"SPIDEY SENSES" ー yoichi isagi 🕷️
features: spider-man!yoichi isagi, tony stark!noel noa (familial), best-friend!ryusei shidou (platonic).
triggers/contents: graphic descriptions of injury and pain, blood, self-destructive behaviors, trauma, implied ptsd, encountering ‘abuser’, child violence, brief suicidal ideation, panic attack, anti-social behaviors, spiralling, + any i missed (sorry). spider-man!yoichi isagi x fem!reader, college setting, reader has a fleshed out backstory and personality, one feature mentioned (it will not impact your immersion), dabi cameo because this is my fic i do what i want, 12.3k.
notes: my new magnum opus, i spent nearly two weeks writing this and i literally don’t even like isagi… also sorry this flowkirkenuinely is a heavy piece, i wouldn’t call it dark content though, also the banner was an edit i did myself, feel free to use with credit.
Ever since you were a little girl, you’ve loved superheroes. The idea of being able to shift the world with something truly unique to you and only you. You would dream about it every night: each dream allowed you a new power to try on like a garment. Super speed, telekinesis, flight; some were more obscure and took longer to figure out, like that one dream in which your strength was directly correlated to the battery percentage your phone was currently at…
Yeah, that was a weird one.
You’d chase every little scrap of information you could find about superpowers, as if one day you could finally crack the secret and secure your own. But heroes were always incredibly vague about their origin stories, even to a little girl looking up at them like they hung the stars in the sky. For the ones that weren’t keeping it under lock and key, the answer was always that they were simply ‘born with it.’
It was like a song you couldn’t get out of your head, no matter how many times you listened to it. You had to know everything about it, simply because you just needed to.
Those lingering fantasies of superpowers blanketed your world from the harsh realities of living in a superhuman society. To little you, even the villains were so cool, simply because they were special. The inevitable wake-up call that came was harsh, and came in the form of direct contact with your fantasy.
You remember that day clear as a whistle, maybe because it still haunts your dreams; even now. It was hot in Queens, uncharacteristically so, at a sweltering 100°F (or, 37.8°C ): everyone was damn near miserable.
Maybe that should have been your first clue to go the hell back home instead of wandering the borough just looking for trouble to feast your nosy little eyes on. But you were nine and blissfully ignorant to the dangers of the world, too busy daydreaming about Iron Man and Captain America to even consider the possibilities of danger.
Then the screaming started, at first with one voice before cascading through the busy streets like a ripple. Everyone started pushing and shoving, and you were a little thing all alone, so you ended up getting spat out of the crowd onto the street. Your knees scraped so hard against the asphalt that it vibrated through your bones. Pain didn’t register in you, though, it was dampened by a chilling fear.
Normally, the sight in front of you would have had a toothy (though missing a few) grin spreading on your face. But a more primitive part of your brain washed that away with a wave of adrenaline and cortisol rushing through your veins. That tiny little heart of your damn near beat out of your chest as black echoed on the edges of your vision and ringing silenced the screams.
You were face to face with a man wielding scarlet red flames, burning down a family restaurant you and your parents ate at every weekend. Suddenly the heat was suffocating, small hands coming up to grasp at your throat as a ragged cough wracked through your form. You couldn’t stand, not even because of the state of your knees; but because something in the base of your skull screamed to stay down, not to draw attention.
But that rough echo of your cough cough it– no, his attention. A molten hot gaze slid from the burning building back to you, and then it wasn’t hot anymore: it was ice cold, like the fear that chilled your veins. Your [e/c] gaze snapped to the ground, head bowing down as that familiar stinging of tears nipped at the back of your eyes.
This is where it begins to get blurry, your brain erasing detailed memory for your own peace of mind.
There were bootfalls, then a shout as some superheroes arrived onto the scene. They didn’t bring you any comfort, a part of you knew even then that they wouldn’t hold a candle to the inferno blazing. And their ashes scattered to the wind, not even a bone to remember them by.
You remember muffled words, ears ringing too loud to clearly hear them, and then the heat was back as you stared dead into fire right before your face. When the flames flickered, you could make out a palm behind it, holding it. His palm.
Words failed you as you stared dead into the blaze, something in you resigning to being reduced to kindling. If only you weren’t so damn weak, if only you had powers: you could protect yourself, protect everyone.
But this villain had them, had some of the strongest flames in metahuman society, and he still chose evil. Maybe if you had them too you’d end up just the same, driven by hate and a need to prove that you had been right all along. That everyone who had ever mocked you for your childish dreams would finally have to see you, to acknowledge you, to force the world to know you. To leave your mark, because people always remembered the bad more potently than the good.
Death didn’t come, though, and those thoughts were given the privilege of haunting you.
There was a whirring sound as cold metal wrapped around your wrist, then a searing hot pain splayed across your entire upper back before you were pulled from it. A scream ripped from your little throat, so visceral that it ripped one of your vocal cords and rendered your wailing into wheezing.
At that point, your body was so overwhelmed by pain that white flooded your vision and you passed out.
You woke up in a big building with lots of windows and a man named Noel Noa speaking to your parents. Something about fourth degree burns and abnormal scar tissue. It was all washed out by the feeling of trillions of tiny needles stabbing into your spine, opening your mouth to speak; but no sound coming out, just a small croak.
From your shoulders to your waist, you were wrapped up like a mummy. You had always hated the itchy feeling of gauze, but that didn’t matter now as you stared up at your parents, who stared at you like they had seen a ghost.
Maybe you’d leave the superpowers to the superheroes…
You don’t think you deserve them anymore.
Ever since that fateful day, that spark in you died. The first thing you did was tear off every poster from your wall and throw your metahuman books straight into the back of your closet.
You had a Fourth Degree burn in the center of your back in the shape of a handprint, from the villain that Iron Man saved you from that day. It was numb, now, but the scarring would never leave, no matter how many times you visited Mr. Noa for treatment in his fancy labs.
For a long while, the entirety of your back was char-black and the nauseating smell of burnt flesh never left you fully, no matter how tightly you wrapped the wound or how many spritzes of body mist you doused yourself in.
Those were the hardest days, the days you wished the flames had just swallowed you whole.
But, with time, the wound shrunk down into a perfect handprint, the right hand, thumb notched just under your left shoulder blade and pinky spanning to the edge of your right shoulder. The skin there slowly healed from charcoal to a permanently angry pink.
You learned it would never fully heal, because the burn reached down all the way through your skin and fat: fully burning into your tissue and even singing your skeleton itself.
It took a long time to accept that fact, if you ever fully did.
Maybe you didn’t, because you still visit Noa Industries on the fifth of every month, as if maybe next time the nice Doctor will have something different to tell you. She never does; but you still return with the faintest ember of hope to smother and painstakingly reignite.
Middle school was hard, navigating puberty that forced you to grow: because scar tissue didn’t stretch like normal skin. Every increment of growth tore that burn right back open. You spent countless nights laying flat on your stomach and sobbing; because laying on your back made you need to scream in a way that was taken from you.
