︵ ೀ fluff. satoru confesses he's been in love with you for years but he's too high on pain meds to remember it the next morning
you never thought you'd see satoru gojo—your best friend since high school—slumped in your passenger seat, cheeks puffy, drooling a little, and giggling at literally nothing.
"they took my teeth," he mumbles, voice slow and syrupy from the pain meds. "four of them. like little monsters living in my mouth. gone now. i'm toothless, baby."
you laugh softly, keeping your eyes on the road. "you're not toothless, toru. you still have most of them."
he turns his head to look at you, those impossibly blue eyes glassy and unfocused. a lazy, dopey smile spreads across his swollen face—so different from his usual smirk, the one that's been making your heart skip since you were seventeen.
"you're so beautiful," he says suddenly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "so, so beautiful. why are you always so beautiful? it's unfair. i've been asking the universe to stop for years but it never listens."
your cheeks flame. "you're high as hell right now. stop talking nonsense."
"not nonsense," he insists, trying to sit up straighter but failing miserably. he reaches over and pokes your arm with a clumsy finger. it's such a satoru thing to do—he's always been touchy with you, always throwing an arm around your shoulders, always pulling you into his lap during movie nights, always playing with your hair when he's bored.
you've learned to ignore the way your skin buzzes under his touch, the way your breath catches when he gets too close.
but this feels different.
"i've loved you for so long," he continues, words tumbling out without his usual filter. "like… so long. since we were teenagers. maybe longer. i don't even know anymore. every time you laughed at my stupid jokes i wanted to kiss you stupid."
your hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white.
"satoru."
"no, listen," he continues, completely ignoring your warning tone. his head lolls to the side as he stares at you with heartbreaking sincerity. "i used to lie awake at night thinking about you. wondering if you ever looked at me the same way. but you always treated me like your idiot best friend… so i stayed that way. because having you like this was better than not having you at all."
the car falls quiet. you don't know what to say. your heart feels like it's trying to climb out of your throat.
you think about all the years between you—late-night convenience store runs, falling asleep on each other's shoulders during long train rides, sharing earbuds and ice cream and secrets. the way he knows your coffee order by heart, the way you can read his moods even when he's wearing that stupid sunglasses, the way you fit into each other's lives so seamlessly that everyone always assumed you were dating.
you never corrected them. neither did he.
you pull into his driveway and turn off the car. satoru is still watching you, eyes half-lidded, that soft, lovesick smile still on his swollen face.
"i love you," he says again, quieter this time. "not in a best friend way. in the 'i want to marry you and make you breakfast every morning' way. even if i burn the toast."
you let out a shaky breath and force a smile, your chest aching.
"you're really out of it, toru. let's get you inside."
he lets you help him out of the car without much protest, though he keeps trying to nuzzle into your neck and tell you how soft you smell. you manage to guide him into his apartment—you know the code by heart, have your own toothbrush in his bathroom, own drawer in his dresser—and get him into bed, pulling the blanket up to his chest.
"stay," he mumbles as you turn to leave, reaching out to grab your wrist. his touch is warm and familiar and it makes your heart crack a little.
"i will. just sleep, okay?"
he pulls your hand to his lips and presses a sloppy kiss to your knuckles, eyes already fluttering closed. "love you," he whispers one last time, the words soft and slurred.
you sit on the edge of his bed for a long time, watching him sleep, your heart aching in a way that feels both brand new and like it's been building for years.
★ ★ ★ ★
the next morning, you're moving around satoru's expensive kitchen, barefoot on the cool tiles, making something soft enough for him to eat. porridge with a little honey and mashed banana. the sun filters softly through the windows as you stir the pot, your mind replaying his sleepy, drugged confession on loop.
i've loved you for so long.
you swallow hard and keep stirring.
you hear the soft pad of footsteps behind you before you feel him. satoru steps up close, still half-asleep, and rests his chin gently on top of your head with a tired little hum. his arms loosely wrap around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest.
this is normal. this is what you do. you've been living in this intimate in-between space for years, toeing the line between friendship and something more, both too scared to cross it. but now everything feels different.
"morning," he mumbles, voice raspy and muffled against your hair. "smells good. you didn't have to cook."
"your mouth is hurt," you say, trying to keep your voice steady even as your pulse races. "porridge is safer than toast."
he makes a pleased little sound and nuzzles the top of your head, his white hair tickling your forehead. the casual intimacy of it—something that used to feel completely normal, just satoru being satoru—now makes your cheeks burn and your hands tremble.
he has no idea what he said to you last night.
"you're too good to me," he sighs, pressing a lazy kiss to the crown of your head. "what would i do without my favorite girl, hm?"
"toru…" you start, unsure how to even begin.
"mm?" his arms tighten a little, warm and solid around your middle. "you okay? you sound weird."
you close your eyes for a second.
how are you supposed to tell him that your best friend—the man currently cuddling you like a koala, the same man who's been your person since you were kids—confessed he's been in love with you for years? that while high on pain medication, he told you he wants to marry you and make you breakfast every morning?
you force a small smile, stirring the porridge one last time before turning off the stove.
"i'm fine. didn't sleep much."
he doesn't look fully convinced. he tilts his head, studying you with those piercing blue eyes. then he asks the question you've been dreading.
"…did i say anything weird last night? when i was high on those pain meds?"
your heart skips.
you look down at the pot, pretending to check the consistency of the porridge. the silence stretches for a second too long.
"no," you finally say, shaking your head. "you just talked a lot about how they stole your teeth. called them little monsters and all that." you try to laugh, but it comes out shaky.
"sounds about right," he says with a soft chuckle. "i knew those meds were strong." he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. "thanks for taking care of me. i don't know what i'd do without you."
"anytime," you whisper.
he pulls back and smiles at you—that bright, beautiful smile. completely unaware. completely oblivious to the fact that he told you he's been in love with you for years just hours ago.
"smells really good," he says, looking down at the porridge. "you're spoiling me."
you turn back to the counter, scooping some into a bowl for him so he won't notice the way your hands shake slightly.
"only because you're injured," you say. "don't get used to it."
satoru laughs softly behind you and wraps his arms around your waist again, resting his chin back on top of your head like it belongs there. like you belong there.
"too late. i'm already used to it. used to you."
you close your eyes for a second, leaning back into his warmth, letting yourself have this moment. his heartbeat steady against your back.
he doesn't remember.
and for now… maybe that's okay.
maybe someday you'll be brave enough to tell him the truth—that you've been in love with him too, for just as long, in the same desperate, hopeless way. that every casual touch, every sleepy morning, every shared secret has been carving him deeper into your heart.
but for now, you let him hold you in his sun-bright kitchen, and you pretend that this is enough.
୧ ‧₊˚ when it comes to you, ajax always goes above and beyond. ˚₊‧୨
˚ starring, childe x f!reader
˚ includes, modern!au ; childhood bestfriend!childe ; nsfw content (18+, mdni!) ; childe is called 'ajax' here ; childe is whipped and lowkey possessive ; actually could be vaguely yandere if you squint real hard ; it’s kinktober season so of course i had to throw in a sprinkle of shady manipulation on childe’s end ; honestly reader is pretty dense but we roll, girl, we roll ; written in snippets, sort of ; first times / loss of virginity ; fingering ; oral (m receiving) ; unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks) ; pet names !!!! (babe/baby, angel) ; praise ; creampies (but no breeding ……… yet :) ) ; not beta’d or proofread (pls tell me if you spot any grammar/continuity errors!)
˚ wc, 19.6k
˚ lucy says, my first genshin fic, and my first fic on this blog, and my first fic after i think 2 years of no writing... lotta firsts for this. :') but childhood friends to lovers childe wouldn't leave me alone so here we are! likes and reblogs are appreciated!
you'd made a vow, back when you were still five.
it was simple and straightforward, though by no means eloquent (so little of what came out of your mouths back then could really be considered that, anyway), but at the time, it had felt right. ajax was a bright child, albeit a little boisterous at times, and always the center of attention without even trying. you were drawn to him, an easy moth seated right next to a tender flame. you enjoyed his sudden and animated interjections during story time, and he openly admired the way you colored and wrote so neatly for your age. snack time was always him pawing through your lunch box for the sliced fruits he'd learned your mother would pack (you’d soon come to ask her for extra, just for him), and at quiet time, he'd always save a space for you near the wooden blocks so that you could spend yet another lazy afternoon building the tallest tower you could.
it happens on the last day of kindergarten, just as you sit in the playground sandbox. the other kids move around in little clumps, chittering about summer vacation — how strange and special this one would be because you'd be going your separate ways into different primary schools. ajax pours a bucket of sand listlessly onto his shins, then flails them, kicking the grains into the air.
"ajax!" you whine, sticking your tongue out. “you’re getting it everywhere!”
“i hate summer vacation,” he groans, tossing the bucket towards the far corner of the sandpit.
“liar. you always say summer vacation is the best thing ever.”
“not this time.” there’s a muffledness to his voice that comes from his severe pout. “we’re not going to see each other after it.”
nearing the end of the year, you’d come to learn that you were going to different schools, but you hadn’t thought it had mattered; did not seeing each other everyday mean you stopped being friends? would you be unable to see him ever again? worse, did it mean ajax would have no choice but to forget you?
“maybe i can ask my mom and dad if we can do that thing together this summer.” you scrunch up your nose in search of the word. “ca— camping?”
“it wouldn’t be the same,” he says mournfully. “we can’t have lunch together anymore, and teacher says when you get older, you make new friends, but i don’t want to make new friends.”
the teariness of his words has your lip trembling too; you reach out before you can stop yourself, sandy palms pressing against his cheeks.
“i don’t want to make new friends either!” you declare, and his wide, shiny eyes fix on you. “so we’re just going to be together forever. i’m not leaving you, and you’re not leaving me, okay?”
“forever?” he echoes, hushed, like the word itself is hallowed. “you promise?”
“mhm. i promise.” you nod fiercely, and something in his expression seems to lighten with relief.
of course, the school year still ends in a torrent of tears and childishly dramatic goodbyes, only partly assuaged by your parents’ half-laughed promises that you’ll still be able to play on one or another weekend. you have no choice but to let them tear you apart come dismissal, and you weep and hiccup all throughout the car ride home. by the time you pull into the driveway, you’re fast asleep, your fist clutching the last drawing of a blue whale that ajax had given you as a parting gift.
time should heal these kinds of wounds, especially minor ones brought about by the foolish, unregulated emotions of a child. by the end of summer vacation, following blisteringly hot days chasing down the ice cream truck and nights filled with game show music, the memory of having to say goodbye to ajax is nothing but a light scar on your tender heart. it’s too harsh to say that you’ve forgotten about him, but it’s a little too easy to say he isn’t at the forefront of your mind. your images of him grow hazy as each new year passes, your ‘one and only friend’ replaced by many others you share interests and secrets with.
that’s why you don’t expect him to remember you when you transfer into his high school. it was completely unplanned, and you hadn’t even known he would be there. yet, there he is, sitting on a desk in the center of the room, surrounded by classmates who’ve clearly known him for much longer than you do at this point. you might not have recognized him at all, with the way he is now; he’s taller, of course, with the lean build of a student that clearly participates actively in physical sports, and his voice and laugh are deeper and richer (although the standard of all that is particularly low for you, considering the last time you’d heard him speak was a decade ago). but there’s parts of him that have barely changed, that make him distinct and immediately recognizable — the soft, copper lustre of his hair and the flat, dark blue of his eyes.
the latter glosses over you once as you walk into the classroom, an instinctive reaction to new motion, but it doesn’t take long for his gaze to snap back like a stretched rubber band, fixing on you and growing wider as his posture straightens.
even though a friend of his speaks to him, asks him something, he only says your name. everyone else’s eyes fall on you, and your step falters just past the doorway. even with all these other people looking at you, you can only feel his burning gaze.
“don’t you remember me?” he asks when you don’t say anything in immediate response. “it’s me — ajax.”
“oh, right—” you stutter, a little self-conscious at being put on the spot. “ajax! it’s been so long. wow, you’re… i didn’t expect to see you here of all places.”
you remember his smiling being bright, sure, but not this bright — the kind of wideness and lightness to it that seems almost disproportionate to such a mundane situation. of course, childhood friends reconnect; there’s nothing odd about that. but the way he hops off the desk and walks over in huge strides to sweep you up into a strong hug makes you feel like you’re the center of a spectacle, and the only thing that vaguely distracts you from it is the warmth of him enveloping you.
“she was my childhood friend — my first best friend, i should say,” he says by way of introduction to the others staring at you; they offer half-hearted noises of greeting that ajax pointedly ignores. you stand there, with his arm still around you, trying not to think about how you’re pressed into his side and how he smells like some fancy pine-note cologne that seems way too mature and serious for someone his age and demeanor. “funny how fate works out, huh? seeing each other after all these years, i mean.”
“it’s definitely unexpected,” you agree, and if he notices how embarrassed you are at all the staring he’s brought about, he doesn’t make it known; he just draws back, holding you at arm’s length and giving you a very obvious once-over.
“you look good,” he comments after a pause, so out of place that you’re not sure if this is just some weird formality or if he’s being honest for no good reason. you don’t even know if he hears your mumbled, ‘thanks,’ over the sound of the bell that has him releasing you with a quick, playful wink.
you think that’s that when you shuffle over to your seat, ajax taking his own place in the center of the room (at the desk he’d been perched on). after the initial novelty of the reunion wears off, you’ll just be background noise in the lively scene that is his life. you don’t expect much thereafter, sure that his priorities would lie more in his long-term friends, the elements of this school that are familiar and wholly more comfortable to him.
which is why you’re shocked when, during lunch time, a loaded tray plops down in the space in front of you, ajax’s body following soon after. he leans back in his chair with an easy grin, like this is the most natural thing in the world for him to do, like you’re not staring at him with half-chewed food in your mouth.
“what are you doing?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.
“what? we can’t catch up?”
“we can, but…” you squirm, a little unsure how to put your feelings into careful words. “i mean, don’t you have friends you usually sit with during lunch?”
