then I’ll let you go.”
Your breath is uneven, lashes fluttering as your eyes close, resigned, like the weight of the truth is too heavy on your shoulders to look at him while carrying it. Your fingers tighten painfully around his wrist, nails digging into his skin.
“I…” your voice splinters before you swallow, throat working hard, “I don’t love you.”
The words spill from your kiss-bitten lips like they physically hurt you to say, hurt you far worse than they hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely audible.
He watches as the tears well even more along your waterline, threatening to spill as you refuse to look at him. Every part of him, every muscle and fiber in his being fights to scream liar.
You’re lying. You’re lying and he knows it. You know it. Every person in the world could look at the two of you right now, standing here with your smaller hand wrapped around his and would know that you’re lying. You’ve been a damn good liar your entire life but you’re not that good of a liar.
He wants to bargain with you. He wants to tell you that he could love you enough for the both of you. That you could spend the rest of your lives together not loving him back in the slightest bit and he would be happy. He would pour all of his love into you and the sheer amount of that alone would be enough, could spill and overflow from your cup.
But you said it.
There’s nothing else he can do.
He claws into his pocket, fishing out the flashdrive and slots it into your hand at his wrist. He clasps both of his hands around your trembling ones, manually wrapping your fingers around it and it feels like a heavy brick, weighing heavily in between both of your hands.
He holds you there, taking in a deep breath and savoring every second he has left of feeling your touch against his. So warm, so gentle. He’s almost certain that you could claw at him, punch him, scratch him for the rest of his life and your touch would still never be anything other than warm and gentle to him.
Then, he drops your hands and takes a step back once, slowly, like something inside him has gone numb and he just nods, something weak and dejected.
“Goodbye, y/n.”
a/n - ok srry for the angst, i rlly didnt think it was gonna go in this direction but it felt right )': (and i just love a man who yearns and pines srry) & srry if it was bad, im rlly trying to get into writing angst so we're working on it but in other news, im rlly starting to think srsly ab a long fic in the near future. hope ur all doing well & tysm for reading, pls lemme know what u think ! <3