When the villain burnt you, apparently you screamed so loud that you tore a vocal chord. It took extensive speech therapy and surgeries; but you eventually regained the ability to talk normally. You just could never manage to truly scream again. Yelling, yes, but screaming: no.
You remember praying to anything that would listen, for it all to just go away, for this all to be another wicked dream your young mind had spun up. You swore that you’d never covet anything that didn’t belong to you. You begged and pleaded until your tear ducts dried up and then kept going.
But no God was listening to you: not then, not now.
Slowly, the silence was no longer painful and it became numb. This wasn’t some sort of punishment, no. The world didn’t even care about you enough for that. You were just another cog in the twisting and ever growing machine, discarded when it got a little too big for its crank. Just another scrapped part.
After losing the passion for superpowers, there wasn’t much left to you. You didn’t have any friends that wanted to talk about anything other than superheroes and you had to completely restart. Move to a new neighborhood for high school..
Freshman year was especially tough, diving headfirst into a school with kids who grew up together their whole lives. Being the ‘New Girl’ was like being fresh meat on the chopping block, but you were in Japan of all places and that gave you a bit of grace. There was always something going on to distract everyone, even if you weren’t in Tokyo.
The most notorious thorn in your side was Ryusei Shidou, possibly what most cliches would call the boy at the ‘top of the food chain.’ He was loud, obnoxious, and stronger than most of the other kids. And he was damn good at soccer, which allowed him to hold onto popularity despite his grating personality.
Just your luck, he was terribly fascinated by you. By the way you never seemed to do normal teenage girl things, by that faraway look in your eyes, by the way you’d never once worn a tank-top in the entirety of high school. It was like he had a shiny new toy that refused to let him play with it.
All you had ever wanted was to skate under the radar, never draw too much attention to yourself. Mr. Noa scrubbed your name and image clean from all major media outlets years ago, so that the incident wouldn’t haunt your prospects. But that didn’t mean there weren’t pictures that still floated around the internet. It was impossible for even a man like Noel Noa to fully remove something from the dark clutches of the world wide web.
The last thing you wanted was for anyone to ever find out, so you ignored him at every chance you could. But, almost out of principle, that just made Shidou more fixated on you. Which made the entire school more aware of you.
High school was four years of terribly vexing tug-of-war with Shidou and keeping your own little secret under wraps. Eventually, you allowed him to wear you down into something vaguely amicable. Enough that kept him off your back.
You weren’t involved in much outside of school, other than the science clubs. There you met some good friends there and even finally found something to fill that hole in you: medicine. Doctors were way cooler than superheroes, because they had to work for the ability to save people. Like Mr. Noa did. He wasn’t superhuman; and that made him okay in your book.
Sports didn’t interest you, not outside of sports medicine or kinesiology. But for some reason it kept popping up into your world. First with Shidou, then with how integrated it was into Physics practice problems. Eventually you caved and allowed your friends, MJ and Liz to drag you to your school’s first home game. Soccer, they chose, because it was ‘our best sport.’
At first, you debated on denying out right, out of pride: because Shidou was on the soccer team.
But something at you tugged to go, and you enjoyed it, begrudgingly. To your unlikely pal’s amusement, which he never let you forget. Somehow, by junior year, you had secured a spot as the team’s manager… funny, you never actually applied for the position. Soccer became a second outlet for you, it allowed you to let out the pent up energy you had been bottling for years.
Homecomings and Proms were out of the question, dresses never had a back that went high enough in the back while still being flattering. The last thing you wanted was to roll in wearing something that made you look stupid.
So, you were always conveniently sick. Ryusei always found his way to you by the end of the night, a little tipsy and more mellowed down. It was funny, he made a big deal of asking you to every dance, knowing that you’d never actually go. Posters, flowers, singing from your front yard into your open window: surprisingly he could actually carry a tune.
Maybe it was his way of trying to make you feel included, despite everything.
Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him, not then, not now. Because a part of you was still that scared little girl who shut herself in her house for weeks on end at the thought of anyone ever seeing you fully.
A part of you thinks he knew something, he had always been smarter than he let on.
Eventually, you ended up getting into Blue Lock University, along with some of the few friends you’d made along the way. Another new chapter, just without all the excess filler classes, finally working to chip at your new goal: a degree in some sort of science that would get you a ticket to med school.
It was only natural that Shidou would follow with you, on a soccer scholarship and you on an academic one. He always had a way of sticking with you, no matter how you tried to shake him off: and you were grateful for that.
Not that you’d ever tell him that. It would only inflate his ego.
The two of you settled into a rhythm, you’d study and he’d never leave you alone. He’d practice and you’d dig your heels in to try not to be dragged along. Neither of you would mention how you were always busy on the fifth of every month, nor the way you never wore anything less than a full-hem tee. It was familiar, it was safe.
Until a kid from Saitama shook everything and forced your world to rewrite.
Neither of you had ever really heard of the guy; not until after the fact, and then realizing that you had seen him around before. Isagi was on the soccer team too, but he was nothing special, maybe that’s why he flew so far under the radar.
He was a subpar player, at best.
Until one day, he wasn't.
Normally, he lagged at practice, trailing behind even the lazy kids like Nagi. But that one fateful Tuesday, he was at the front of the herd, right alongside Shidou and his (self-proclaimed) rival, Rin. It was like he just got good overnight, faster than any secret practicing could justify.
Faster than what should be humanly possible.
He had this knack for dribbling the ball all of the sudden too, which wouldn’t be strange, since his best friend was Meguru Bachira; but you swore you caught the glint of something almost silk-thin between his foot and the ball.
Isagi went from a nobody to a somebody in one day, and it pissed Ryusei off to hell and back. Which meant you had to hear about it too.
And it stumped you, utterly.
Because you’d never once seen anything like this, it was unprecedented.
But this was Shidou’s problem, not yours. You didn’t play soccer, nor did you ever plan to: much to your best friend’s dismay. There were other things that mattered way more to you, like figuring out what the hell a Lac Operon was and learning how to tell if a Pi-System was Conjugated.
Isagi may have become a blip on your radar, but he was just that: a blip.
So why the hell was he at Noa Enterprises on the fifth of the month talking to Noel Noa himself like it was normal..?
Maybe you were staring, or maybe he just had a momentary sixth sense, because his head tilted over his shoulder to look at you. You watched as that flicker of recognition washed over him, and then watched in confusion as it turned into something akin to anxiousness: as if he was a child being caught doing something they said they wouldn’t do.
Something in you pulled you to give him a small nod, courteous, before continuing on your way to the elevator. It wasn’t any of your business why he was here, he was a sciences major, so maybe he was just there looking for a research spot or an internship.
But Noa didn’t give those sorts of opportunities to ordinary people. You know because you asked.
With a sigh, you shook your head, as if to physically wash the thought from yourself before stepping into the lab and locking the outside world out for your monthly poking and prodding.
What you didn't expect even more was for Isagi to be sitting in the building’s lobby when you finished, hours later. This was more than just an anomaly, because he stood the second the elevator doors dinged open and you stepped out. This was intentional.