“sure i do,” he hums, breaking into the brioche roll on his tray with his thumb before picking at the foil lid of the butter packet. “but i’ve spent the last few years with them. i want to make up for lost time with you.”
you suppose that makes sense, although a small part of you still wants to point out that the last thing you bonded over was the sand in your shoes over a decade ago. still, you decide to let it slide; maybe it’s just a natural thing, to want to reconnect with someone you remember fondly from way back when. there’s no real harm in that anyway, and you can’t deny that you’ve now become curious about him too — about how he’s grown up, about how he’s changed, and about how much has stayed the same from what little you can remember of his younger personality. you’ll be the first to admit that he’s grown well, with an objectively attractive face and a confident demeanor that supports it excellently.
not that you think about that deeply as you chat with him. he’s eager to talk, to learn more about your life in the time you were apart, and after a short while of feeling interrogated, you find an avenue to ask him about himself too. you learn that he’s in the football club, and that he’s back to playing regularly after suffering a mild knee injury quite recently. he tells you he’s into fortnite, and that just last night, he’d gotten six victory royales in a row, all on solo (you congratulate him honestly because that sounds like a good thing). you find out he’s grown slightly allergic to shellfish and that his mom forces him to join country club mixers, but that everyone there is just an old auntie that’s always slightly tipsy and trying to get him to go on a date with their nieces.
you realize that ajax is, at his core, the same kid you’d known — smart and proactive, freely sociable and eager to try new things. it’s nice to know that he’s still appropriately self-assured, and you think it makes sense that people find him magnetic, as evidenced by earlier that morning. by the end of the lunch hour, you’re stuffed full with tidbits about him, and he’d drawn out as many factoids as he possibly could about you. you walk back with him to the classroom in silence, and when the bell rings, he ruffles your hair lightly before making his way to his desk.
still, you anticipate that this is just a temporary spike in interest from him. there’s so little you can wring out from this situation, and you’re sure that ajax has better things to do than coddle a childhood friend constantly. after all, he has better, closer friends worth spending time with.
for some reason, though, his attention on you doesn’t wane; if anything, as the weeks progress, he embeds himself more deeply into your life. the constant lunches together are one thing, and you even ask him if he’d rather you go sit with the rest of his friends with him, to which he smoothly replies that ‘we can’t talk freely to each other in such a big crowd.’ however, when he learns that you go home alone (after an off-handed comment on your part about listening to the same playlist every afternoon), he starts walking you to the bus stop, even if it’s in the opposite direction from his own route. some mornings, he waits by the door to walk you into the classroom, already firing off about the shitty fortnite run he had last night (someone had sniped him from higher ground, which is totally unfair and unethical, unless he does it himself, of course); other days, you find a cup of coffee (milky and sweet, the way he knows you like it, given that he’s asked about your preferences insistently) sitting on your desk, with a smiley face on the cardboard sleeve that’s drawn on in his signature red sign pen.
gradually, it feels like the years that separated you both melt away. after being out of touch for so long, you now can’t imagine a day without ajax talking to you. you settle into this comfortable routine of relying on him, turning to him for both trivial and important matters, seeking him out over small victories and huge upsets. by the time you’re a senior, it feels like you’ve come full circle. ajax is, once again, your best friend, as he had been all those years ago, now always by your side.
of course, he isn’t your only friend now; you’re both older, and it’s impossible not to have a network at school. you’re amicable to practically everyone, and so is ajax, despite the fact that he seems to dedicate a fair amount of time and energy on you.
“wanna partner up for the chemistry project?” he asks suddenly after a particularly boisterous lunch involving enthusiastic recounts of last night’s pro wrestling match highlights that he’d stayed up to watch live. “thought it’d be stupid to ask you right away last week when i didn’t have a topic to pitch, but i did some research, and i thought we could do like a—”
“i already have a partner,” you cut him off sheepishly. “theo texted over the weekend and asked me. sorry — to be honest, i thought you’d be sick of being my partner at this point, since we’ve done almost every project together this year.”
“oh.” he does nothing to hide the surprise on his face, but something else crosses his expression that you don’t quite catch. it’s gone in the blink of an eye, smoothed over by a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “is that your kind of roundabout way of saying you’re sick of me?”
“no way!” you’re quick to deny, and maybe you should’ve anticipated this, but ajax hadn’t really seemed like the type to care about doing everything together. then again, now that you think about it in retrospect, there’s precious little you haven’t done together to begin with. “you know i love working with you. but i mean — it’s no big deal, right? tell you what — how about we do the infographic for english class together?”
“why? were you planning on ditching me for that, too?” he jokes, his elbow digging lightly into your side. “just don’t get too sad when you end up doing all the work. no other partner in this whole class is going to pull their weight like i do.”
“wow, do you have space in your head to learn with all that hot air going around?” you laugh. “i’ll be fine. theo’s a good guy.”
“i’m sure,” ajax hums, somehow more to himself than you. you figure he’s already thinking of who else to nab as a partner, so you leave things at that. you try not to read too deeply into the fact that he takes a long, slow look at theo from across the room before he settles down into his chair and starts digging around his backpack for a working pen.
with the weekend rolls an unexpected text; it’s theo, with a whole two-inch paragraph about how freya had begged him to be her partner, and how he thinks that he might do better following her project proposal than the ‘weak one he’d pitched to you,’ and he’s really sorry, but it’s not too late to find a new partner anyway, and best of luck! you miss out on the finer details of the excuse, given that it’s only seven-thirty in the morning, but you get the gist of it. with a heavy sigh, you roll over and call the most recent number you’d dialled, the last log being just yesterday evening.
“morning, sunshine.” ajax’s voice is cheery, like he’s been awake for a while now — and, weirdly, almost like he’s been expecting your call. “you woke up early for once.”
“theo texted,” you grumble, rubbing fiercely at your eye. “backed out of being my partner.”
“what an asshole.” he does well at the task of sounding empathic and affronted for your sake. “did he tell you why?”
“god, i don’t know. something about freya, or that his pitch was shit, i think.”
“well, he and freya do seem pretty close,” ajax says sagely. “so why’d you call me?”
“i’m pretty sure this is an asshole move on my part after i ditched you, but if you still don’t have a partner…”
there’s a brief silence on his end that makes you think he might’ve been offended, and honestly, you wouldn’t blame him completely; it’s not like you can avoid making it seem like this is a last-ditch attempt not to do the project alone.
“i mean, sure,” he suddenly speaks up, his voice strangely breezy. “what kind of best friend would i be if i said no?”
“well, i mean — if you don’t want to, or if you — i don’t know — have a partner already, i wouldn’t want you to ditch them for me, either…”
“nah, don’t worry about that. even if i had one — and i don’t, so don’t worry,” he adds before you can argue. “i’d still choose you.”
“thanks, ajax,” you mumble, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. “sorry for putting this on you.”
“you’re not putting anything on me,” he laughs. “but i wouldn’t mind if you said i was the best best friend ever a little more often.”
“you’re totally the best best friend ever,” you concede. “come over so we can finalize the topic?”
“damn straight.” he makes a noise that indicates he’s getting up from bed. “see you in thirty.”
for the rest of the year after that, every project you do, you only do with ajax.
as the months go by, and senior year comes to a slow close, you feel like there are things that pile up — things you can’t put a finger on, can’t seem to fully unpack — between you and ajax. he becomes more insistent that you should come watch his games, even if that means having to wake up at ungodly hours on a sunday to go to a different school across the district just to sit in the rain and see him kick a ball around really quickly. after games where the team wins, he expects you to join him and his family for a celebratory meal at his favorite diner, and after games where they don’t, he expects you to go back with him anyway and have lunch at his house. he always makes you sit next to teucer, who likes to rehash the ‘cool parts’ of the games and how ‘awesome’ ajax was with his last legendary pass or attempted goal, and you just nod along, trying to ignore how smug your best friend looks, like everything’s going according to plan (although, what that plan is, you really have no clue).
on days he doesn’t have practice, ajax even takes you home from school, riding the stuffy twenty-minute long bus ride and trekking the fifteen minute walk home with you, rain or shine. he always makes it an excuse to come in and lounge on your couch, scrolling twitter and showing you things that tickle him, until the sun goes down and his mom texts him to get back for dinner.
you chalk it up to his being naturally clingy, perhaps a bit protective now that it gets darker earlier in the day. but there are also things that you just can’t find an explanation for, like the way he calls you names he never used to — sweetheart and angel make it into his vocabulary a lot more these days. you’d once given him a funny look when he called you ‘babe,’ but he’d just laughed and said it was a bad habit he picked up recently, although you can’t imagine what activity would have formed such a habit in the first place. you let it go because it doesn’t really bother you immensely, but you sometimes wonder if he’s just piling it on you so that he can see you squirm. you wouldn’t put it past him to run an experiment like that, anyway.
then there was that time college results had come in through the school. you’d only applied to a small handful of institutions, what with your program interest being fairly niche; your main hope was that you’d get into zapolyarny tech, the top university in the capital city with a reputation for churning out successful people. ajax had applied to it too, though he was a likely shoe-in for a spot there, what with him going down the sports scholarship track.
homeroom on the day results were given out was absolute chaos; after five minutes of trying to shout herself hoarse over everyone’s chattering, your teacher had just given up and left the class to its own devices completely. it had felt strangely reminiscent of the last day of kinder — people crowding together to compare results and talk about whose offer they’d accept. you’d opened your envelope to see the list of schools that you’d passed, relieved to see snezhnograd university and belovodye institute were on there, along with smaller colleges you’d applied to as a fallback. still, it had been a bit of a punch in the gut not to see zapolyarny as an option.
“trade you,” ajax had interrupted your line of thought, and his paper had slipped across your desk as he tossed it. you’d offered him yours before unfurling his, and you’d seen it there: zapolyarny tech, with the asterisk next to the name that means that he’d been successful in nabbing the scholarship to boot.
“wow, congratulations!” you’d exclaimed, and your happiness for him had been genuine; you’d spent weeks before this chittering about how amazing the campus looked in all the pictures and how you’d stuff yourself full with the all-day all-you-can-eat student caf options. “ajax, that’s awesome — on a scholarship ride, and everything!”
“hmm?” he’d looked up from your paper, blinking rapidly. “oh, thanks. but, man, i don’t know. kind of been having second thoughts about zapolyarny these days. just doesn’t seem like my kind of place, if you get me?”
“what are you talking about?” you’d laughed in disbelief. “you once said that zapolyarny was the place that would birth the superstar version of you. what do you mean, second thoughts?”
“nothing; i just don’t want my judgment to be clouded by a semi-free ride, you know?”
“why wouldn’t you want to take advantage of a scholarship? it’s a scholarship, ajax. they’re practically paying you to go to the best university in the country. what else is there to consider?”
“just other stuff. it’s complicated,” he’d said vaguely. “where are you planning on going, then?”
“i don’t know. i guess snezhnograd. they’ve got affordable on-campus accommodations, and it isn’t as much of a trip from here to there, especially in comparison to — what are you doing?”
you’d watched, appalled, as ajax encircled snezhnograd university on both your papers with his red sign pen.
“i think snezhnograd’s great, too.” his response had been unnervingly smooth and easy. “for all the reasons you just said.”
“i meant for me,” you frown. “you’re a completely different case. you didn’t even apply for a scholarship there; you’ve got family near zapolyarny!”
“snezhnograd’s got a great sports sciences program; at least, it seemed like it when i looked into them.”
he’d capped his pen with a click of finality, and you’d just stared at him, completely at a loss for words. there’d been no logical reason for him to choose a lower-ranked school when he’d gotten a huge shot at the most prestigious one, yet there he’d been, folding both your papers and leaving them under the teacher’s file for submission.
“ajax,” you’d tried to say evenly, worried the stress in your voice would come out slightly deranged. “this is… i mean, think about it. you got into the best school in the country, and you’re turning it down — for what? it doesn’t make any sense.”
“do i need to have a reason?”
“of course!”
he’d stared at you thoughtfully, his dull blue eyes a little hazy. “well, would you have visited me in zapolyarny, if i’d gone?”
“i mean — yeah, why not? i guess i would’ve gone once in a while—”
“if i asked you to come everyday, would you have?” he’d pressed.
“what?” you’d rubbed your temples, feeling an oncoming headache at the turn the converation had taken. “of course not. the commute time alone, and the fare—”
“then, obviously, this was the most sensible choice. that way, we’d be on the same campus.”
you’d fallen silent, completely stumped. a large part of you had wanted to ask why that was even a consideration in all of this, but you hadn’t wanted to seem accusatory, for some reason. ajax had put his hands on your shoulders, holding you at arms length and squeezing, as if trying to work you out of a stupor — which, really, he pretty much had been.
“don’t overthink it, angel,” he’d said, so soothingly your shoulders had somehow untensed. “we made a promise, remember?”
the last week and a half of your senior year are messy, to say the least. it’s an endless array of last-minute requirements and tests that no one wants to study for, and it’s ultimately exacerbated by the end-of-the-year event that everyone seems to be talking about: homecoming.
the game is one thing to be excited for already, but what seems to be causing an uproar among the student population is the dance that comes after. more than once, you’ve walked into school in a hurry only to bear unwilling witness to a homecoming proposal that ultimately makes you late for first period. today is no different; you have to squeeze your way between the lockers and a tight throng of kids taking videos (despite the fact that cellphones during school hours are strictly banned) of some junior guy who’d painted his chest to ask a girl out. you’re lucky that ajax is waiting by the classroom door (as usual) and has the presence of mind and required strength to pull you out before you’re crushed by a wave of backpacks.
“is it just me, or has it never been this crazy before?” you grumble as you walk into the classroom with him.
“i just don’t think you’ve ever paid attention to it as much,” ajax says pointedly, watching you drop into your seat. “you’re still not planning on going this year? it’s our last, you know.”
you’ve always been fine with sticking it out at home; the tasks of finding a dress, finding a ride, and finding a date all seem like a lot of effort for next to no benefit. the stress you’ve seen people go through for one night has created an insurmountable amount of fear around it for you. that’s just your perspective, though. despite the fact that you’ve encouraged him to go, ajax always joins you in your non-attendance. he makes it a point to come over around the time when the dance starts, bearing snacks and old noir movies that you can’t really understand but that he really seems to enjoy talking through.
you’re on the fence for this year, to say the least. ajax does have a point; you don’t have any other opportunity to go to a homecoming, unless you count attending as an alum, which just seems like even more of a waste of time given that you’d be in a completely different city by that point.
“i don’t know, actually,” you sigh, shaking your backpack so that your stuff somehow rearranges into a slightly less bulky form. “i guess it would be pretty lame to sit it out my whole high school life, right? but i just wouldn’t know where to begin, if i’m being honest.”
before ajax can respond, however, a new shadow grows over the space you occupy. you look up to see a classmate, thalia, stopping just by your desk.
“are you guys talking about homecoming?” she’s chewing on her lip, eyes darting between the both of you. you nod, and she shifts her weight between her feet before she continues. “that’s cool. um… i was thinking — ajax, i heard you didn’t have a date yet to the dance.”
“i don’t,” ajax says coolly.
“oh! cool; so i was wondering if you’d maybe want to g—”
“i don’t have a date,” he continues, effectively cutting her off. “because i wasn’t planning on going in the first place.”
the silence that follows is so thick that you feel like you’re genuinely being suffocated. you stick your foot out, catching ajax’s shin with the heel, but if it hurts, he doesn’t show it.
“you did say it’s our last year,” you murmur. “you should go, ajax. i think it’d be fun for you.”
he assesses you with a thoughtful gaze, and you can’t help but feel like he’s picking you apart for some reason, like he’s expecting there’s some kind of subliminal message to your words. thalia is just rooted to the spot, face flushed and looking a little regretful at having approached at all.
“we always hang out on homecoming night, though.” he says it slowly, like it’s some kind of gentle reminder for an amnesiac you.
“that’s just — he’ll get back to you,” you direct your words at thalia, who starts a little and looks to you. “he’s just… just give him some time.”
she nods and scurries off, likely less distressed at the lack of an answer and more relieved at being given an out from such an awkward turn of events.
“i’m not saying you have to go,” you sigh once she’s out of earshot. “but if you’re just sticking it out because i don’t want to, then it kind of makes me feel like a warden.”
“i don’t mind it, though.” his reply is honest and immediate. “i’d rather stay in with you.”
“okay, but that’s — i mean, you don’t have to.” it frustrates you that you can’t seem to properly articulate what about this just seems ridiculous. “you don’t have to make it a pity party. i’m not sitting around moping.”
you don’t expect him to plant both his hands on your desk and lean in; his face is so close to yours that you can see the quiver of his pupils as he looks straight into your eyes.
“you think that i just hang around you because i pity you?” his voice is quiet. you stiffen, forgetting how to swallow, forgetting how to breathe. “you think i don’t have any other reason?”
you blink slowly, practically short-circuiting. you want to consider his words, but you draw up a complete blank; it’s hard to think clearly when he’s this close to you, and when he’s so uncharacteristically serious. his gaze looks like it’s trying to tell you something, quite fiercely and forcefully, but what it is, you can’t properly decipher.
“um,” is all you can say after a sticky pause. “s… orry?”
he exhales in an inexplicably tired way, shaking his head. “look — if you wanna go, we’ll go. if you don’t want to, we won’t. and for the record, i don’t want to deal with a date i don’t really care about. that’s all there is to it. okay?”
you nod dumbly. he takes a moment to search your face for any sign of further response before he straightens up, leaving you with another hair ruffle. you could swear that he murmurs ‘good girl,’ under his breath while he does it, but you’re so out of sorts that he’s gone before you can bring it up and question it.
at the end of the day, you spend your last homecoming as you’d spent all others: with ajax, sitting criss cross applesauce on your couch, a bowl-sized pack of wild berry skittles tucked between his thighs. he’s spent more minutes of shutter island fishing around for his favorite flavor (grape) than actually watching for some reason, so you don’t feel too bad interrupting his concentration with an out of the blue question.
“think it’s going well over there?”
“over where?” comes his immediate response as he separates the different colored candies from the purple ones, letting them fall back into the pack with those hard shell tic-tic-tics.
“at the homecoming dance.” you lower the volume of the television because mark ruffalo’s yelling at leonardo di caprio over the sound of some kind of hurricane, and it’s a little grating. “think it’s… i don’t know. fun?”
“can’t be more fun than watching two guys trying to get to the bottom of some mystery at an asylum,” he shrugs before looking up at you. it’s only then that he notices you’re chewing your lip, and he pops the handful of grape skittles into his mouth before moving the whole pack to the floor. “what’s going on? are you having second thoughts?”
“no, it’s just — i don’t know. now that i’m thinking about it, it is our last year, so it kind of seems silly to be missing out on it.” you also want to say that you hate that you kind of ruined this for him, but you don’t want him to resent you even more than he probably already does.
“we can still go. i’ve got my learner’s permit, so if your parents don’t mind a couple of dings on their car…”
you snort, although the sound is pretty half-hearted. “like i’ll be able to get a dress at this time of night, anyway.”
“that’s what your worried about?” he has the gall to sound thoroughly amused. “just pick any old dress you’ve got upstairs. it’ll be fine.”
“right, because i’d blend right in with my just finished sunday service glam look.”
“you could show up in a potato sack; no one would care.”
“cool, let me just bust out my snazziest potato sack,” you say wryly, and he chuckles.
“that didn’t come out right. i meant that you could wear something plain, and you’d still be a smokeshow. plus,” he thumps his chest with an air of pride. “you’ll be walking in with me. i guarantee heads will turn. everyone’ll be so jealous, and you’ll instantly win homecoming queen.”
“forget it,” you half-groan, half-laugh, because now you’re picturing yourself walking into the school gym with your arm looped around ajax’s, and it somehow doesn’t feel like the most horrible thing in the world. “my thoughts were just going haywire for a second there.”
you make to turn the volume up again, but ajax grabs the remote, stuffing it behind a cushion on the far end of the couch. “hey, i was just kidding. what does it matter, anyway? i thought you were kind of averse to all that pomp and drama.”
“i mean, it’s not like i hate it; i just felt like it was so much work with so little pay off. but then — i don’t know. i was thinking about it, and i feel like there’s just stuff that happens there that makes the experience unique in its own way.”
ajax doesn’t even bother to hide his bemusement; he actually comically scratches his head before asking, “what kind of stuff?”
“dunno. dancing to old hits? drinking shitty punch? people fighting over the dates they wanted, making out behind the bleachers and getting caught by a teacher — that quintessential high school experience, i guess. but like i said, it’s no big deal.” you wave it off. “hand me the remote, would you?”
“you want to dance? we can dance.”
you watch him unfurl his limbs and stand, adjusting the waistband of his jeans. “i don’t mean here. i mean like the kind of experience that you only get by being there.”
“what’s the difference? close a couple of the lights, put on that dancey whitney houston song, and it’ll be basically the same thing.” his tone is light, but his grin is mischeivous, his hands wrapping around your wrists and urging you up with him. “or do you wanna line it up with the actual hour? around this time, they play ballads from the eighties and the parent alums slow dance.”
he doesn’t even give you the option to say no; his arms are already around your waist, dragging you closer to his torso.
“can we just forget i brought anything up and watch the movie?” you mumble, although you still let him maneuver your arms so that they’re hanging (a little limply) off his shoulders. “seriously, ajax…”
the rest of your protests, weak as they already were, die in your throat as he starts to sway the both of you. it’s all just awkward movement, graceless and with no sense of musicality, given that the background noise is just the muffled argument between leonardo di caprio’s character and some half-naked guy in a dingy jail cell. you’re pretty sure some important plot point’s being revealed here, but you’re distracted by the fact that ajax is so close to you, and he seems to be intently looking at your face, as if he’s hellbent on making this as realistic a homecoming experience for you as possible.
as the seconds tick by, you think you should be checking out or pulling away, but for some reason, you’re doing neither. you settle for staring at your feet as your weight shifts in time with his lead, and now you’re starting to realize how nice ajax always smells and how warm he is.
“hey, look at me.”
you comply before you can question it, and you regret it almost immediately. ajax’s face is so close to yours, and the deep blue of his eyes seem to be robbing you of both breath and speech. luckily, if he notices you’re acting skittish, he doesn’t make it known; he just smiles, weirdly tender and encouraging.
“you know it doesn’t matter if we’re at school or not, right? what matters is that you have these kinds of experiences at the right time, with the right people.”
“the right people, meaning you?”
“i mean, would you rather dance like this with — i don’t know, a snot-nosed junior that just wants to get in your pants for the night?”
it lasts for only a second, so you must have imagined it, but you could honestly swear that ajax’s hold on your waist tightens as he says that line. he makes it sound like a lighthearted joke, but something in his gaze seems to prompt you to actually respond.
“i guess not.”
he hums, seemingly satisfied with that answer. a few more beats pass with the both of you just swaying in the confines of some invisible square on your living room carpet. then, “what else was on your list?”
“huh?”
“dancing, and drinking punch, and — oh,” he grins, all lopsided and annoyingly attractive. “should we make out?”
“come off it,” you grumble, stopping your movement. neither of you step away, though; somehow, this position feels weirdly comfortable.
“i’m being serious.” his punctuating laugh is airy and low. “what — are you going to end your whole high school life without kissing someone?”
“that’s not — i haven’t — what do you…” you splutter, and his smile grows annoyingly wider. “that’s none of your business!”
“don’t be ashamed,” he chides. “i think it’s really cute that you haven’t had your first kiss.”
“as if you have!”
“of course i have. i’m not lying,” he adds in a matter-of-factly voice, just as you open your mouth to bite back. “i had it in middle school. she transferred out the year after. now, whether it was good or not is a totally different matter, but that’s not what we’re here to discuss.”
you hate that this information makes you feel inexplicably small. it really shouldn’t matter; it’s not like the marker for a successful high school life is how many people you’ve kissed (or if you’ve kissed anyone at all), but knowing that even ajax, who’s never seemed to entertain girls for as long as you’ve known him in high school, has already experienced what you haven’t — it makes you feel like an incomplete person, somehow.
he seems to take your silence as consideration, so he adds, “it’s not a big deal. people kiss all the time, and it doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to. besides, that’s kind of the point of having a best friend. you can think of it as a… trial run, or something. better me than that hypothetical snot-faced junior, right?”
it’s not even that ajax is a terrible choice for this. by all accounts, he actually seems like a perfect candidate: attractive, experienced (relatively, in comparison to you, at least), and, most important, trustworthy. he can’t be getting anything out of it, you think; he’s just doing it to be a genuinely good friend that doesn’t want you to go into college without a first kiss under your belt.
your slow nod’s almost imperceptible, but he catches it anyway. in one smooth swoop, ajax captures your lips, and you’re immediately assaulted by the sugary sweetness of the candy he’d just had. he tastes like artificial grape and that purple total care listerine he’d used in your guest bathroom before you’d settled down for the movie, and by all accounts, it’s not a bad mixture of flavors. at least it isn’t remnants of, like, roasted garlic and oil pasta and diet coke, or whatever else was on the proposed menu for homecoming.
with how gung-ho ajax is about practically everything in his life, you expect his kissing to be the same. you anticipate messy enthusiasm and a lot of tongue, teeth clashing and a lot of mistakes. but he’s so careful — so unbelievably slow and tender that you wonder if he’s just been lying to you about his personality this whole time. he takes his time letting your lips fit and melt together, doesn’t push for you to give more than you feel like offering at the moment. it’s when you exhale that a little bit of the fire in him seems to ignite, his tongue coming out to trace the parted seam of your lips, but he doesn’t go any further than that — like he’s a little worried, like he’s holding himself back. your slightly muddled mind can’t seem to decide what to focus on: the feeling of his lips against yours, or his hold on your waist, tightening and squeezing like he’s stopping himself from pulling you flush against him.
a dull thud from upstairs has you both jumping apart; you stare, flushed and wide-eyed, at him as a few more noises that follow remind you that your parents are home. they don’t come down, though, and soon it’s quiet again, but the weird atmosphere that had hung around while you were lip-locked has already been fully shattered.
ajax’s smile is a little sheepish as he speaks. “i mean, if we’re talking about people catching us…”
“i would’ve flung myself off the roof if they had,” you mutter, flopping back down onto the couch. you ignore the fact that your face is hot and that your lips feel all tingly. “enough about this homecoming business. can we please get back to the movie?”
you only catch a glimpse of leonardo di caprio before ajax’s tall form blocks your view. he leans in, arms outstretched and resting against the back of the couch you’re on, caging you in.
“no positive reviews? you’re being pretty cruel. are we even friends?”
“i don’t have any other experiences to compare it to, so what kind of feedback do you want?” you don’t want to explain that the kiss had left you feeling so flustered either, so there’s that.
“fair enough. anyway, i kind of like that that’s true,” he hums. his hand brushes your hair back, and he chances another light kiss against your forehead that you make a noise of protest against (that he pointedly ignores). “happy homecoming, angel.”
for the first semester at university, you’re required to live on campus. snezhnograd’s freshman dormitory is pretty nice, all things considered, and you like that you don’t have to wake up at ass o’clock to take the train to class. your roommate, lumine, is a tourism major who either knows everyone on campus or just had everyone in her graduating class attend snezhnograd at the same time for some reason, which means that she’s extroverted and eager to talk. you like that she’s also extremely generous with the food she makes — and that her cooking’s superb, too — so in all, you can’t complain about your set-up.
you can’t say the same for ajax, though. he’s rooming with a theology major named scaramouche, who’s apparently as pompous and as headache-inducing as his name and future degree suggest. he regularly texts after his afternoon classes end, bemoaning having to go back to their ‘stuffy dorm room’ where he’ll once again be ‘met with a barrage of facts about the history of religious thought’ because scaramouche, apparently, likes to study by using the conversation method, despite the fact that ajax has told him repeatedly that it bothers him that scaramouche uses a ‘condescending teacher voice’ when he goes about it. in fact, based on reports from ajax’s (admittedly biased) side, scaramouche doubles down whenever ajax complains and sometimes goes ‘pop quiz, everyone!’ just to piss him off.
most of your late afternoons and early evenings are therefore spent in the common areas in the dormitory building. somehow, ajax always manages to nab a sitting space with a free television (that, or he wheedles people into giving up their seats) so that he can put on hbo max on the off chance that he’ll catch a house of the dragon episode. he doesn’t even seem to like it for the story; he seems more interested in watching british people be snippy at each other in old english.
“i was thinking,” he starts, after checking hbo and seeing that it’s just heretic playing. “after first semester, we’ll have to live off-campus. do you have any plans for that?”
“not really.” however, now that he’s brought it up, you probably should start thinking about it; the semester’s more than halfway through, and it won’t be easy to find nearby housing unless you’re willing to sell your body and soul to a demonic landlord for it. “why? do you?”
“i was looking into a few apartments near campus, and a lot of them seem okay, but they’re a bit pricey if it’s just me renting, especially since most of them are two-bedroom setups.”
“sure you don’t want scaramouche’s name on the long-term lease with you?” you joke, and he throws you a wry look.
“funny. i was thinking — did you wanna check it out? you know, be roommates, and all that?”
you consider it; you don’t know much about ajax’s day to day living habits, but he seems to take care of himself pretty well. from what you’ve seen, he can cook, and he keeps his desk and room relatively clean. you don’t even know if that’s such a big point, given that you’ll have your own separate spaces anyway, and you can’t see him outright refusing you if you wanted to split chores.
“i’d probably have to ask my parents, but that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” you admit. “it might also depend on the rent and utilities cost, though.”
“would it incentivize you if we split it unevenly? we could go seventy-thirty. i wouldn’t mind at all.”
“why would we do that?” you throw him a bemused look. “fifty-fifty’s fine. just as long as it isn’t an overpriced loft or something, it should be okay, right?”
“no, they’re all just standard places. of course, it would be cheaper if we got a one-bedroom.”
“i’m not sleeping on the couch.”
“who said you had to?” you swear you see the ghost of a smirk flit across his face before it’s gone, back into that half-bored expression he’s had all afternoon. “there’d be room for a big bed.”
“ha ha. show me the apartments you were viewing, then. the two-bedroom ones,” you add firmly. he just shrugs and unlocks his phone obediently.
you spend the rest of the early evening scanning through potential listings and weighing out their pros and cons. it’s nice that ajax seems to be fairly agreeable to the options you like, with practically no pushback on his part. then again, you figure it’s just because he’s not a fussy person when it comes to these things. the conversation stretches even until dinner, where you’re discussing potential house rules, should the situation come to fruition, while ajax fiddles with the tabletop burner between you.
“honestly, if we’re trying to be practical, it’d make the most sense for us to have, like, a joint account for shared expenses.” you dip your chopsticks into the hot pot broth, giving the collagen soup a stir. there’s an obscene amount of thinly sliced meats stewing in there, courtesy of ajax’s argument that he’s ‘constantly growing.’ “it’d save us the hassle of doing math every time we have to go to the grocery or, like, go out for dinner, or something.”
“say less,” he chuckles. “this is all feeling very domestic. not that that’s a complaint, mind you.”
“i’m just trying to think about things that’d make our lives easier.” you tap your chopsticks over the rim of the container. “another thing too — if you’re going to bring a girl over, can you at least give me a heads up so that i can make plans or something like that?”
for some reason, he looks genuinely shocked. “what do you mean, bring a girl over?”