A trill of panic ran up your spine to wash over you like a wave, would he tell everyone? Would he tell Ryusei?
You stamped it out quickly, because he looked damn near more nervous than you were feeling.
“[Y/n]! I uh- I just wanted to say hello and offer to walk you to the station…” Isagi mumbled, tone a little shaky as he stood next to you. Weird. But, maybe it would be nice to have some company, and part of you was being eaten up by curiosity.
So, you gave him a hum, “Okay.”
With that, the two of you were weaving through the bustling streets of Tokyo City, Isagi talking idly about something you couldn’t bother yourself to care fully about.
Then, the moment you were waiting for came. “Do you also have an… internship with Mr. Noa?” He asked, something in his intonation stressing the word ‘internship’ like it meant something else. It was just barely enough to be written off as a voice crack by anyone else.
But you weren’t anyone else.
“No, I have a connection with their laboratory. Research stuff.” You hummed, tone intentionally flat and words vague enough to tell him nothing valuable other than you weren’t involved with Noa Industries in the same way he was.
Isagi visibly deflated, excitement seemingly lost at knowing that the two of you weren’t in camaraderie with one another. He nodded, the enthusiasm in his chatter weakened considerably in a way that almost offended you: were you really this much of a bore to be around if you weren’t a part of the same unknown group as him..?
Either way it didn’t matter, this was just something trying to draw you off your course. A distraction was all it was.
You separated from him at the station, getting onto separate trains, despite the fact that you two both should have been going back to the dorms. It stoked that growing suspicion you had of him, if anything.
It kept you up a little longer than it should have that night.
Noel Noa was a billionaire, his hands were in many different jars. But the two most notable ones were his tech empire and his identity as Iron Man. Before all of it, he had been a soccer player, though. So those were the three most likely connections that could exist between him and Isagi.
But, even if Noa had taken Isagi under his wing and started helping him out with soccer: it wouldn’t explain his instantaneous physical improvement. Even that should have been more gradual. It was incredibly unlikely that Isagi had been holding himself back, because he genuinely looked like he was trying his hardest back when he was mediocre.
Connecting with Noa’s tech company also wouldn’t have explained anything; because Noel Noa absolutely hated the idea of cheating with his technology unless it was for the greater good of the world. His pride wouldn’t allow Isagi to exploit him like that.
Which meant he fell into the superhuman category. It was the only logical answer.
But even that didn’t make sense; because you’d never heard of someone just waking up with powers one day. And if there was anyone in this world who knew about superpowers: it was you.
It was a conundrum, truly. One that you gave an irritating amount of thought to.
Isagi Yoichi had somehow wormed his way into your life, just with this one interaction. You came to watch soccer practice more, much to Ryusei’s delight. But you never saw Isagi excelling as obviously as he did that one day. Now, he seemed painfully average. Good enough to keep himself on the starting line-up; but not enough to draw any more attention than necessary.
Like he was trying to keep himself as far from the spotlight as possible.
As if he had something to hide.
And if there was someone who knew about coasting under the radar: it was you.
But it was none of your business, whatever he was hiding. Just like how what you were hiding was no one else’s. It would go against every boundary you expected others to respect, for you to prod at Isagi any longer.
So you stepped back, fell right into your studies again; but lingered a little more than you had before around the soccer team. You were an unofficial manager: none of the commitment, but you’d always swing by to help whenever Ryusei told you about empty volunteer spots for games: concession stands, ball runners, ticket checking.
You were always there, just never in the same place. And somehow, Isagi always found you. It didn’t matter if he was on the opposite end of the pitch, if you looked: he looked back a second later.
By the time your next appointment rolled around on the fifth, you weren’t as surprised as you thought you would have been to see him in Noa Industries. A part of you had left behind just expecting it, moving to anticipating Isagi’s presence at every turn.
“Good luck with your research, [Y/n]!” He chimed as you walked past him to the elevator. Mr. Noa merely furrowed his brow; but didn’t say anything beyond a greeting.
Well, shit.
That was an unforeseen flaw in the ambiguity you had given Isagi on your last run-in, the fact that it would be totally normal to talk about your mutual ‘employment’ with Noa industries right in front of Noel Noa himself. If he knew that you were playing chess, you would give him kudos; but to him, it was just a game of checkers, if that at all.
You gave a hum and a small smile, enough to be polite and hide the irritation that was brewing at the idea of being outplayed by a man who didn’t even know that there was a game being played.
The second the elevator doors shut behind you with a gentle thud, you let out a groan between gritted teeth, expression dropping from that placated facade into a grimace.
As expected, your appointment was fruitless and unrewardingly painful, as usual.
“Your scar tissue is in surprisingly good shape for this severe of a burn, most people have to amputate the area and then graft it to achieve this level or repair…” Dr. Ness mused, her magenta eyes squinting in contemplation.
It shouldn’t have, but that sparked a bit of pride in your chest. Another breadcrumb on the endless trail that should lead you to some semblance of feeling normal. But you knew deep down that you’d never arrive there, not truly.
Something fundamentally broke in you that day. It didn’t matter when it was a year ago, it didn’t matter now ten years later, and it won’t matter when it’ll have been fifty years. You would never be the same person you were before the scar. Part of you refused to accept that; while another part of you was resigned to that undeniable truth, two halves constantly warring internally.
So, you nodded, allowing that bit of excitement to play on your face, while the rest of you mourned. “Thank you, Doctor. That’s good to hear.”
There was nothing to be done, so you went about your normal routine: leave the lab, take the elevator down, walk to the station, ride the train, get off at your stop, walk back to the dorms, do something, go to bed.
Except it felt like you were floating, head hazy as you worked on autopilot. The beeping of the floor changes on the elevator were muffled, ringing in your ears drowning them out. You didn’t hear the clicks of your shoes on the marble floors of the building, nor did you hear the door shut behind you. You saw the front desk receptionist give you a funny look; but you didn’t perceive it, nor did you actively acknowledge the way the crowd around the crosswalk stopped instead of walking into the street.
Maybe if you had noticed the murmurs of people whispering, or the blaring of a car horn as you suddenly snap back into focus. Your eyes widened, staring dead at the bus hurtling towards you, your entire body going into that same state it did when all you saw was a flamed hand creeping closer and closer. Your jaw fell open to scream; but only air whispered out from your lips, accompanied by a weak croak.
Right. You can’t scream; not even as you’re about to die like a dog in the street. How cruel.
But the impact wasn’t what knocked the breath out of your lungs; it was the sudden, jerking tug at the back of your shirt drawing you just out of imminent doom.
You landed flat on your ass, on the curb, the bus screeching just past you, close enough to send a breeze ruffling your [h/c] hair in your face. The pounding of your heartbeat echoed in your ears as heat flared under your collar, feeling all too cold and all too hot all of the sudden. But the bitter taste of bile burning at the back of your throat had your hands reaching to your neck as you harshly swallowed it, nails digging into the column of your throat.
“Hey, Miss, are you okay?” A voice asked, boyish and almost trembling. It was oddly familiar, but muffled by something, as if there were a barrier between their mouth and the open air.