“i mean, we’re in college now,” you shrug. “you’re probably going to have a girlfriend or at least hook up with someone, right?”
the silence that falls over him is unnerving. it doesn’t seem like he’s given that any thought, which makes no sense to you. it’s not like there’s a shortage of cute girls for him to look at; in fact, at the dorm alone, he’s been stopped by multiple freshmen bold enough to ask for his number. you always have to walk ahead when this happens, so you just naturally assume he gives them his contact info before he catches up with you. and while it probably won’t happen this semester, given the dormitory’s strict rules, once he has a place of his own (sort of), he’ll be a liberty to bring home any one of them — or all of them, if he’s that kind of adventurous (honestly, you wouldn’t put it past him).
“are you planning on bringing guys home, too?” his question is laced with curiosity, as expected, but there’s also a hint of accusation, like he can’t decide if you’re trying to set up a double standard or something.
“i don’t have any immediate plans,” you reply honestly. “but i can’t guarantee it one way or another. if it happens, you’ll obviously be the first to know.”
he hums this low, thoughtful noise and starts picking the meat out of the broth. it’s a herculean task for him, it seems, because he’s never been comfortable using chopsticks. after a minute’s struggle, he gives up and starts using a fork. you notice that despite the fact that he’d ordered the meats for himself, he gives you a larger share of it onto your bowl before passing it to you.
“now that i’m thinking about it, i think i’d prefer if you didn’t bring anyone home.”
“oh.” you pause in the act of dipping your sliced meat into the peanut sauce, letting it soak in. “i mean, that’s fair.”
“i just think that space should just be our own, you know?”
“sure, i get that. but things happen, and sometimes you can’t predict how plans will go, so i’m just making sure we’ve got all our bases covered.” you crack a smile that somehow feels like it’s meant to be reconciliatory. “it’s not like you’d want me raiding the fridge while you’re at third base with your girl on the couch, right?”
“not going to happen,” he says flatly. “so don’t worry about it.”
“you say that now, ajax, but you’ll never know wh—”
“not,” he repeats, a dull fierceness in his gaze. “going to happen. trust me on this.”
you watch him shovel like four pieces of meat in a saucy, dripping wad into his mouth in one go, feeling perplexed. vaguely, you register that he’d dunked all that in chili oil, and it’s a miracle he isn’t hacking up a lung right now. “okay. i respect that.”
“so you won’t bring any guys over to our place either, right?”
“not if it makes you uncomfortable, i guess.”
“it makes me super uncomfortable,” he echoes quickly, like he’s eager to get the point across. you shrug in your concession, and though you hadn’t noticed him tense up, something in his posture relaxes. “cool. i’m glad we worked that particular kink out.”
you’re not sure you could even classify it as ‘being worked out,’ but you let him have it; since ajax had already been so docile earlier in the evening when you’d looked at options and started setting some potential ground rules, you think it’d be better to simply give him this.
you just make a silent promise that you’ll get out of his way once he inevitably goes back on his statement.
it’s almost a no-effort task to get your parents to agree to the set-up; they like and trust ajax, and they enjoy the fact that you won’t need to use a car for the rest of your university life even better, given that the apartment you all settle on is walking distance from campus. ajax puts his sports-honed muscles to work on moving day, carrying a lot of the semi-heavies and jokingly insisting that you just ‘sit on the couch the movers brought up so that it kinda looks like there’s already decor in the living room.’ he somehow has enough energy after the whole move to help you screw in your six-tier ikea bookshelf and cook an extremely flavorful pesto and spinach mac and cheese, at which point you realize you’re basically dead weight in this apartment, like a puppy that’s just waiting for its kibble and belly rubs.
you tell yourself that you’ll make up for it in chores, but ajax must have been a robot butler in his past life with the way he keeps things orderly, both in common spaces and in his room. the only thing you have to worry about is your personal mess, which you try to keep minimal and contained to your room at first — but then you realize that even if you wanted to do that, you couldn’t, because ajax spends almost as much time in your room as he does in his.
in the first few weeks of living together, he’d stick to knocking on your door before poking his head in through a crack to wake you up, letting the scent of whatever he’d made for breakfast waft in to arouse your senses. but as time passes and the semester wears on, he seems to abandon that tactic. more than once, your eyes have fluttered open only to widen in shock as you focus on the sight of him, settled on your bed with a small smile. you don’t even know if you sleep so deeply that his presence just doesn’t disturb you, or if he’s just that good at slipping in quietly. whenever you grumble a ‘what are you doing,’ he just ignores you and says ‘finally awake, sunshine?’
after dinner, he always follows you into your room, taking up a space on the bed he pretty much designates as his spot. you don’t usually mind it, given that what usually follows is a nice, long chat about everything and nothing all at once, or sometimes a card game (you’re both shit at poker, and you barely know how to play it besides, but it’s still fun trying to outbid each other), or a few episodes of whatever anime you’d heard was trendy these days, just to try. you just wonder if he’s doing this because he thinks it’s what roommates are supposed to do together or if it’s because he just has nothing better to do on his own.
“you’re on your phone an awful lot these days,” he throws at you casually, not even tearing his eyes away from the television. you don’t even know how he’s noticed; he’d seemed pretty engrossed in the show ever since the pink-haired kid had eaten the gross old finger. “gojo satoru not doing it for you, or is it a school thing?”
“sorry.” you put your phone face down on your stomach. “not important. just… something mualani — you remember her? from my globalization in teyvat class?”
“white hair? marine sciences major who ate all our fried shrimp beanballs? yeah, i remember her.”
“yeah. she — um, just introduced me to this app. i was just trying it out for shits and giggles.”
“what app?”
you pause for an embarrassing beat, though why you should feel any modicum of shame is beyond you. you’re an adult, and you can make adult choices, and ajax is also an adult who’d understand that naturally. still, your face is warm and pink when you mumble out, “tinder.”
you expect him to laugh at you or poke fun, but what comes next is veritably worse in the end: just this pointed silence that makes you feel like he’s actively judging you, either for being desperate enough to try tinder or being so out of touch that you’re only trying it now, at someone else’s recommendation.
“oh.” he doesn’t take his eyes off the television, but something about his tone makes you feel like he’s not really paying attention anymore. “meet anyone interesting?”
“to be fair, i swiped left on a lot of people.” not that he needs the useless preamble. “but… yeah, i’m… tomorrow. i’m going out with someone.”
“for?”
“just dinner downtown.”
“what’s his name?”
“albedo. he’s — he seems like a really nice guy. smart — he’s an engineering student from dragonspine university — and he’s really easy to talk to. and he’s… cute, i guess.” you don’t know why saying all this feels like pulling your own teeth out. the fact that ajax seems to be asking so seriously is making things worse, for some reason. you almost want to ask him if he knows anything about albedo, like if he’s some kind of serial killer you just haven’t heard about.
ajax mutes the television and leans his head back on your headboard, exhaling slowly. “so you’re not coming home tomorrow?”
“i mean — i didn’t think that far ahead,” you admit. “i just thought we’d have a normal date and… i don’t think that’d mean anything’s expected or required after.”
“you met him on tinder.” ajax’s laugh is weirdly humorless. “of course he’s going to expect you to come over after.”
“that’s not…” your voice trails off into nothingness when you realize how stupidly naive you sound. you are an adult, which means that adult things can and would happen to you. the memory of mualani saying she’d met a seemingly nonchalant gamer guy on tinder who’d actually rocked her world for a whole weekend surfaces, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “okay, maybe. so?”
“so nothing. isn’t that what you wanted? why did you sound so surprised?”
“i wasn’t — it just wasn’t the first thing on my mind. some people go on dates just to go on them, you know.”
your phone trills, and because your curiosity wins out, you flip over your phone. you’re sure ajax can also see the message preview from albedo asking you if meeting at this restaurant near his place would be okay, even if you dim the lock screen quickly.
“sure they do,” he shrugs. “just not this albedo guy from tinder.”
you feel kind of stupid for not thinking about that; it’s not as if your messages had been overtly flirty, but it also makes a ridiculous amount of sense that, in this day and age, a first date from an online dating app would lead to some kind of intimacy.
and now you kind of feel in over your head, owing to the fact that you’ve never been remotely intimate with anyone else. it just hasn’t been high on your priority list as of yet, and while you could imagine yourself being okay with it now, you feel like, for a first time, you’d need some kind of emotional preparation you’re clearly not going to have, especially not with a virtual stranger (that you’ve talked to for about a week, sure, but still someone you’ve never personally laid eyes on).
“you okay?” ajax asks after you don’t end up saying anything to continue the conversation.
“yeah. it’s fine. i just…”
“didn’t think your first time would be with some guy you’ve never met named albedo?”
you groan. you’re not even sure if that’s going to be an experience you’ll want to remember, and maybe that shouldn’t matter in the modern world, but if all you’re going to take away from it is that you were awkward and self-conscious with some guy you’ve only spoken to a handful of times, you’d rather cancel the date. except common courtesy dictates that you really shouldn’t, and you don’t want to have to explain to albedo why you can’t go, or worse, lie about it, and also, you are a goddamn adult who shouldn’t be so worked up about something so trivial.
“i get it. what if he’s small? or worse, he sucks? totally valid reason to cancel a date, by the way,” ajax continues, and you definitely catch a bit of a smirk on his face before he smooths it out.
“that’s not what i’m worried about,” you say dryly.
“if you’re worried about anything, you should cancel the date.”
“it’s not like that; it’s just complicated for me. and it’s just — maybe if i had some time, or some advice beforehand—”
“or some experience,” he adds helpfully.
“yeah, or that. then it wouldn’t feel weird or like, i don’t know — daunting, i guess.”
“so get some.”
“time?” you can’t help but roll your eyes at how stupid it sounds. “or are you planning on giving me advice?”
“no, experience.”
“even more absurd.”
“okay then,” he shrugs, turning the television off and hauling himself off your bed. “then i wish you all the best of luck with your first date with albedo from dragonspine university, who probably has a small dick.”
you watch him gather his things — his hoodie that he’d been using to elevate his head, his phone, and the unopened pack of sweet corn chips he’d brought in to munch on — with this growing sense of despair. at the same time that what he’s saying sinks into you, you start telling yourself that you really shouldn’t consider it. it’s wrong on so many levels, with special emphasis on the fact that you both live together and will have to see each other every damn day, and also he’s your best friend, and you’re pretty sure there’s some truth out there about how friendships never survive these kinds of things.
but you have also kissed him, and ajax has never blabbed about it or even brought it up in any way that would jeopardize your friendship. in fact, if you’re trying to be really stupid about it, he’d been your first kiss, so it kind of comes full circle that he’d also be your first…
“ajax,” you squeak out before he can open the door to your room.
“my advice for you — and this is for free — is that if he tries to get you to dress up, or, worse, if he tries to dress himself up, you shou—”
“look, forget about that.” your throat feels exceptionally dry as you swallow. “um.”
he turns back to you, and suddenly you can’t bear to meet his eyes. in fact, you kind of feel like throwing up, so you just get all your words out in a flustered hurry.
“the experience you were saying — it won’t be weird if we just, um, if we just practiced, right?”
“practiced? what, like just the tip?” he seems to take pity on you when your pleading eyes shoot back to him, but he still looks vaguely amused. “weird though — nah. not at all. we’re closer than that, aren’t we?”
you are close. you’re close, and you’re both adults, and this is ajax — trustworthy, dependable ajax who always looks out for you and has been with you through thick and thin. this is going to be fine.
“yeah,” you breathe out, more to yourself than to him. “it’ll be okay.”
his smile’s reassuring as he sets one knee onto the mattress, beckoning you to come closer to the edge. you hesitate for a moment, then steel yourself with the thought that you technically started this, and that you have to see it through, and then you start inching closer to him, one jerky and minute movement at a time.
not that it matters, considering that at the next second, ajax has your ankles in a tight grip and tugs you towards him in one quick motion. you yelp, feeling the drag of the blanket on your back.
“what the hell!” despite your indignation, your voice is choked and small, greatly weakening the overall impact of your words.
“if i let you set this pace, it’s going to take us until sunrise before anything good happens.” his hand reaches up to cup your chin, angling your face towards him. like this, you can’t do anything but stare at him. “so just trust me and follow along, okay?”
you scan ajax’s features one at a time — his eyes, his nose, his lips, the shape of his face. maybe it’s just the situation that you’re in, but it feels like you’re seeing him for the first time. it isn’t the composition of all those things that makes it feel so foreign, exactly, but the way they are now — the way they make an expression that you feel like you’ve never seen on him before tonight.
he looks… hungry, you realize, like someone who’s been starving for days on end. his lips are slightly parted, looking like they’re ready to say something, but all that comes out at first are deep breaths that seem desperate to appear even. is he worried about something? does doing this actually affect him negatively?
you touch his wrist lightly. “hey, um — if you don’t actually want to do this, we don’t ha—”
“no way.” his response is sharp and immediate. “we’re doing this.”
“you just seem— i don’t know…”
“don’t worry about me. i’ve been more than ready.”
before you can even ask what that’s supposed to mean, he closes the gap between you two. it hadn’t been that long ago since you’d kissed him, but you only now learn that whatever it was that had happened back on homecoming night was not a real kiss — not in the way that really mattered. ajax’s lips move over yours in a more insistent frenzy that you can’t help but get swept up in; his mouth is still just as warm and as soft as back then, but the kiss he presses against you now is infinitely more sure, more demanding. you react without thinking, letting his tongue slip past your teeth easily, and you taste him much more sharply now too.
he coaxes your tongue into a sloppy dance that you think you’d be embarrassed about if you had even a modicum of the wherewithal for rational thought, but all that you can think of is how good and wet and right it feels. a groan passes between the two of you, though you can’t really decipher the source, and ajax’s weight bears down on you until you’re lying back onto the bed, his lips still hot and eager, locked on yours.
when you start to feel a little lightheaded, you tap his shoulder, and you’re sure the noise that comes after is from him this time — a grumble of dissatisfaction as he pulls away, allowing you room to breathe. “what is it? s’not good?”
“no, i just—” you don’t even know what to say, so you blurt out the first thing on your mind. “did you kiss her like that?”
“what? who?”
“that girl from middle school that you said—”
“let’s not fucking talk about her right now,” he mumbles, pressing another quick and firm kiss to your half-open mouth, followed by another, and then another, until you’re breathing hard again.
“i just—” your voice dies in your throat as ajax leans down, burying his face into the crook of your neck. you feel his lips there — warm, open-mouthed kisses followed by the graze of his teeth against your skin, the dig of them as he nips into you. your head lolls to the side, and he makes a pleased little sound at being granted more access, doubling down on his efforts. you think he finds a particular spot he likes, just above your collarbone, because his mouth lingers there, sucking dutifully on the inch or two of skin for what seems like a day and an age (in which time your mind grows a little hazier, your body a little more aroused) until he pulls away. he admires whatever mark he left there with the ghost of a satisfied smile.
“sorry.” even though he says that, he doesn’t look particularly apologetic. “think you might have to wear a turtleneck or something tomorrow.”
“what?” it dawns on you a second too late, and you flush, shoving at his shoulder weakly. “are you kidding me?”
“if you don’t want to, it’s fine. you could show it off — your first hickey.” his breath fans over the still tender spot as he leans back down, nosing at the mark. “actually, why don’t you?”
“you know i can’t do th—” you stifle a noise when his hands slip under your shirt, warm palms digging into your waist.
“hm? why not?”
“you damn well know why, ajax. it’d be rude to albedo.”