It took you a few seconds to speak, but when you did: it came out hoarse and scratchy, just like how it was after the accident. “Yes, I’m fine,” the words came out a bit harsher in tone, no doubt worsened by the roughness in your throat. Your hands fell, leaving small crescent indents behind in your skin.
There was an undeniable tremble in your knees, legs feeling like jelly as you forced yourself to stand. Almost instinctively, your head bowed down, hoping that hair would cover you from the crowd that had gathered, that it would save you from letting a bunch of strangers see the tears pooling in bloodshot [e/c] eyes.
With a shaky step, you tried to walk away, only to feel that familiar tug of something on your shirt, forcing the material to brush against the raw scar: red and angry from your appointment. You spun around, eyes wide, only to feel some sort of weird string press against the side of your arm to prevent you from fully turning.
You were met with the sight of a figure wearing a red and black bodysuit, spiderweb patterns spanning the chest of the suit: an angular spider motif right on the sternum. Wide, white eyes (if you could call them that) stared back at you, and you felt all too seen in that moment.
“Let go of me,” spilled from your lips in a bark, followed by a quiet, almost pleading, “please.”
The crowd that gathered began to make disgruntled murmurs, jabs thrown at you for being “ungrateful,” or “bitch-y.” A bolt of panic echoed through you like lightning, seeing that the web-like string attached to your shirt was connected to the hand of the figure. That hand probably reached out to you before firing off their superpower.
Fuck.
Hands. Superpowers. Fire.
Spiralling thoughts began to overtake your mind as your breathing grew quick and shallow, tears slipping down your cheeks in rivulets. You wanted to scream so badly, maybe it would make everyone shut up so the world would finally be quiet. But you can’t. Because of Him. A splintering pain began to stab at your back, the roughness of your shirt combined with the tension of it being pulled taught agitating the sensitive wound that was your scar.
The feeling of something warm dripping down your shoulderblade broke you as you let out a choked gasp, falling forwards to double over into yourself.
Maybe if you shrunk up, it would all finally stop.
But, again, it never came and you were hauled up against the firm planes of a body before wind whistled around you once more.
You blinked and suddenly you were atop a roof with the figure, their arms wrapped tight around your middle in a way that did nothing but increase that strangling feeling beginning to claw at your throat. A weak sound, something between a whimper and a cry, escaped you as you pushed free from their grasp: still connected by that damned string.
Those tears began to form rivers, carving into the slopes of your cheeks as the corners of your eyes began to blur. “Please, please, I’m sorry I was mean. Don’t hurt me, it burns!” You scrambled, tone becoming increasingly fervent as you tugged at the web only for it to begin to stick to your own skin.
“Woah, woah, calm down, [Y/n]– erm, Miss. Nobody’s hurting you, what burns?” The cut-off sound of your own name didn’t even register, too frenzied as your hands shook the sticky silk off, chest heaving in ragged gasps.
“Let me go, please…” The words came out in a sob, [e/c] eyes squeezing shut as your palms pressed over your closed eyes, fingertips threading into your hair and fisting to try to ground yourself. You shook like a leaf, shivers twitching at every muscle along your body in no predictable manner.
You heard some rustling, feeling a couple tugs at the back of your shirt before it all stopped altogether. Then there was breath sucked between teeth, the feeling of fingers brushing over your clothed back. “Why are you bleeding, did… Did I do this..?” The voice was weak, an undeniable desperation to their tone.
That was what snapped you back into sense, immediately stepping forwards and turning to face the figure. Your tears stopped falling, the only proof of their existence being the gleaming wetness of your cheeks and the reddening of your eyes. “No,” you mumbled, both to answer their question and to the feeling of being touched in such a vulnerable place, by a stranger nonetheless.
“Goodbye, I’m sorry for yelling,” you said with a politeness that felt more like coldness than courtesy. With that, and a spin on your heel, you were through the doors of the fire escape, falling against it the second the metal thud shut behind.
‘Fuck, why did I act like that? They were probably just trying to help me and I totally made them feel bad. That was definitely a boy, sounded like someone I know, but who? He definitely wasn’t Ryusei; I’d recognize his loud ass anywhere, plus that guy was too short to be him…’ Thoughts swirled around your mind, neurons zapping and firing rapidly; but not linking fully.
You just didn’t know enough to figure out who that spider… man was right now.
By the time you had recentered yourself and neatly sorted through everything you had been thinking and peeked your head back out to the roof, he was gone. Part of you worried about how, given that there were only rickety ladders and this staircase to get down; but you assumed it would be fine since he had gotten the both of you up here without using either.
There was no point lingering in the stairwell of some random building, so you made your way back down to the ground floor: which was terrible, who thought going downstairs could be this exhausting?
It was dark by the time you got off the train and made it back to your dorm, you barely got your door shut before falling face-first into your bed: not even changing before sleep consumed you with a vengeance. Thank god that you qualified for a single, having a roommate right now might have killed you.
When you woke up, it was just barely light outside, and your shirt was uncomfortably crusted to your back with dried blood. Great.
A shower, antiseptic & bandages, and biting your tongue helped fix that. When you set out, intent on sitting outside just for the sake of it, you were met with the sight of Isagi lingering near the pitch; though there was no practice today.
The moment he saw you, it was like he had seen a ghost: face going white and jaw slackening.
Huh, you didn’t think being caught staring aimlessly at some grass could be that embarrassing… But, hey, who are you to judge?
In an instant, the look of alarm washed off his face and was replaced by that familiar smile. “[Y/n], we can’t stop running into each other, huh?” The words drew out a soft snicker from you, lips curling up into a grin as you shook your head aimlessly.
You made your way to stand at his side, humming in agreement. Because, yes, the two of you had been meeting more often than not. The breeze ruffled against [h/c] hair, sending strands tickling the curve of your cheek as your gaze focused onto the empty field, a dingy soccer ball sat in the middle.
Then, you walked towards it, giving a testing roll of the ball underfoot, before passing it over to Isagi with a kick from your foot’s arch. “Staring at the ball won’t change anything, Isagi; if you want something, you have to make it happen,” you mused, almost wisely.
Isagi received the ball with a surprised look that made his brows raise slightly and had his eyes widening. A glimmer formed in his blue eyes, like your flippant words had actually managed to mean something to him. Then he chuckled, breathy and real: as if he hadn’t intended it, but it came out naturally. Like he actually found you amusing.
For some weird reason, that forced your heart to skip a beat. It was a feeling that you were so used to associating with fear. But, with him, it felt oddly akin to safety.
And that, if anything, scared you.
Because of all the people in the world, it was Yoichi Isagi that was spurring this in you. A man you hadn’t known existed a mere month earlier. That same Isagi who knew the semblance of something that could turn your world upside down if he blabbed around the wrong person. But panic didn’t rise in you, it didn’t even flicker.
You were too focused on how his eyes sparkled like sapphires in the early morning light.
A real smile formed for you, not the kind that stretched your cheeks and crinkled your eyes: but the quiet kind that curled eyes into a soft crescent. The kind that isn’t meant to look like anything, but is just meant to be.
Wait, wait… what?
In an instant, that genuine grin tightened into something more fake; before giving into neutrality entirely. You must have shaken your head really hard yesterday, maybe you needed to get checked for whiplash.
Because there was no way you would ever find yourself feeling that way, not for him, not for anyone. The grass tickled against your ankles as you turned to look up to the sky, eyes focusing on the clouds as you washed away this warmth that had begun to coil within. It was just a traitorous feeling and nothing more, a momentary lapse.
Isagi’s expression fell slightly as your walls snapped back into place, his idle popping of the ball on his foot stopping as it fell to the ground, disregarded. “[Y/n], are you okay? Yesterday, uh- I heard there was a girl that almost got into an accident on the route to the bus and the description seemed to match you.”
The reminder sent a zing of heat up your spine, shoulders instinctively stiffening as your gaze dropped from the clouds to the grass below your shoes. Your teeth chewed against the inside of your cheek, before finally mumbling, “Must’ve been someone else. Hope she’s okay, that is unfortunate,” and then you were gone (both physically and emotionally), walking off the pitch and shutting yourself out from him once more.
Maybe if you turned around you would have seen his lips curl down into the barest frown, eyes downcast as he nudges the soccer ball away petulantly.
You avoided practice like the plagues, for the next couple weeks. Much to Ryusei’s very loud displeasure, “why’re you doin’ this, if yer tryin’ t’edge me, I’d prefer the real thing…” He grumbled as the two of you ate at the dining hall one night, after you’d managed to disassociate from soccer for a full two weeks. Pink eyes bored into you, not in their typical predatory manner; but in something like concern.
It would have been sweet, seeing your best friend actually showing care. If it wasn’t for the reason you were avoiding soccer himself walking into the room. And, as always, the moment your eyes lingered too long, he turned and found your gaze with pin-point accuracy.
Luck always had a way of reminding you that she was not even remotely on your side.
Because Isagi sat down right next to you, chatting with Ryusei about practice. Of course, that tone-deaf bug didn’t notice the glare you shot in his direction and eagerly took the opportunity to talk about soccer with a wide grin.
Nice.
Idly, you picked at your food, rolling the inside of your bottom lip between your teeth. Curse your stupid best friend and his inability to ever read a damn room.
“-...[Y/n]?” The sound of your name snapped you free of the daze you’d imposed on yourself to make the awkwardness less painful. [E/c] eyes flicked up to see Ryusei staring straight at you, brows furrowed in a way that made your lamenting thoughts skid to a stop. “Isagi was askin’bout yer research position with Noa Industries,” he mused, lips curling into a toothy grin.
If you hadn’t known him so long, you wouldn’t think anything of it. But the way his smile strained and that usual teasing glint was absent from his eyes told you something was wrong. That he was upset you hadn’t told him, your best friend, about something so important as a prestigious research opportunity.
Had it just been the two of you, this could be cleared up by just telling him that you had lied to Isagi; but you would have to find some excuse for why you were even at Noa Industries. But Isagi was right next to you, and saying you lied to him felt wrong. While you hadn’t technically lied, the amount of ambiguity and lack of correction for his incorrect assumptions treaded on it.
You couldn’t bring yourself to admit aloud that you weren’t the researcher, but rather the subject.
So, you hummed, nodding with a strained smile. “Ah, yes, it’s new… I thought I told you, Ryu? Must’ve slipped my mind.” It was a response that should have placated the situation, but it didn’t.
Ryusei had always allowed his emotions to run high, you knew that better than anyone, so why did you ever think that pathetic excuse would work. “Y’didn’t. Ya don’t tell me much of anythin’, these days, actually.” He spoke, tone dropping into that familiar roughness he always got when he was mad.
“There’s a longer story, Ryusei. I’ll tell you later,” you mumbled, expression souring into a whisper of a wince, pulse thrumming just beneath your skin. You know better, you know he can’t be calmed when he’s hot, you know you just have to wait it out and find him once he’s cool. So why weren’t you doing that, why was a feeling of unease curling deep in you at the mere possibility of losing Shidou forever?
Did you really care this much? About a man you used to despise, a man who grew on you like a weed, about the one person who wasn’t ever pushed away by the arms-length you kept everyone at?
Yeah, you did.
Ryusei Shidou is your best friend, and he was mad at you, and it made you want to die.
Because you should have told him, you’ve been telling yourself that for years now. But you were too much of a damned coward to peel yourself apart in front of someone.
Maybe you’d always known something like this would happen; but that didn’t make it sting any less. All you could do was watch as he cursed and spat, grabbing his tray and storming off to dish return before disappearing down the stairs.
Have you and Ryusei ever had a real fight?
No, because you had never let someone close enough to fight with them. Unconsciously, he had been wearing down your walls and creeping his way into your heart, so slowly you didn’t even notice. And then, all of a sudden, his presence was gone. It felt more like suffocation than freedom: what you used to equate his absence with, before you had cared.
The clearing of a throat had your gaze flicking over to Isagi, who sat there with a confused expression. All you saw was the bastard who ruined your only real friendship, whether he knew it or not.
A shaky breath sucked between your gritted teeth as you stood abruptly, grabbing your things. “[Y/n], wait, I didn’t mean-!” He pleaded, hand curling around your wrist before you quickly smacked it away, glaring at him in a way that felt visceral. “Don’t touch me. It doesn’t matter what you meant, you did.” You spat, venom seeping into your tone as you stormed off with your dishes and made your way back to your room.
To cry, to sleep, to do both: in that order.
Sleep never claimed you, though, as you tossed and turned, eyes rimmed raw from salty tears and rubbing harshly at the skin. You knew that Shidou would forgive you, he always did, but you’d never managed to actually hurt him before. And knowing you caused it brought incorrigible guilt.
Ryusei avoided you for a whole week before suddenly showing up at your dorm, loud as he’d ever been. “Alright, are y’gonna spill t’me, or do I have t’work it outta ya?” He hummed, pushing past you to lay back on your bed like he’d always belonged there. Normally it made you fuss about him getting outside germs on your clean sheets; however, right now, the sight was nothing less than welcomed.
And you did spill everything: the incident, the scar, the aftermath, the connection to Noel Noa. It all spilled from you like a waterfall, coming out with such ease that it made you wonder why you ever built the dam in the first place.
He didn’t interrupt with his usual… less than savory sentiments, just listened: for possibly the first time since you’d known him.
In that moment, you realized: Ryusei Shidou had always been willing to hear you, you just never wanted to be heard until now. He had always seen you beyond what you were, into your soul, and trusted you would come to him when you were ready. He had never just been a boisterous asshole, he was incredibly sensitive to others’ feelings. He had never actually upset you, even when the two of you were less than acquaintances; maybe he vexed you, but it was never more than that.
You had expected so little of him, and were confronted with the fact that not everyone had it out for you: least of all your own best friend.
“Did’ja really think I care ‘bout that shit? Ya could be melted into mush, and I still’d scoop ya up and drag y’round.” Shidou sneered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. As if those words shouldn’t have reduced you to tears in the way that they did.