“right, of course,” he drawls out. his hands travel up your sides, dragging the hem of your shirt up with his wrists. you squirm minutely as he pushes the fabric up just under your chin, exposing your tits to the cold air. “albedo.”
you fling an arm over your eyes, suddenly feeling like you don’t want to see the exact moment ajax descends again, but you feel it anyway in all that darkness — the press of his mouth against your flesh, the way his tongue swipes out to flick your nipple playfully. it pebbles just at that, and you suddenly wish you could crawl in a hole and die when he hums appreciatively before offering it another light kiss.
“nice, smart, cute albedo,” he continues, and though his touches and kisses feel languid, there’s a slight hardness to his voice that has you shivering. “who’s going to fuck you tomorrow.”
you almost ask him what the hell he’s doing, but you get completely sidetracked by the feeling of his teeth digging into your nipple, and a yelp escapes you instead. your back lifts off the bed, and ajax uses that as an opportunity to slip his arm under you and around your waist. he keeps you half-arched, your chest pushed up, and sees that as a self-made invitation to attach his lips to your nipple, sucking firmly until you’re keening and weakly writhing in his hold.
the noises he makes are obscene, all happy and indulgent, and you wonder if he’s overacting just to piss you off, but it’s not like you can even ask; your own mouth’s too busy moaning anyway. at some point, your fingers had threaded into his hair, and now you’re tugging with all your strength’s worth. it just seems to fuel ajax all the more.
he sets you free when you hiccup a ‘wait, wait,’ gently easing you back down onto the bed. two fingers tap on the arm across your face, and you move it away, opening your eyes to the starry and all-too-vivid sight of ajax, straightened up, with his lips slick with his own saliva and reddened from effort, tugged down into a slight frown.
“you gonna let him see you like this?”
“i— he — what?”
“are you going to let him see you like this?” he repeats. his hand skims up the plane of your stomach, cupping the neglected breast and giving it a firm squeeze. his thumb drags over your nipple, once, twice, then settles flat on it, circling in slow, tortuous motions. “gonna show him your pretty body, all ready for him to take?”
“i don’t know, i—” you don’t know what answer to give him that will erase the slight hardness in his gaze. you don’t even understand where all these questions are from. “what does this even have to do with practice…?”
“practice. right,” he says stonily. “because you’re doing this for him.”
he rights his posture, standing at the edge of the bed and towering down over you. you don’t move, just watch him carefully as he reaches out, trailing his hands down the sides of your thighs.
“can you take off your shorts for me, angel?” he murmurs after a pause; his voice sounds strained, and you see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. “panties too.”
you can barely hear the rustle of your clothing while you comply; your heart’s beating too loudly in your ears, your pulse throbbing in your temples. ajax helps you when your panties get caught around your ankle, and then you’re practically bare in front of him. he urges you to lie back again, but he’s got his hands around your calves that are pressed together, held aloft and giving you a false sense of decency.
it doesn’t last for too long, though. ajax eases your legs apart, and you can’t help the way your hands fly up to your hot cheeks as he gazes down at your exposed core. he looks at it with a concentration you’ve never seen on him — never in class, never in games. it’s like he’s intent on memorizing every inch of you.
“fuck,” he suddenly breathes out, startling you into a deeper shade of red. “fuck, baby.”
“what?” you squeak out, wishing he’d make eye contact or something so you could tell if he means that in a good or bad way.
“prettiest fucking pussy i’ve ever seen,” he hums, the volume of his voice strangely reverent.
“don’t — don’t say weird stuff like that, you assho— oh my god,” you whine, unable to keep any real heat in your voice as he swipes at your slit with a long finger.
“not weird. not kidding.” he drags the same finger down, easing your sticky folds apart and then coming away with an embarrassing amount of your slick on the digit. “holy shit. fuck, that’s pretty.”
you squeeze your eyes shut for another long moment, partly because you can’t look at him looking at you like that, but also partly because your whole body feels like it’s throbbing with arousal after just one stupid touch.
but they fly open when you feel ajax’s fingers again, this time fitting themselves right between your folds. it’s an imperfect measurement, his digits far too long, which means that the tips of them brush against your entrance.
“oh my god — what the fuck are you—” you squeal as he pulls his fingers apart, spreading your folds obscenely. “stop — stop messing around, jesus—”
you don’t even know if he’s agreeing to your request or not when he starts rubbing your folds, spreading your juices across the slightly puffy skin. it feels weirdly good, but also clearly not enough, and you soon realize it’s because you want something — want him — inside you.
he seems to read your mind, and in the next downward motion, his middle finger catches against your entrance, then curls inward. the tip of it teases at your hole, and you can actually feel the way you tighten around nothing, like you’re trying to suck him in but he’s just a few millimeters out of reach.
“pussy as pretty as this, and you’re just going to let some asshole look at it? touch it, just like this?” you’re not even sure if he’s talking to you or more to himself at this point. “no fucking way. not fucking happening.”
you cry out as he sinks a finger into you, up to the middle knuckle. it isn’t anything big, but it’s definitely a weird and unfamiliar feeling, having something inside you — but it somehow soothes the frustration in your chest. ajax’s gaze flickers up to your face now, watching the jaw-slackened expression that becomes more pronounced as he eases his finger further in, until it’s settled up to the knuckle.
“all these years — all this time that i did everything for you,” he continues, drinking in your little whimpers as he starts to pump his finger into you, slow and thorough. “and you were going to give your first to some jackass you’ve never even met before?”
emotions that you can’t fully decipher well up in your chest, a dizzy and patchy dawning at his words. ajax, who had always done everything for you. ajax, who had wanted every group project to be just the two of you. ajax, who was your first friend, your first kiss. ajax, who never wanted you to bring anyone home — who now refuses to tear his gaze from your face, like he’s willing an epiphany out of you.
“ajax,” you hiccup out, your hand reaching out to grip his wrist. “can — can we — can you slow down so — we can talk?”
“talk? sure, angel.” his finger presses up into the top of your walls, and you moan thinly. “let’s talk about why you shouldn’t go on that date with nice, smart, cute albedo tomorrow.”
a rough gasp rips out from your throat as he squeezes another finger into you, the stretch catching you off-guard; you tense, but ajax’s hand moves to press down lightly on your stomach, giving you this weird sense of groundedness.
“is it enough to say that he doesn’t know you well enough? that he doesn’t know you hate fancy, over-the-top restaurants like the one he was going to take you to, or that you’re always worried about the commute to downtown?” he’s speaking over your noises now, his fingers resuming their steady strokes — more deliberate now, digits dragging against your warm walls. his thumb stretches, dragging circles over your clit, and you’d be writhing at this point if not for the weight of his palm just under your navel. “or would it convince you if i said i don’t think he’d treat you right, the way you deserve? if i said he wouldn’t touch you right, fuck you right — would you cancel?”
“a—jax…” you choke out, tears welling in your eyes; the pleasure’s weird and tingly and so good, building up in your stomach and stretching to your fingertips and toes. “please, can we…?”
“if not any of that,” he murmurs, the movement of his fingers growing a little more forceful, a little heavier. you sob, squeezing at his wrist but making no real move to push him away; in fact, you’re pretty sure you’re keeping him there. “if i said the guy who deserves to see you like this should be me — only me — would you forget about him, angel?”
“som— something’s coming,” you whimper out, barely audible over the lewd noises his fingers make as they plunge into your warmth and wetness. “please, could you — s—slow down— just a little?”
“slow down? you pussy’s sucking me in so hard that i’m not even sure i can, baby.” the pressure ajax’s hand exerts on your stomach doubles, until you feel completely trapped under his hold. “s’okay. let it all out. don’t be scared; it just means i’m making you feel really good.”
a cry tears from your chest as he pumps his fingers in, rough and deep, and you feel your body lose control; in that moment, you tense, almost folding into yourself, and a rush of your juices sprays out of you, ajax coaxing it out for a little longer until you fall back onto the bed with a half-strangled moan. at least he has the decency to slow down after that, pulling his fingers out to rub your drenched folds like he’s offering some kind of weak consolation.
the ceiling above you starts to sharpen into focus as the tears that welled up out of pleasure drip down past your waterline. ajax’s fingers are stil busy, although the hand on your stomach has moved up again, fondling your breast with light, gentle squeezes.
you smack his arm, and he freezes, watching you sit up; it’s kind of comical, the fact that you’re still shaking a little post-orgasm, and he’s still making sure he’s got his hands on some part of you, despite the fact that you look a little miffed.
“are you fucking serious?”
“what? it’s totally normal to squirt. in fact, it’s actually really hot to me, personally…”
“not that! what were you even going on about this whole time? was there any other normal way you could’ve said what you said?”
“i thought the way i said it was pretty normal.” he shrugs. “why don’t you tell me when else i would’ve found the time and opportunity to tell you how i felt?”
“you didn’t have to be knuckle-deep inside me to do it!”
“agree to disagree. also, it can’t actually be my fault that you never knew. i’ve been clear about it from the beginning.”
you try to shake him off, but his grip on your waist’s like iron, and it results in a thirty-second struggle where you’re flailing your arms weakly and he’s trying to position himself comfortably in front of you. you stop, however, when ajax, now kneeling between your thighs, leans down, dropping his head onto your shoulder and giving the curve of it a light, almost imperceptible kiss.
“i’m sorry,” he says, sounding genuine this time. “i just… a part of me never wanted to tell you in case you hated me after it. if you said no… i don’t know what i’d do, to be honest.”
“i could never hate you,” you mumble, your cheeks a little flushed. you’ve never really had heart-to-heart talks with ajax before this, and you kind of feel like post-foreplay is an even weirder time to start, but you suppose you can’t blame him for the less than ideal timing.
“i thought i’d be okay, even if you never found out. if you did know, and you were just stringing me along… i’d let you, anyway. but then — god, if i think about someone else seeing you like this…”
you actually feel him shudder after, and your hand instinctively flies to the back of his head, threading into his hair.
“it fucking drives me crazy.” his voice is shaky, barely controlled. “i can’t. i can’t let anyone else have you.”
there’s a period of quiet where you can only hear ajax’s heavy breathing, and you sit there with your hands scritching against his scalp lightly, your own head fuzzy. you should probably be thinking over what he’d just said, and you sure as hell try to, but you draw a complete blank. maybe some tiny part of you had always thought there was a possibility that he viewed you as more than just a friend, but that small voice had been ultimately overwhelmed by a seemingly more rational one that insisted there was just no way.
“since…” you finally manage out, your words soft. “since when?”
“god, i don’t know. maybe i realized it some time in freshman year, but,” he lets out an amused exhale. “i’ve always liked you. since pre-school, even, which i know sounds stupid. ever since you did that show and tell with the glitter art kit your mom got you for christmas. then i thought i’d never see you again, and it killed me, which is crazy because it was a silly little kindergarten crush, and i really thought i’d forget about you, but you fucking came back. that first day you transferred in — god. i couldn’t believe you came back to me.”
you feel the minute turn of his head, and his lips are sealed against the crook of your neck. a warm puff of breath, and then another kiss, followed by another, firmer and sloppier, and another—
“ajax—”
“please,” he whispers, begs between searing kisses to your skin. his hands resume motion, skimming your sides and following the contour of them repeatedly; when they drag upward, his thumbs extend, grazing the underside of your breasts. “please.”
and you’re not even sure you know exactly what he’s asking for, but the almost broken way he asks makes you want to give it to him, whatever that may be. a light tug on his hair, and he’s lifting his face, meeting your eyes with a dazed sort of look.
you’re the one who initiates this kiss, soft and a little unsure, but ajax is quick to take the lead, fitting his mouth full against yours once you give him the in. his hands settle fully on your hips, giving them a firm squeeze and pulling you closer, until you’re flush against him. he licks his way into your mouth methodically, like he’s trying to make sure every tooth, every tastebud ends up tasting of him. and it does — the richness of him reaches the back of your throat, has you feeling dizzy and a little vulnerable.
you inhale sharply as he pulls away, cool air filling your lungs and your lips slick and swollen again, and even though there’s no reason for you to keep your mouth open, it stays that way anyway as ajax tugs his sweater over his head in a swift, clean motion, tossing it behind him carelessly. you’re face to face with his lean body, wired full with taut muscle, and now you actually feel like a hormonal teen perceiving the opposite sex for the first time. sure, you’ve seen glimpses of it when he runs from the bathroom to his bedroom after a shower or when he lifts the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his brow while he cooks, but having it on full display is a completely different story.
you clamp your jaw shut when he coughs, and your eyes snap up to his face, daring that slightly amused expression to say something. “what? i can’t look?”
“no, no, look. look as much as you want. please.” he grabs your hand, tugging it closer to his abdomen and letting the tips of your fingers graze the clear ridges there. “touch all you want too. you know this is all for you, right?”
“you don’t have to be weird about it,” you mumble, but the invitation is all you need. gently, your palm rests against his stomach, and you feel it sink in a little as he breathes in and shudders at your touch. you’ve probably just been turning a blind eye to it out of principle, but even objectively, you know that ajax is attractive; he has the face of a sweetheart and the body of a seasoned athlete, and now you can fully appreciate that fact. he watches you carefully, staying perfectly still, as you explore the planes of his torso little by little, dragging your fingers against smooth skin. you only stop at the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing your hand back — or you would have, anyway, if he hadn’t caught it first.
“you getting shy on me after touching me all sexy like that?”
“can you,” you hiss, trying to wrench your wrist out of his grip. “try to be normal about this?”
“you’re the one being abnormal,” he frowns, tugging your hand closer to his form again. the tips of your fingers brush against the drawstrings. “or are you planning on backing out?”
“no.” you can’t help but notice that it comes out way too quickly for your liking. “who’s backing out?”
he doesn’t say anything in response, save for a little huff of a laugh that tapers out into nothing when your fingers return to his waistband. now that you’re concentrating, you can see there’s a tent in the front of his sweats, and you’d rather die than make a comment about it, but it does seem sizable enough that it piques your curiosity. your fingers hook into the garter, and ajax shifts slightly closer as you tug down, the fabric getting caught in the anomaly for a split second before it stretches free and pools around his folded knees.
“i did that,” you mutter. “do the boxers yourself.”
if he finds your evident back and forth with your own confidence grating, he doesn’t let it show. in fact, he seems all too eager to comply, standing up to let his sweats drop to his ankles and wasting no time in letting his boxers join them, toeing them aside cleanly.
you don’t have any personal reference for what’s normal or what’s excessive, but you know for a fact you aren’t underwhelmed, to say the least. you try really hard not to, but it feels like you can’t stop yourself from gawking a little — how can you not when ajax is standing at the foot of your bed, fully hard and kind of… big? the worst part is that he doesn’t even look concerned about being so bare in front of you; he seems to be assessing your reaction instead, eyes intently focused on every change in your expression.
when you don’t say anything, he sighs. “i don’t expect you to overact or anything, but could you at least give me a sign that you’re still in the world of the living with me?”
“sorry.” your apology comes out high and reedy. “it’s just — you know this is my first time.”
“you know this is mine too, right?”
and it hadn’t dawned on you before, but now you feel completely stupid for not even considering that. ajax had seemed so sure of himself, and he’d brought you to climax once already, so it had been all to easy to assume he’d been experienced. but now that you think about it, there’s been little to no opportunity for him to have fucked anyone else, given that he’d spent most of his time with you.
and now you know why.