And, just like that, you were friends again, closer than ever. Shidou never asked pressing questions, like seeing your scar or pressuring you into therapy, he took what you gave him and never demanded anything more.
Now, the only thing that rattled around your head was the look in Isagi’s eyes when you snapped at him that day. But you two weren’t ever truly anything to each other, so an apology felt strange. The two of you never had a relationship to repair, the bridge that burned was a tightrope. So why did the thought of him being hurt by your words stay so firmly planted in the back of your mind?
Even when you started coming back to help with practice, he wouldn’t ever look at you: no matter how hard you stared. You knew that he knew you were looking, he always had; but Isagi never made a move to look back.
It hurt, but you knew you had no right to be hurt. Isagi didn’t owe you anything, didn’t know enough about you to know that your previous behavior was only brought by extraneous circumstances: as Shidou did.
Maybe he needed space? You had no right to push, after all.
So that silence echoed between the two of you, no matter how often you were around or how the rest of the team was finally beginning to warm up to you. Rin talked to you more than Isagi did, which spoke volumes purely due to the absence of that very act.
It took two months before anything at all happened to change that, the fall semester was just beginning to wrap up and the terror of finals was beginning to creep into everyone’s minds. Maybe that’s why you found yourself in a convenience store right off campus at one in the morning: two Red Bulls in your hands as you debate whether you want the limited edition Winter flavor or your favorite.
Eventually, in your exhausted state, you just chose both! ‘Saving one for tomorrow,’ is your justification: though you knew damn well you would end up drinking them both tonight.
Happy with your purchase, you were actively handing the cashier: who looks just your age and just as tired before the shattering of glass startled you. How convenient. Of course a villain would choose to attack this very store in the timespan where you were here.
Your phone dings in your hand as you look down, seeing a text from Noel Noa. Weird, really weird…
Instinctively, you jump behind a shelf, beloved energy drinks forgotten as you type in your passcode and open the thread. In an instant your blood runs ice cold as a familiar voice echoes in the store, demanding money. You don’t know where you know it from but subconsciously your entire body locks up like a springlock with the trigger tripped.
Noel Noa: [Y/n], Flammas escaped a prison near your school.
Noel Noa: Stay on campus, preferably in your room. I’m sending someone local to handle it.
‘Flammas..?’
‘Who is that?’
‘Some small villain, maybe, I’ve never heard the name-’
Then the realization hits you like a ton of bricks as the smell of smoke curls in your nostrils, the store suddenly feeling all too hot. Feeling like [100°F/37.8°C] hot. Your phone drops to the ground from shaking hands, pristine screen overtaken in webbing cracks.
“I said, give me the fuckin’ money, dipshit.”
Hands. Superpowers. Fire.
Pain. Burning, searing, blinding pain.
Your mind doesn’t register the sound of footfalls on glass, nor a boyish voice echoing in the distance until he’s in the store. The one who had saved you from walking in front of a bus.
After that incident, you had looked up who the mystery figure - hero - whomever he was: and found out he was a local hero who called himself ‘Spider-Man,’ which was exactly the name you had mentally assigned him, just hyphenated… details, details.
From what you could gather: his voice, stature, and mannerisms… he was also just a kid around your age. It made something terribly fearful curl in your gut; not because you didn’t trust in whomever he was, but because he hadn’t the faintest clue who or what he was up against.
Was this who Mr. Noa sent?
There was no media link between Iron Man and Spider-Man, though. Maybe he was new, which only served to worsen your worries.
Despite the pain aching in your limbs from clenched muscle, you managed to peek your head just barely around the corner, breath coming shallow. Yep, it was him, from all those years ago, looking much worse for wear. And standing right in front of him, almost casually, was Spider-Man.
‘If any Gods are there, please don’t kill this poor kid. I won’t ever ask you for anything again, I don’t care about healing anymore, just don’t let this kid die.’ Was the begging prayer that echoed in your mind. It didn’t stem from a lack of faith, but from a chilling knowledge about Him.
You knew what it looked like when a wave of his hand burned heroes to become ash scattered in the breeze.
You knew what those flames felt like first-hand.
Spider-Man didn’t know any of those things, and there he was: going toe-to-toe with the man that ruined your life with one touch, one glance, one day.
You didn’t even notice the fight had begun until Spider-Man was suddenly slammed against the drink fridges, your head snapping to him as he left your field of vision with the sudden movement. An [e/c] gaze bored into him, until his head tilted up, suit’s eyes squinting until they found you. And you could tell by just the widening of those hollow-white eyes that a bolt of terror coursed through him.
‘Maybe he recognizes me from that day.’
“[Y/n]…” but the desperate tumble of your name from his lips shattered that possibility like a sledgehammer to porcelain. And it forces you to remember that he had uttered your name then too, on the roof: in that same tone. And for some reason, the way his gaze instantly finds yours sends a memory of Isagi doing that exact same thing through your mind. And suddenly, it all makes sense.
Yoichi Isagi is Spider-Man, it is an undeniable truth. It explains his sudden physical skill, which coincided with the timeline of Spider-Man's surfacing. That thread you saw sticking Isagi’s foot to the ball, and the way he refused to touch anything for like a day straight: probably because he wasn’t used to that web power. It was why he was at Noa Industries during your appointment, because Mr. Noa sussed him out and likely wanted to help him control his powers so he didn’t cause any unintentional trouble.
He knew your name because he knew you.
And he had to fight that man, and you had to watch him: knowing both who he was and what that villain was capable of. Knowing Isagi once saw the effects of your scar and panickedly thought he caused it. Knowing that Isagi could be turned to dust in front of your eyes.
The crackle of flames splits your mind like an axe, absolutely forcing every single thought from your head as you freeze up once more.
‘No, not him, not Isagi. He didn’t deserve this, he shouldn’t have to do this.’ And for the first time since your skin was permanently marred, you yearned that you had superpowers once more. If for nothing else, to protect the world from Him.
Your legs move before your mind can catch up, form wedging between Spider-Man’s slumped form and Flammas’ approach. As your eyes stare into that flame swathed hand, you don’t find yourself freezing up quite like before. “Hey, have you ever wondered what happened to that kid that got you thrown in jail?”
There’s an icy chill in your veins as the words ring in the space between you and Him, watching as the villain’s brows furrow. Then a sickening smirk splits his lips as he recognizes you, flames curling from red to yellow as the temperature of the store increases.
“Well, well, what a coincidence… Seems that I failed to finish you off…” Flammas muses, eyes crinkling at the corners with a dark amusement that sends a tremor through your body. “I won’t be making that mistake again. You’re going to pay, you brat. Tell me, do you have nightmares about me burning your pretty little back?”
Words pour from your mouth, almost foolishly. “I hated you for a long time, because that scar hurt so badly, I was hospitalized for half a year. You ruined my life, for a while, but I realize now that never had to be the case. You mean nothing to me and allowing the memory to control me was my own fault.” It feels like a weight lifted off your chest, finally receiving closure: even in such terrible circumstances. Like some sort of catharsis, your heart beats a little lighter as the ice in your blood begins to thaw.
But that only served to make him angry, as good as it felt. His hand raises once more, an inferno aimed straight at you as he sneers. “Such nonsense, you will burn the same: free or not.” And a blaze glows blue in the palm of his hand.
Pain is expected to come, without much sorrow from you, at least you died doing a good thing.
Right?
But, once more, it never comes. Your eyes open to see a web sizzling against Flammas’ palm, before a rush of air from behind you and the feeling of a firm arm looped around your waist makes you realize your feet were no longer touching the ground.
There’s a tug on the back of your shirt and the sound of ripping fabric as a frustrated shout leaves the villain. You and Isagi tumble to the street outside the convenience store, roughly skidding against the pavement as a pained cry forces itself out from between your lips: road rash scraping against your now bare back.
You sit up, a little dazed, as pain throbs in waves from your scar: likely torn open with asphalt fragments lodged into it. The memory of Isagi’s presence doesn’t register as a headache forces a groan from you, hands grasping against your temple as your fingers tangle into [h/c] hair.
A grunt sounds behind you before it’s replaced by a sharp gasp. You look over your shoulder, to see the eyes on Spider-Man’s mask widened, gaze focused on your spine. Normally, this would have been your worst fear and you would have instantly lashed out. But that wasn’t who you wanted to be anymore, you didn’t want to let anyone control you like you had allowed Flammas to.
“Battle scar, yeah? Y’should’ve seen the other guy…” The words are meant to be humorous, to draw his gaze up to yours; but they fail, miserably.
On his knees, surely stinging against the bite of the street, Isagi crawls towards you. His hand reaches towards you, but pauses: the memory of how violently you reacted last time he got this close to you, back on the rooftop, replaying in his mind like a warning.
“Did… did he do this?” A part of you is shocked, never having heard such a tone from him before. Isagi had always had this boyish charm to him, but all of that was gone now as the white eyes on his mask narrowed into thin slits.
You watch his hands clench into fists as he suddenly stands, shoulders squared. He casts you a look over his shoulder, almost hesitant before his thumb hooks under the bottom of his mask, exposing the lower half of his face to shoot you a smile.
The action forces you to stall, a small grin involuntarily forming on your face as well as you nod, holding a fist out to him. “Give ‘im hell, Yoichi.” Isagi pulls his mask down and bumps his knuckles against yours before a shout escapes him: “WHAT?! HOW DID YOU KNOW?!” Isagi looked absolutely stunned as his mind caught up to the fact that you had somehow figured out his secret identity. A giggle is pulled from you at the evident shock in his voice, before footsteps force you back into reality.
“So this is where you two rats scurried off to…”
That little grin that had begun to etch itself onto your face falters, just barely; but, it’s enough for Spider-Man to notice. It’s enough to remind him that this man clearly hurt you, deeply enough for it to have altered the course of your life. It’s enough to remind Isagi what he was fighting for.
Not just you; but for everyone.
Because no one deserved to have to lose themselves in the actions of an evil person.
“Watch me, [Y/n].” Spider-Man mumbles, turning away from you with a determination in his voice. You nod, lips curling back up into a smile and mumbling “Always.”
There was an unusual calm in you now, seeing him going up against Flammas. As if all your previous worries had burned to ash and dust. All your faith was in Spider-Man, in Yoichi. That would have scared you something terrible a few hours ago.
But that wasn’t the girl you are any longer. You have both Isagi and yourself to thank for that.
Spider-Man dropped into a crouch, jumping forwards as his leg swung back and whizzed through the air: cracking against the side of Flammas’ skull with a sharp crack. But rough hands wrapped around his ankle, flinging him off to the side.
Webs shot out and wrapped around a nearby street light, the metal groaning under the strain as it bowed. It didn’t break, and Spider-Man was able to swing back towards the flame villain with even more momentum than before, knee thudding against Flammas’ back: right between his shoulder blades. It forced a grunt out of the villain, cerulean eyes narrowing in fury.
“Spiders are meant to be squashed..!” He snarls, spinning around as his fist flies through the air, missing the hero by a fraction of an inch as he swings away just in time.
“Fires are meant to be put out.” Spider-Man quipped, web snapping off the lightpole as he lands into a run, drawing Flammas away from the trashed convenience store: from you. But the villain doesn’t follow, instead he simply stands just where he was, knowing it was an act. “If you can’t fight me and keep that little bitch safe, are you really a hero?”
The taunt was an obvious dig at Isagi, with a subtle one directed towards you: it was meant to make him angry, to make him lose his cool. It might’ve, if you weren’t a little bit aways, that same soft look in your [e/c] eyes that you got whenever you thought no one was looking.
Exactly the one he used to secretly admire when you were particularly focused with whatever task you were doing, on the days you were helping around practice.
It was enough to douse the flicker of rage that flickered in his heart, just as quickly as it had sparked. “Hey, I can do both. I just didn’t want to embarrass you, man. After all, there’s a reason they call me your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!” Isagi chirped, resulting in a groan from Flammas.
The villain raised a hand, palm aimed straight at you, raising a dark brow in the hero’s direction. “Then watch her burn.” With that, his palm began to glow orange-hot, flames charging to shoot. Your heart damn near leapt from your chest at that; but, for whatever reason, you trusted Isagi. He always had a way of stopping things from ever hitting you.
Again, it was foiled by a web sticking against his wrist, forcing his arm skywards as that burst of fire shot upwards instead, like a firework.
With a sharp flick of Spider-Man’s wrist, Flammas was flung back into a nearby wall. The concrete cracked in spiderweb cracks, hairline fractures branching out from the central point of impact like branches reaching from a trunk.
The villain’s form was largely slumped against the surface, rivulets of blood dripping down the nape of his neck: likely a wicked headache ringing too. The only part of his body lifted up was the arm attached to the wrist that a thin strand of silken web was still bound around. His tousled, dark hair was lightened in ash-grey dust from the impact. But those damn sea-blue eyes were still narrowed into thin slits, though hazier than before.
A sharp cackle echoed in the space, the clattering of rubble following short after. “Let’s dance, Spider-Man…” With that, a flame curled in his outstretched hand, shooting up the web that held it up with a fervor.
Surging towards where it was still connected to Isagi.
You felt tears pool in your eyes as you watched fire sear at the tender skin of his wrist, hot enough to burn away that area of his suit and completely melt some of the skin before Isagi managed to clip the web from him.
Yoichi was getting hurt because of you.
From what you could understand, those webs that he used seemed to come directly from his wrists: not a device. Like there was a special gland or organ that created the spider silk and it was extruded from him on command.
But with the way the flames had lapped against his skin, whatever hole that allowed the webs out was likely melted shut. More so, the organ that created the silk itself was likely damaged.
You knew just how hot Flammas’ fire burned, it took damn near three years for you to not exist in some sort of constant pain. Then six more for you to be able to have a painless free range-of-motion. This last year had been the first where you did not encounter any sort of discomfort on a typical, or even strenuous, day. It was your first ‘normal’ year.