“right, sorry,” you breathe out. “could’ve fooled me, though. you don’t look nervous at all.”
“to be fair, i’m really not.” his lips quirk upward slightly. “i mean, no offense, but i’ve been waiting to get to this point with you for what feels like forever.”
“you didn’t have to — like, there were other girls you could’ve—”
“we really need to work on your listening skills.” leaning down, he cups your chin, thumb grazing your bottom lip before he leaves a suspiciously chaste kiss against it. “it’s you or no one.”
he presses a series of soft, light pecks against and around your mouth, and in the midst of all that, your posture untenses, with you slowly melting into his touch. when he straightens back up, you’re back in that now-familiar heady state of having your breath stolen just a little. his palm still stays, your chin resting on it, and you look up to meet the hunger in his gaze.
“tell me,” you whisper, and his eyebrows lift slightly, drinking in your every word. “how do i give myself to you, ajax?”
the exhale he lets out is broken and shaky, and for a moment, his grip on your chin tightens. strangely, it doesn’t feel dangerous or wrong; if anything, it causes you to focus on him just a little more. his thumb comes out again, this time tracing the shape of your half-open lips, following the rise and dip of your cupid’s bow before it stops at the corner.
“think you can use your mouth on me, angel? just for a little while. i just,” he breathes in deeply, like he’s trying to center himself. “just want to see what you’d look like. would you let me?”
you nod, and he smiles tightly, although not unpleasantly. gently releasing your chin, he steps back once, watching you shift yourself until you’re on your knees at the edge of the bed, sitting down on your calves. you’re basically at eye level with his cock now, and now that your focus is on it, you can’t help but feel a little intimidated at the sheer size of it.
“i don’t know how to — um,” you say lamely, tucking your hair behind your ear in some weak attempt to feel ready. “it might not… be good.”
“don’t even worry about that,” he replies, though his voice sounds a little choked. “trust me. just do… whatever feels right.”
you let out a soft ‘okay,’ and your hands come up, wrapping around the base of his shaft to angle him towards you a little more. you start a little when you hear a sharp intake of breath from him, but he quickly follows it up with “don’t freak. it’s fine, really.”
the tip of it glistens with a few beads, clear and viscous — precome, you realize, seeping out of the head. a light squeeze of his cock has a bit more dribbling out, and it strangely fascinates you. you wonder what it tastes like — what ajax tastes like when he’s turned on, how new it would feel on your tongue. without much forethought, you lean in, letting your tongue peek out to sweep the liquid away.
his reaction is instantaneous — a soft hiss, the tensing of his thighs. you can see his hands have formed fists at his sides, and his knuckles are white. when you look up at him, you see his jaw is tight, and his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded.
careful not to disrupt whatever state he’s in, you move in, pressing the flat of your tongue against the side of his cock. the taste of him here is different than his precome — less salty, much fainter. you drag your tongue slowly along his shaft, wondering if that’ll intensify the taste, but it doesn’t really work out that way, so once you get to the tip, you lap up the liquid again, humming as the odd flavor of it bursts in your senses. you like it best there, you decide, and you focus your tongue’s efforts on the head, enjoying the way his cock seems just as eager to release it with every swipe and circle.
you’re so focused on exploring that you don’t immediately notice that ajax isn’t quiet anymore. a particularly harsh “fuck” has you snapping out of it, and his hands sink into your hair, tugging your head back slightly in the process. you gaze up at him, tongue still partway out and dripping with his pre, and he looks back at you, half-crazed.
“shit. first time using your mouth, and you’re acting like this?”
“was it… not good?”
“fuck no. it felt amazing. makes me think you were born for this,” he breathes out. “listen — let me feel your mouth too, okay? open up for me just a little — atta girl…”
he groans out something incomprehensible as you let your jaw fall open to an approximation of his size. his hands replace yours at the base of his cock, steadying his shaft as he angles the tip towards your waiting mouth. with care you don’t expect from his tense posture, he slips the head past your lips, letting out a low noise as it settles against your teeth and tongue.
“fucking — god, look at you. are you kidding me?” his hands tighten in your hair, and you hum; his cock kicks a little in your mouth from the vibration alone. “this is even better than i’ve always imagined. you’ll let me move now, won’t you, baby?”
you nod, and he swears under his breath once again as his hips roll forward, a slow, smooth motion that pushes his cock another couple of inches into your mouth. you realize this is even better than licking at him; the taste of him completely fills your mouth, and the rush of his precum drips straight onto your tongue and down your throat. even his reaction is better; his gaze is wilder, more alert, and there’s a flush across his chest that makes you feel strangely proud to see. ajax takes his time, rolling forward at a languid pace that almost lulls you into a gentle stupor. you don’t even know why just this makes you feel good, but maybe it’s the sounds he’s making that make this all worth it.
“god, i knew your mouth would be this good. always dreamt about fucking it, and now i actually get to. you drive me crazy, you know that?” as if to make his point, he makes a particularly thorough roll of his hips, and just a little more of his shaft slips in, the tip now more than halfway across your tongue. “think you’ll be able to take it all?”
you shake your head meekly, and he chuckles.
“s’okay. we’ll take it slow. i’ve got all the time in the world to train that pretty throat of yours for my cock.”
you whimper, thighs pressing together; you’ve never heard him speak like this, and you can’t deny that it affects you a little too much. your eyelids flutter shut, and you focus instead on your other senses — the drag of his cock against the inside of your mouth, the low curses coming from ajax. you don’t know how long it lasts, but you can sense that growing throb against your tongue, becoming a little more insistent with each stroke. you think maybe, just maybe…
your eyes fly open as he draws back completely, your mouth empty all in one go. you breathe in a lungful of cold air before making a noise of protest. “why did you—?”
“i was ten seconds away from cumming,” he says breathily.
“so? did you… not want to?”
“not in your mouth.” when the look of confusion doesn’t leave your face, he laughs, though the way he smooths your hair back is so tender that you feel the weird urge to purr. “don’t get me wrong — it would’ve been hot, and i seriously thought about it. but i’m not going to bust a load like that when i haven’t even had a chance to fuck you properly.”
he swoops in for another firm kiss that catches you off guard, cradling your face as he guides you to lie back. you realize belatedly that ajax has a weird talent for being able to maneuver you without you really noticing — in the next moment, he has you in the same position as earlier, your legs spread to allow him the space to fit himself between them. only this time, his body’s just about as bare as yours, and you’re keenly aware of the way his cock brushes against your cunt as he inches in to close the gap between the two of you.
“you still feeling okay?” he asks when he breaks the kiss. you nod, and a smile quirks the corners of his lips upward. “good girl. let me have a look at you again, hm?”
your legs fall apart just a little more as he straightens up, like you’re offering the view of yourself to him; he takes it all in with an appreciative hum, and when he glances at your face for a split second, you notice his pupils are slightly blown. slick sounds fill the room as he strokes himself a few times, and you try desperately not to moan when he taps his cock against your folds, the shaft coming away with sticky lines of your juices.
you’re not as surreptitious as you think you are, though, because he says, “you don’t have to hold back on me, you know.”
“it’s fucking embarrassing,” you whine, although even that morphs into a mewl when he does the audacious thing of dragging his cock along your slit. “and you’re not helping.”
“oh, sorry.” something wicked creeps into his stupid little grin. “you saying you want me to stop?”
you’d rather die than have him stop now, but you don’t have to make that known to him. anyway, it doesn’t matter in the end; even if you want to say something, it dies in your throat the moment he pulls his hips back for another long grind against your folds — only this time, the tip catches against your entrance, and you flutter in desperation. your hips roll upward before you can even make sense of what you want, and ajax just looks pleased.
“yeah, i figured as much. was gonna see if you’d be willing to beg for it now, but you don’t even have to do that, do you?” his hands dig into the plush flesh of your waist, squeezing a little bit of the air out of your lungs. “pretty body’s telling me how bad you want it, loud and clear.”
you kind of wish he’d stop talking because it’s doing something to you, something like heat coursing through your veins and making you hypersensitive to even just the chill breeze from the air conditioning. but at the same time, there’s a large part of you that’s curious about what’s going on in his head; he seems infinitely more candid now than he’s ever been, and you wonder just how much of this is lining up with his fantasies.
another drag of his cock against your slit wrings a moan out of you, and your hand jerks out, nails digging into his chest. he doesn’t even flinch. “stop — stop teasing me already.”
his hips slow to a stop, and one hand leaves your waist, returning to wrap around his shaft. angling himself a little lower, he lines his tip up with your entrance, the soft curve of it bumping against the rim. his eyes flicker to you at the last second, and you’re ready to grab him by the ear for stopping again until he says, “it might hurt. you gotta tell me — you know, if it’s too much, or if you want me to stop. i’m serious.”
you nod, murmuring a quiet, ‘i will,’ but the deeper dig of your nails into his skin urges him forward.
tension locks your body as he pushes in slowly, the tip breaching your tightness. there’s an intense concentration on ajax’s face, his brow all furrowed, as he tries to battle the seemingly impossible fit. your walls ache at the drag, the stretch, and he’s barely in before he’s pushed out.
“shit,” he mumbles under his breath. “fucking tight.”
“m’sorry,” you whisper, mortified. “i didn’t mean to—”
“no, no — i didn’t mean it like that. just—” he exhales sharply, the thumb that’s still on your waist rubbing light circles. “it’s fucking hot. let me try again, okay? just relax for me.”
he waits for your assent before he resumes his efforts, and this time, you try not to work your body up to the point of rejecting him. it’s still a tight, uncoordinated endeavor, but he manages to slip in about halfway, at which point your body seems to at least be accepting that he’s there. it doesn’t hurt in the way you expect — there’s a slight discomfort, a dull soreness that gets easier to ignore as the seconds tick by. ajax stills like that for a while, and you realize he’s allowing you to get adjusted to his size before pressing on.
“how— uh, how is it?” he asks, his words a little thin and strained. “feel okay?”
“mhm,” you manage out, before realizing you’re not giving him much to work with. “doesn’t hurt much, i promise. you?”
“honestly?” he huffs out a laugh. “was really scared i’d fucking cum right then and there.”
you laugh, and the lingering tension in your form melts; you notice the same is true for him, and he even has the energy to look a little sheepish. “what was all that about fucking me properly then?”
“i’ll make good on it, trust me.” his hands return to your waist, pushing your shirt upward again to stop at your ribs.
“then don’t stop now,” you urge quietly.
he blows out a sharp breath before his grip’s tightening on your sides again, and he sinks further into you. your moans harmonize the moment he bottoms out, and you marvel at how strangely right it feels to have him in you, despite the fact that you feel so full you’re pretty sure he’s in your stomach, or something.
ajax isn’t all too composed, either; he’s breathing heavily like he’s trying to calm himself down, but the flush has spread from his chest to his neck and cheeks, making him look even more heated.
“you gonna cum?” you half-joke, although saying that out loud has you squeezing around him without warning, causing him to hiss.
“no way. no fucking way,” he says with a kind of resolution that seems almost baseless. “if i could just—”
he draws his hips a few inches back, inhales deeply, then pushes back in. the result is a low groan from him and a high, reedy mewl from you, the foreignness of something dragging against your insides feeling both odd and good. but maybe that sound is all he needs from you, because at the next moment, he’s setting a slow, steady pace, pumping into you smoothly.
the tightness is still there, but less pronounced, and the more he does it, the more the pleasure builds — a light tickle at your senses at first, but slowly growing into something more insistent. you’re not sure if you’re supposed to be able to tell if ajax is inexperienced, because it really doesn’t seem like it. the controlled movement, the perfect pressure against your insides — it seems like he’s doing everything in his power to keep himself in check and make you feel good. amid the slight haze of pleasure, you fixate on his face as a grounding point, noticing the tightness in his jaw, the slight frown on his lips.
“ajax, it’s okay,” you whisper, breaking him out of the focused trance he’d fallen into. “it doesn’t hurt. you can… you don’t have to hold back.”
“i can’t,” he murmurs, almost sounding mournful. “you don’t know how good it feels — how much i want to—”
“then do it,” you cut him off, both hands coming up to cup his face, keeping his gaze fixed on you. when he doesn’t respond, you add, “i want you to. please.”
you can almost hear the way the gears in his head click and whirr before they simply implode. with a soft growl, he buries his face into your shoulder, his teeth sinking into fabric against skin. he draws his hips back fully, then snaps them forward, burying himself back into you fully, and you squeal, your arms winding around his neck for some semblance of stability.
“that’s — that’s it,” you whimper, nails biting into the skin of his shoulder blades. “g—gave myself to you, remember? so just take as much as you want.”
“fuck— fuck,” he swears, muffled against your shirt. he does the same thing again, pulls almost all the way out before hitting home again, and again, and again, until you’re caught in a cycle of short gasps and cries. “don’t you dare say that without meaning it. gonna fuck this pussy until it’s all mine, understand?”
he probably feels you nod against the side of his head, which is good because you can’t seem to say anything coherent. his pace becomes rougher, the strokes more deliberate and forceful, and you feel yourself pressing deeper into the mattress, caught deliciously under his weight. at the angle, the depth he’s fucking into you, you’re pretty sure you can almost taste him on your tongue. or maybe it’s just that you’re enveloped in him, his scent across your skin, his warmth kissing every part of you.
“god, you feel amazing,” he babbles on, taking only a moment to let his tongue swipe out at your neck. “pussy’s taking me so well, like it was made for me. is that what you’ve been saving yourself for, huh? waited for me to take this pretty cunt all for myself?”
you can’t trust yourself to respond, so you let out a garbled hum that sounds suspiciously like his name. not that it phases him — if anything, it seems like it just adds fuel to the fire, his next thrust into you rattling you from head to toe.
“yeah, that’s right. you were made for me, angel. look at you — so fucking tight just for me. so. fucking. good,” he growls, the last three syllables a blueprint for his sharp thrusts.
your head’s fallen into a blurry haze, and you think it should be scary in any other instance, but with ajax here to ground you, it just feels right; you sink into it willingly, and you can’t even bring yourself to feel conscious about all the lewd noises you’re making. his voice is all you can hear, settling into your ears, into your bones.
“can’t pull out — your pussy’s gripping me so tight that i can’t. and i don’t fucking want to.” you whimper when you feel his teeth dig into your earlobe. “know what that means, baby? tell me. i wanna hear it from you.”
you really shouldn’t. it’d be reckless and risky, and you don’t have any countermeasures for it on hand. logic dictates that you muster up enough rationality to tell him you don’t want him to — except you kind of do, and with the way he’s practically rearranging your insides, you kind of want to give it to him too.
just this once, your irrational mind reasons with you. next time will be different.
and then you shiver with pleasure at the realization that you’re already planning a next time with ajax.
“cum inside me,” you whimper out. he swears softly before pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the crook of your neck.
“one more, angel,” he pleads, sounding almost broken. “say it one more time.”