It seemed like the world wanted it to also be Isagi’s first year of pain.
Despite it, he didn’t scream, didn’t cry, didn’t falter. He only just looked down at it with a chilling calm, flesh still hissing with a sizzle. You watched him hold his other hand next to the wound, palm-up.
“This isn’t as big as hers, and it hurts this much?” Spider-Man – no – Yoichi mumbled.
That had you pausing, hearing that, tears welling in [e/c] eyes, spilling over your lower lash-line and rolling down your cheeks. You met the white gaze of his suit and watched as he tugged off the glove of the suit, where it was hanging on by a singed bit of fabric.
His arm raised, uncovered fist extended in your direction.
Wordlessly, despite the ache in your bones and the stinging in your nose, you raised your fist too.
Though they didn’t meet, given the distance between the two of you, it was a silent declaration nonetheless. An unspoken, ‘I’ve got this,’ from Isagi.
With a small sniffle you brought that fist up to wipe the wetness from your cheek, knuckles roughly dragging over your skin and leaving a lingering buzz in their trail. “Give ‘im hell, Spider-Man,” you repeat. Though, the words are less lightening and more genuine. Not speaking to Yoichi; but, rather, the hero that was standing before you.
And he does just that.
The fight is intense, given that Spider-Man’s mobility and offensive opportunities were quite literally just reduced to a third of their potential. Yet, there’s a conviction in the way he moves.
He weaves between flames with an ease that he hadn’t possessed before, he punches with a strength that he shouldn’t have, he doesn’t make his usual little quips of joke throughout the fight. He’s serious, deadly serious, for possibly the first time you’d ever truly seen.
It crescendos with Spider-Man managing to wrap Flammas in a tight coil of web, arms pinned down to his torso: like a fly caught in a spider’s web and being silk swathed. Shortly after, Iron Man arrives, with the Tokyo PD in tow. And it was finally over.
You watch Yoichi shrug off the paramedics, stepping quickly towards you. You were giving the story to an officer, trying your best to recount the full run-down with as much detail as possible..
An arm wrapping around your shoulders should have startled you, but the familiar sigh of red and black washed away any rising anxieties. The cop stepped away, seemingly satisfied with the details he was given, entering the store to investigate and speak to the cashier… who you had completely forgotten about.
Instantly, your hand wraps around the elbow of his other arm, tugging it up so your eyes could bore into the burn that marred his milky skin an angry red. Your jaw works as your eyes narrow, guilt beginning to bubble back up to the surface before his voice draws you back out of it. “Now we match, yeah?”
It’s stupid. It’s insensitive. It’s also just blatantly incorrect.
But it still pulls a soft laugh from you, breathy and quiet like it slipped past so efficiently that it failed to resonate your vocal chords. Yet, it was real.
“Yeah, we match,” you mumble, lips curling into a grin as you shake your head.
Without any more of a word, you hook a finger under the edge of his mask and pull it up enough to press a feather-light kiss against his cheek. “For saving me.”
And the two of you are pulled away from each other by conflicting responsibilities. Isagi is dragged away so that his injuries could be treated, and the flow of law enforcement begins to draw you away whilst providing contact towards any resources that you may need to recover from tonight: as if this were your first rodeo.
You don’t see him again, not until you're back in your dorm, sitting up in bed because you just can’t seem to fall asleep. Skin still humming with the events that had all transpired in such a short amount of time.
In just a few hours: you had worked through your trauma, given yourself closure, figured out who Spider-Man was, watched Isagi beat the man you feared most, and kissed him on the cheek.
Damn, the devil works hard, but you work harder…
The sound of the glass of your window rattling startled you from your thoughts, head snapping towards it.
Only to be met with familiar, empty white eyes.
A grin parted your lips as you stood, opening the window and allowing that familiar red-and-black suited figure in, shutting it behind him.
“Could’ve moved faster, the sun’s ‘bout t’rise… What would they say if someone saw their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man crawl into Miss Untouchable’s room?” Isagi teased, masked head tilting at you almost smugly.
You only chuckled, rolling your eyes as you sat on the edge of your bed. A finger tapped against your chin, as if pondering deeply on his accusation. “Probably, ‘lucky guy’?” You hummed, grin curling into a smirk.
He laughed, the sound bouncing around in his chest as his fist curled around the cheek of his mask and pulled it off his face.
There he was. Messy black hair standing up in all the wrong ways, but that persistent little sprout cowlick remained. A glint shimmered in his sapphire eyes, dark lashes framing them in all the right ways. Even the subtle little flush of pink along the high points of his cheeks managed to look just at home on him.
It all managed to make Isagi look like home.
Maybe he noticed you staring, he always had a way of doing that, because a smile formed on his lips. His head cocked to the side, brow raising in a challenge. “Y’know you missed, earlier,” he whispered.
What?
When could you possibly have missed?
Maybe it was during a training exercise and you kicked the ball wrong? Or when you and him were playing around with a soccer ball that early morning? Possibly—
‘Oh…’
Heat burned at your face at the realization, creeping up the back of your neck as suddenly the frigid room you normally complained about became all too warm. [E/c] eyes flicked away from Isagi’s face, a nervous feeling curling in your gut. But it wasn’t like your normal anxieties that curdled at your stomach; no, this was light and fluttering, like a butterfly.
Yoichi Isagi, of all people on God’s green Earth, had just given you butterflies like a damned lovesick schoolgirl.
And you weren’t even mad about it.
It just felt natural, like it was something that always happened.
And, maybe, it had.
“Then fix it..,” you murmured, head tipped back at his standing form with an almost reverent look. The beat of your heart thundered within your skin, sending tingles up your spine as you watched Isagi mull over your words.
His steps were slow, almost inaudible, as he approached. One hand, with a bandage wrapped wrist, pressed against your shoulder, stabilizing him as he leaned down, looming over you. His other hand, hidden behind a suit, rested against the side of your neck: thumb brushing against the angle of your jaw, guiding your face to tilt up towards him.
The touch made you realize the webs weren’t just printed onto the suit; but, instead, they were embossed. They rose in small ridges, brushing against your skin in a way that ignited sparks, forcing goosebumps to rise in tandem.
“Can I..?” Isagi mumbles, blue eyes locked down on the plush of your bottom lip, before they flicked up to meet yours. Wordlessly, your hand wrapped around the wrist of his that cradled your face, fingers feeling the thrum of his heart from beneath his suit. “Shut up and kiss me, Yoichi.”
And he did, lips pressing gentle against yours, slotting together like two puzzle pieces that would never separate again now that they had been joined.
Spider-Man may have saved your life in a literal sense, yes. But he did so much more than that. He managed to crack that shell you had thought of as safety; the same one that was keeping you isolated. He showed you that it was okay to be scared, that there was a special kind of strength in fear. He gave you your first love, at nineteen, in some shitty college dorm: with just his soft lips and whispered words.
Yoichi Isagi was your hero, now and forever.
⚜️ ㅤ okkotsuus ㅤ 26