“want you to cum inside me,” you breathe out, tensing around him as you feel his hips grow rougher, more erratic, and your pleasure spikes suddenly. “fill me up — please, ajax?”
his pace stutters, freezes, then revives in a frenzy of quick, shallow thrusts, and warmth suddenly fills you. you know what it is, and you expect him to stop to ride out his high, but he continues to move, and you feel his cum slip deeper into you. it adds both a stickiness and a slipperiness to his movements that makes the friction exponentially more delicious, and you barely whine out something unintelligible before you’re coming undone for the second time tonight, your thighs closing in and pressing into his sides.
finally, he slows, tapering his strokes gradually, but though they become intermittent, they regain their thoroughness — like even in the wake of his climax, he’s still focused on pushing as much of his cum into you as he can before his exhaustion wins out.
and it does soon after, his hips stilling with one final thrust into you that has you keening softly. he doesn’t lift his head, seemingly content to just inhale your scent from against your shoulder. you stay like that for god knows how long, listening to each other’s breathing even out and soften. at one point, you squirm a little, just to check if everything’s still good below the waist, and you feel his cock kick weakly.
it’s the trill of your phone that breaks you out of your stupor. you mumble into ajax’s ear about giving you some room, but he makes a noise of dissent that has you rolling your eyes, so you just pat blindly around for your phone until your hand closes around it. it’s hard to manipulate your screen considering you’ve got a body lying on you that you have to work around, but you manage to open the tinder app to albedo’s messages — the one from earlier about the restaurant that you hadn’t replied to, and another one from just now, saying that he’d made a reservation.
“it’s albedo,” you say, growing amused when ajax grunts into your shirt. “he made a reservation.”
“yeah, well, i hope it’s for one.” he finally lifts his head, and you’re struck with the thought that he looks adorable with his hair flattened and falling into his eyes. “don’t tell me you’re still going?”
“oh, yeah, i totally still want to see him,” you say dryly, though the sarcasm doesn’t seem to sink into ajax; he frowns so deeply you have to smoothen out the lines on his forehead. “after i just let this other guy who confessed to me in the craziest way cum in me. can you be serious?”
“cancel the date,” he demands, and you want to laugh at how childish his tone is; a little bit of it slips out when he pouts. “i’m not kidding. tell him you have a boyfriend.”
you don’t go that far, but you do cancel on albedo, citing a sudden unavoidable event (not a total lie); ajax watches with hawk eyes as you draft the message and double checks that you sent it to him.
“do i though?” you ask after a thoughtful pause. ajax has already settled back down onto you, refusing to pull out and growing more and more like dead weight against your chest. “have a boyfriend, that is.”
he’s quiet for a while, and you might’ve thought he’d dozed off if not for the unevenness in his breathing.
“i mean, if you’ll have me.” you’ve never heard him sound unsure before, and it somehow softens you.
“you know, back when i was in pre-school, there was this kid i was friends with that didn’t want summer vacation to come. he said it was because he didn’t want to make any new friends, so i promised him we’d find a way to stay friends even after that. what was it that i said…?”
he chuckles softly. “i think you said we’d be together forever.”
“right,” you snap your fingers like you’ve had an epiphany. “i promised him we’d be together forever. so i guess i have to make good on that promise, right?”
“that’s a cute story and all, angel, but i still want to hear it in black and white.” you can feel the grin playing on his lips against your skin.
“why don’t you look me in the eye first?”
he lifts his head, and for a moment, you just drink in his features — the deep, blue eyes that have always watched you, the soft lips that waited years just to kiss you. your fingers trace the side of his face, and he leans into your touch, closing his eyes as you murmur your answer.
Spider-Man ! Ino Takuma gets beat-up and comes to your apartment to get patched up :) gn!reader
C/w: brief description of patching up a wound and some blood, suggestiveness near the end.
A/N: two of my favourite things; Ino and Spider-Man. I have another steamy one that I'll post next, I just feel there's a distinct lack of Ino on here :P Joey, enjoy king.
Ino Takuma had very few things he enjoyed after swinging around the city at night, probably taking a beating and definitely getting closer to losing than he liked.
Getting a pizza from the parlour down the street, loaded with cheese and extra sauce until it’s sloppy.
Watching reruns of sex in the city and pretending his dramatic problems were as easy to solve as they are for the ladies he’s obsessed with.
And crawling through the wind-beaten window of the apartment three stories up, five windows to the right, with the fire escape underneath that creaks if you step in the middle; that window belongs to you.
Tonight was particularly difficult, skateboarding down the backstreets of Shibuya turned out to be a meet and greet for the weirdest folk, Mysterio keeping them under some kind of attack order until he could figure out the puzzle laid out in front of him. His suit was torn, midnight black fabric with teal stitching ripped tragically and Ino mourns the lack of warmth in his body as he wraps it with duct tape he’d found in his bag.
The plan was to go straight to get pizza before he headed back to his own place, probably to put hip hop on his vintage (read: beaten up, ten year old) stereo and worked on meal prepping for the bentos you’d take to work that he adoringly plans out for you each week.
Plans go awry, and instead of doing that he’s rapping on your window with gloved fingers, hoping and praying that you won’t notice the blood caked above his eyebrow that is weeping quite disgustingly into his eye.
There’s about a ten second wait as Ino holds his breath, wincing as it aggravates his (probably) broken ribs, before he lets a soft grin pull at his features as he hears the sound of you grumbling and shuffling out of bed to approach the window.
“Takuma?”
"Hey, good lookin'," Ino goes for flirty, easy-breezy, even. What comes out instead is a pain filled groan and he grimaces as he watches your eyes immediately flit up to the cut on his eyebrow.
"Shit, you're bleeding," You sigh, jamming the window open so that he can crawl through, letting him practically fall into your bedroom. "C'mon, bug boy. I'll patch you up."
"You know, if you keep being this nice to me I might get attached." Ino teases, following you into your en-suite as you pull the well used first aid kit from under the sink. "You'll have to keep your window open all the time."
"Oh, will I?" You hum, pushing his chest until he's sitting on your bed, black and teal standing out against your pale grey bedding. Fluffy, caramel brown hair mussed up in every direction as you push your hand through it, clearing the area that you need to clean. "Can't have that, I might get cold."
Ino hisses as you place the antiseptic wipe on his skin, you shush out an apology as you get to work cleaning. This is a regular occurance between the two of you, you know exactly what to do. You'd been friends since childhood, and when he got his powers he'd decided to tell you first, in the middle of Korean Barbeque. You'd slapped his arm about twenty times, his head ten times, and then you'd hugged him tightly for about an hour as you recounted the fight you'd seen on the news, telling him that if he died, you'd kill him all over again.
Only in the last two months though, he'd finally asked you out, and although you'd been scared to take that leap from friends to partners, you'd never been happier to see his face every single morning. Even if he dredged blood and all sorts into the apartment occasionally.
"Mind if I put on some music?" Ino asks with another hiss as you pat the cut with clean gauze, breaking you out of your thoughts. It's not deep, his healing seems to have already started so just some butterfly stitches should be fine. "Was gonna rock out tonight, dance in my pajamas, that sort of thing."
"Dork." You laugh softly, dabbing at the wound a bit more before you reach down to grab the stitches from the kit.
You roll up your sweater sleeves, Ino's university one that you stole as soon as he left it lying about, and clap once.
"Okay! Stitches time, you big baby."
Ino groans as he scrolls on his phone before smirking at you, his finger hovering over a song. You finish sticking the thin white strips onto the wound above his eye and raise an eyebrow at him.
"What's that look for, Takuma." Your voice comes out as a warning, but there's a soft adoration in your eyes. It takes a second of his ridiculous smirking, which you hope to wipe off by shoving his cheek, for you to realise what he's about to play. "Absolutely not."
"Absolutely yes." Ino grins, nodding his head and standing up, stretching before holding out a hand to you. "Get ready."
"Takuma," You laugh out, and it only gets richer as California Love starts playing out of his busted phone. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous."
He tugs you by the hand as you continue laughing, his hips swaying ridiculously, the teal stitching and lines of his suit glinting in the soft light of the hallway as he drags you into the kitchen, badly singing along to the song and whooping as you start swaying to the music as well.
"Dance with me,"
"You've hit your head, clearly," You shake your head as you dance anyway, a huge grin on your face as Ino sways and sings and puts leftovers from your fridge in the oven for the both of you. "Is that my pizza?"
"Our pizza, baby," Ino corrects you, eating a cold slice from the box despite warming the other slices up. "Totally beat the shit out of these guys today."
You hop onto the counter and swing your legs as he feeds some of the cold pizza to you, a soft smile on his face.
"Oh really?"
"Hell yeah," Ino flicks his wrist, and a thin web shoots out to grab the chilli flakes you keep on the table. You shake your head in exasperation. "Check it, new web recipe. Yuji and I have been working on it for the last couple of weeks."
You reach out and brush against the delicate webs with your fingertips, humming when it springs back. Definitely more solid than his previous webs, a little thicker too.
"Working in the lab?"
"Yeah," Ino speaks with a full mouth, and you wrinkle your nose at him.
"Swallow."
"Kinky." Ino teases, wiggling his eyebrows and moving so that he's framing you, hands either side of you on the counter and your noses brushing against each other. "I love you."
His lips are on yours and you sigh into it. It really is like coming home, no matter how cringey that sounds. You wait all night when he's on patrol.
It's soft, and he pulls back to look into your eyes, kissing the bridge of your nose before muttering a 'thank god, I was dying'.
The next couple of minutes is just pure domesticity, the oven timer is about to ping as Teenage Dirtbag starts to play out of the music rotation. You slap a hand against your boyfriends ass as he laughs and you grab his hips, pulling him in and giving a kiss.
"Change out of your suit, lets eat." You tell him, biting his lip as he pulls away and puts both his hands in his hair, groaning and tugging at it.
"You drive me crazy, Bug."
"Sooner we eat..." You trail off, laughing as Ino spins around and trips in his haste to get changed, his mask slipping out the belt around his suit, dropping to the ground with a light noise.
You scoop it up, brushing a thumb over the cut above the lens, an uncomfortable feeling in your gut as you realise it really means he got hurt.
"I'm fine, babe." Ino calls out from the bedroom, and before you can retort with the snark you usually have, there's web shooting out and snatching the mask from your hands.
You scoff, and start to set plates on the table instead. Whatever. As long as he comes home to you at the end of the day, you don't need Spider-man, you just need Ino.
"No Yuji tonight?" You call out, double checking.
Sometimes if it's late and the patrol has been particularly hard, the young teen will stay at yours or Takuma's. You both want to make sure he eats properly and heals up. He has a tendency to underplay his injuries, so you have to wrestle the truth out of him. You smile thinking about his cute pink hair and endearing personality. Ino couldn't have got a better sidekick.
"Nah, he's at Fushiguro's for tonight - something about meeting his parents."
"Whew," You whistle, feeling slightly bad for him all of a sudden. "Meeting the parents after crime fighting? Yeah, no thanks."
Ino is walking out of your bedroom now, grey sweatpants loose on his body and a tight band t-shirt that was definitely yours. He also had his black beanie on, which you'd made sure to pick up from his apartment earlier in the day when he texted you about plans changing and Mysterio on the loose.
There's the sound of light bells, and then your cat is running behind him, meowing for his attention. He coos before picking her up and tickling her little belly.
"Aw, Mochi is hungry, look!" He holds her up to you as she purrs, reaching out a white paw. "She's my real sidekick, keeping you safe whilst I'm out."
You shake your head, amused.
"Kuma, she'd let me die right in front of her if someone offered her biscuits."
Mochi meowed, as if she was agreeing with you, and you let out an 'ah-ha!' and gestured at her. Ino just rubs his face into her fur and you roll your eyes.
"Mochi would never ever be that cruel, baby. I'm a great judge of character."
"Oh, sure." You snort. Putting the pizza onto plates, you put an extra slice on your boyfriend's with a warm feeling in your heart as he puts the cat down and cradles you from behind. "Remember when that guy you wanted to go skating with turned out to be selling stolen tech?"
"That's different," Ino whines into your neck, kissing the soft skin there. "You liked him too."
Well, he's got you there. Dude seemed normal. However, you aren't Spider-Man.
"Whatever, dude," You push him away by flicking his forehead, and laughing when he slaps your ass in retaliation. "Eat."
"If I eat super fast, can I feel you up before bed?" Ino practically begs, puppy dog eyes shining at you from where he's sat down across from you, hands in a prayer.
You shrug as you pick up a piece of cheesey deliciousness. You really needed to remember to stock up on these pizzas, especially if Ino was going to keep eating them.
"I'm not saying no." You drawl out, rolling your eyes and tampering down a smile as Ino pumps his fist in the air and starts inhaling his dinner.
He's ridiculous, and late, and he's definitely got mud in your carpet again. You'd be stitching his mask up tomorrow, and helping reload web cartridges, but you can't help it.
Synopsis: Who would've thought, the city's precious and very own superhero would have a "vigilante-hating" girlfriend?
If there’s one thing that baffled Satoru more than the plot of Wuthering Heights, it was his girlfriend’s thought process.
“Spiderman is what now?”
“Propaganda set by the government to distract us from major events. Hear me out, why did the National Art Museum just happen to get robbed on the same day as–” He closed his eyes, zoning out of the conversation momentarily.
“You’re not even listening to me,” you turned to face him, a frown on your face. Satoru smiled softly, pulling you down onto your bed to lay beside him, eyes still shut. “You think too much”
“And you, too less.”
A chuckle rang from his throat and his eyes met yours. His hand travelled to cup the back of your hand and another to your hip, pulling you closer until there was a few centimeters gap left between the two of you. His eyes scanned your face, dilated black pupils amidst a sea of cyan, a light pink hue brushed along his cheeks, barely noticeable but still there. If you looked closely you'd only be able to see one single thought forming behind those eyes: God, what a blessing it was to be able to call you his.
“Why do you hate him so much? Spiderman, I mean” He asked out of curiosity.
“Hate? No, I don’t hate him. Far from hate, actually. He seems cool, but you don’t find it weird? This rando shows up in a spidey suit, does acrobats and all of a sudden there are supervillains showing up like we’re in a DC comic? It’s the government”
“What if he’s just some kid? Our age, you never know”
“Or a middle aged man”
“I could be Spiderman”
Silence.
What was that? A pin drop??
His room had never been so silent in your presence as it was now.
His eyes widened, his blush deepening. “I mean–”
A smile slowly crept on your face, a teasing glint appearing in your eyes before you laughed. “Aww Sato, you’re adorable, you'd get along so well with my younger cousin!” you raised your hand, pinching his left cheek.
Shortly after the not so official confession, you turned your attention to your phone, watching another dramatised theory about Spiderman’s true identity, retreating back into the rabbit hole.
“Pay me some attention too,” Satoru whispered. Well, technically, you were paying attention to him, but not the kind he wanted. He wanted every piece of you to himself, to the Satoru Gojo you knew, not the masked vigilante you labelled as ‘masked menace’, thanks to the internet. Not that he minded- watching you talk about some conformity gate theory was adorable.
His fingers smoothened your hair, before travelling to your face, tracing your features with a gentle, feather-like touch. He leaned down until you were both eye to eye, noses brushing against each other's. You watched him close his eyes before connecting the two of you together by the lips. The kiss was soft, unrushed, and fragile. His cold hands travelled underneath your shirt, caressing the soft warm skin before pulling you even closer if possible. His glasses now discarded on your bedside drawer and your phone lost between the tangled mess of your duvet and bedsheet.
“I missed you” he whispered against your lips.
You smiled, “It was just two days.”
Yeah, two agonising days away from you and in the capital city, taking part in a competition Mr Yaga insisted would be a good addition to his University application. Just to his luck, the competition venue just happened to be three streets away from the museum, and on the same day the robbery occurred. Hence your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman was busy saving a different city and the school’s Academic Decathlon team.
He did answer any further, instead pulled the duvet over the two of you and buried his face in your shoulder.
summary: as a devoted student of science, you put all your time just to that. Misfortune falls upon you when you are faced with being in the same class as satoru gojo, your longtime academic rival and essentially the bane of your existence. It goes one step further when his strange behavior seems to get even stranger as the web slinging hero of New York suddenly swings into your life. . . not that there's any correlation.
pairing: spiderman!gojo x fem!reader
warnings: college au, excessive banter, guns, violence, death/bloodshed mentioned, sexual content, smut, porn with plot, p in v, oral sex, missionary, doggy style, riding, little sprinkle of dirty talk
wc: 26k
a/n: this is based off the spiderman gojo art by @ aliyartss on instagram!
First weeks of any semester are always brutal.
The sound of traffic clogging and polluting the streets, brutal. The beginning of ringing headaches from the lack of sleep, brutal. The start of all-nighters to complete homework and study, brutal.
That’s just a small piece of the brutality that follows college students.
At least that’s what most students can relate to.
You glance over at Shoko, next to you as you settle into class. Being miles ahead of schedule was always way better than being even a second behind. So walking into the small lecture room ten minutes before class plays in your favor even if it was Professor Yaga’s class, the same professor you’ve had for two past semesters already.
“You look a little annoyed,” Shoko comments while flipping through her notebook.
“Sorry—I had a bit of a fight last night with my Dad,” you sigh out, shaking your head. Your finger slides along the edge of your own notes. “And I guess I’m just a little stressed about everything. The JJ Tech guys are having me spend extra hours and I can hardly get an hour to myself in the day.”
“Well chin up, we’ve got a long lab ahead of us today,” Shoko tapped playfully against your chin, her eyes down on her papers.
“Hm, right,” you mumble, eyes drooping at the chalkboard. “Wonder how you’re getting through this lab by yourself.”
“Hey, Satoru is my lab partner. You shouldn’t worry too much about that,” she chides. Shoko has a habit of not looking at you when she’s in the middle of doing something while conversating. “You seem like you have something else on your mind. You wanna talk about your dad?”
You eyeball the warmup problem he has on the board, jotting it down in your notebook. Your mind races with that conversation you had with your father just last night. How he wanted to have an assigned detail with you on campus, safely getting you to and from class. You have enough to worry about with finally shifting to yours and Utahime’s new apartment in a few short weeks without having to think about your dad.
Your impending argument was scheduled to continue once you saw him again since you didn’t even have a fighting chance when he got a call about a high-profile criminal striking again. You wonder just what could have transpired last night, apparently there were witnesses that sighted him.
“Not really.”
His fingers trail down the side of his torso, eyes screwing shut when he grazes that sensitive expanse of skin. Throbbing mercilessly, he hisses through clenched teeth, opening his eyes and glancing at the banged-up mirror on his wall.
That skintight suit was still clinging to his body like glue. He tears his mask off his head, tousling his white locks in the process. His head tips back when his gloved fingers brush over that tender place on his side.
A series of slow, deliberate breaths travel past his lips. Mindlessly, he reaches for a vial of painkillers. He doesn’t even count how many he tips into his waiting palm before popping them into his mouth and chasing them down bitterly with a bottle of water.
The boy grunts out as he falls back onto his bed, hoping he could sleep the soreness off before class tomorrow.
RING! RING!
Those eyes of his that had just shut after eons of forcing himself to stay alert and prepared for any attack were cruelly wrenched open once more.
RING! RING!
Another blasted alarm sounded from across his room, an alarm clock he simply can’t punch to snooze as he’d already bought a new one after abusing his previous two.
Satoru sat up, wincing at the sting on his side.
He groaned, gruffly peeling that suit off his body. Thoughts of the day ahead warped his mind. He had spent all night traipsing rooftops, swinging through the streets in pursuit of a gang of sloppy bank robbers.
He usually had fun trailing and taking down thuggish rogues, picking them off and bringing them to justice ever so casually. He got to feel the rush of the midnight air as he swung from building to building, between the streets. Arms and legs easily stretching and freely moving without a care in the world.
He loves it.
Last night, he had run that stolen van off the road without much effort. Everything went swimmingly until he had foolishly been launched into a brick wall mid-chase.
That had caused him to lose a bit of coordination during the fight that ensued shortly after. After stringing them up with his webs, he had swung back home only to stop yet another mugger on the way.
Once he had finally returned the woman’s stolen purse and made sure she got home safely, he gave himself the same protocol.
He tries to rush out of the apartment as soon as possible. He had enough on his plate to worry about with school, he could hardly keep up with his nighttime activities.
No, not that. His work as a vigilante made it difficult to have even a moment to himself. Let alone the fact his internship at JJ Technologies started earlier this month as well. So yes, he has enough on his plate with no room to spare for the breakfast his conscience had suggested.
“Yo! Suguru!” Satoru calls. He is jolted out of his thoughts when he approaches his best friend right by the theology building.
“Oh, what’s up?” Suguru turned around. “You watch the game last night?”
“Wha—no,” Satoru shakes his head, pushing his glasses up. He sheepishly sighs, “You know I’ve been busy with the internship and with homework.”
“Oh right,” Suguru mumbles teasingly. “The internship? Speaking of, did you see the news? They’re saying the man who banged those guys up pretty good last night was the mysterious Spiderman.”
“Will you shut up?” Satoru gasps, almost slapping him.
Of course, Suguru knew. He found out in a freak accident only a week after Satoru had been bitten. The freak accident being Satoru forgot to lock his bedroom door while changing out of his costume and his best friend walking in.
“Relax. No one knows,” Suguru reassures, he takes a sip of his coffee. “Only a small population of the public are still choosing to be delusional.”
“Yeah, delusional enough to believe Spiderman doesn’t exist,” Satoru scoffs.
“No, delusional enough to believe he does,” Suguru corrects harshly. “If I didn’t walk in on you half naked with that suit on and saw how you shot out a web before you realized I was in the room, I would never have believed those photos I saw in the news either.”
“Spiderman is a household name now whether you like it or not,” Satoru self-righteously points at himself with his thumb. “You wouldn’t believe how big of a fan the ladies are.”
Suguru shakes his head as he eyes his student portal on his phone. “Fuck, I have a history quiz today.”
“Shit, me too,” Satoru grunts, shaking his head as he walks past yet another sorority bake sale on his way down the main streets of campus. “Wait—we’re in the same class.”
“Oh—yeah,” Suguru fumbles with his phone as he points at Satoru. “I think I might ask Nanami to let me cheat off him—Haiba won’t mind but let’s face it, he’s not the brightest—Wait, you never mentioned what exactly happened last night.”
“Toji Fushiguro’s on the run. There was a sighting of him last night and I went to track him down but no luck. Then there was a bank heist on West 7th, I wish I got to fucking sleep after. Being flung against a brick wall is not as fun as it sounds. Fuck—wait I have class!” Satoru interjects, darting off in the middle of the conversation, leaving Suguru with a look of disappointment on his face.
“I have the same class,” Suguru frowns.
Yaga has always been quite the authoritarian, he knows what to expect from one of his star pupils as he strolls into class with a lazy smile on his face, ten minutes late.
“How nice of you to join us, Satoru,” Yaga’s tone isn’t as sweet as his words. “I should count myself lucky you showed up at all today, no less right before we worked on our lab assignment.”
That hand you have your cheek resting on slides up to palm at your forehead, hoping to soothe the forthcoming headache once that boy settles into his seat.
“We’re switching lab partners today,” Yaga declares, pen in hand as he scribbles and crosses out names on his seating chart. “I know you must’ve been comfortable with your partners from last semester, but I’d like you to find your name on the board and sit accordingly. This partner is who you’ll be working with for the final project.”
Satoru was perfectly fine working with Shoko. Their scientific caliber was on par with one another and despite the fact they butted heads quite often, they somehow managed to do quite well on their labs.
His mind traps him in praying he doesn’t end up with Yuki that he almost doesn’t realize the fact you were his new partner. He whips his head to the right, seeing your brows raise as you glance back at him.
Seriously? Him?
No one can relate to how brutal it is having Satoru Gojo of all people as your classmate in your organic chemistry class.
Yeah sure, give you an assignment of reporting the development and properties of organic photovoltaic cells for renewable energy applications or even deciphering the molar mass of your father’s whiskey collection, you could make sense of it.
You could never make sense of this kid, however.
Satoru Gojo.
The irritating kid you’ve been battling to beat out for the highest exam score since middle school. The kid that ran into class late and hardly seemed all that present but still landed a score almost as high as yours every time. The kid that sat at the back of class, dozing off during lab. The kid that spent a decent chunk of senior year playing Digimon on his phone and still antagonized you before every science test you had.
That kid you thought you wouldn’t have to worry about after high school but were proved severely wrong when you saw him on your campus your first semester. That kid you hoped you wouldn’t have to run into anywhere else but still did somehow where you had been interning.
If there was a chemical formula to understand why you couldn’t stand him, your list of grievances would have to be simplified to fit on one page.
You’re seriously contemplating on marching up to Yaga and demanding a switch in partners. Someone else. Anyone else.
Trying to change Yaga’s mind on anything though, was a feat greater than what any scientist could accomplish.
Heaving a sigh, you plop your books down on the table. There was this severity in your movements that wove seamlessly into propriety. He peeks over at your color-coordinated notes all lined out in neat handwriting.
Yeah, he’s been competing with you in school for years. It’s not like he meant to, he was just great at just about everything he did. It’s not his fault!
He knew you couldn’t stand him, and he enjoyed that for some reason. Getting under your skin with quick quips were designed to be much more fun because of that. Since he is on the clock every hour of the day, he needs to let out his stress somehow. Punching bad guys is not enough anymore.
“Look at your notes,” Satoru cheeses, flipping through your book. “All shiny and pretty. You know, if you put more effort in, you could look the same.”
You shove his arm, snatching your book back from him, “Shut up. Don’t make me mad. Words can’t explain how pissed I am already.”
“Aw, you know I’m kidding,” he grins mischievously. “You’re not that bad to look at.”
You press your lips together as you inhale heavily. Your eyes raise to look dead straight at the front of the class before you turn your head to face him.
He catches that fire in your gaze that he’s not even seen in the most vicious of criminals and mutants he’s gone up against.
“I don’t get why Yaga didn’t call Suguru out for being late either,” Satoru frowns, facing forward.
“Because Suguru isn’t late every day,” you point. “You are. And half the time, you leave early. It baffles me how you still pass all your classes.”
“Is someone jealous?” Satoru smiles.
As you shake your head, you look down at your notes. You’ve known Satoru for many years, but he was always just a classmate. He was also always the classmate you would barely beat out to get the highest marks in science or any other class. The classmate that would get under your skin way too often.
There was something about him that made you pay close attention to him.
“Oh shit!” one of the students in class shouts out, eyes glued to his phone. Needless to say, he’s garnered the attention of the entire class. “There’s a robbery going on right now at the bank downtown! Six-gun men have all the customers and staff held hostage!”
This earns a series of nervous gasps and prayers from the students. The hair on the back of Satoru’s neck stands up and he’s still in his seat as his peers flock toward the lab table of the student watching the news live stream.
“Wonder when Spiderman’s going to show up,” one of his classmates ponder aloud.
“Nah, he can’t do shit. You think a clown in tights is going to take down a fucking group of men with guns?” another kid snarks, causing Satoru to all but roll his eyes as he stands up.
Ah, the everlasting and everchanging debate as to whether the wall crawling vigilante was a menace or a savior of society.
If he wasted his time worrying so much about what people thought about him, he’d never get a single thing done. He drowns out their discussion as he strides to the door with his mission clear in his mind: Save those hostages.
“Alright boys! Glad we wrapped this up!” Satoru, or should one say, Spiderman dusts off his hands ever so casually.
He crouches down, leveling with the leader of the gang who happened to be tied up thanks to Satoru’s expertise webbing. He breathes freely with the knowledge that the hostages have rushed out of the bank, straight into the arms of their worried loved ones outside and the police.
When a vial of green in the pocket of one of the tattooed thug’s glints in the light, Satoru reaches to pull it out. He squints through his mask at the bottle of green, “What do we have here?”
As expected, the thug spits out, “None of your fucking business, you bug.”
“Quiet, will you?” Satoru harshly smacks the man’s forehead.
“Robbing a bank on a busy day like this for me?” Satoru tuts, a menacing lilt in his joke. “You should feel lucky I haven’t strung you upside down in your underwear out on the street lamps. But I’ve got somewhere to be unfortunately, so have fun in jail!”
With that, Satoru extends his arms out and a thick web sprouts out in the direction of the tall buildings lining the streets. If it was any other day, any other time of day, he would’ve stuck around. Spewed out some more quippy remarks, had a bit more fun with the goons.
But alas, he must get back in time before class ends. He knew the twenty minutes he had vanished for were going to raise questions.
He was absolutely correct.
“Satoru, where the hell were you?” Yaga all but yells at the boy stumbling back in. “Class is over.”
The entire class has their attention steering over to the late boy. He knew what he had to say, the lie didn’t need to be ridiculous but he knew regardless, he would still sound utterly stupid. He did not particularly give a fuck though.
“Little boy’s room,” Satoru casually responds, not a speck of shame in his rather comical answer.
This has the entire class locked in a deadly silence. That is before they split into a fit of boisterous laughter. Satoru revels in the fact he’s defused the tension he suspected he may experience.
You narrow your eyes, eyeing Satoru as he trudges over to his seat, tugging his collar into place. You let your eyes fall to the tabletop, looking over your work.
Typical. He leaves for God knows what and you’re stuck doing his work. If this isn’t precedent enough to request a new partner, you don’t know what is.
He’s not said a single word to you yet . . . How odd. You expect him to do no less than tease the living hell out of you or ask if you missed him.
All that swarms his mind however is what the hell is in this vial?
“What the hell is in this vial?” Suguru murmurs quietly as he inspects the glass tube.
“Beats me,” Satoru replies, swiping the bottle off him. “I need to figure that out.”
“Don’t you think that maybe you should’ve handed it over to the police?” Suguru asks, the sound of fellow classmates typing away on their laptops and chattering away in the campus library buzzes in the background.
“Police won’t do shit,” Satoru bites back, rolling his eyes. “If law enforcement was capable of anything, don’t you think that there wouldn’t be a need for Spiderman?”
“What about Spiderman?” Haiba butts in unannounced.
Satoru nearly jumps five feet in the air at the sudden intrusion. His six eyes that worked in his favor as a sixth sense to alert him of danger have helped him tremendously in combat time and time again, but not so much with nosy classmates.
Quickly pocketing the substance, he looks at Haiba, “None of your business.”
“Are you kidding? I spent all afternoon looking for footage from today’s robbery—I got nothing,” Haiba whines, flailing his arms in the air.
“I heard it was pretty cool,” Satoru boasts pridefully, earning a well-deserved elbow to the gut from Suguru.
Haiba trots off to go bother Nanami before Suguru faces his best friend again. “Oh fuck. Y/n is coming this way. Good luck.”
The vigilante’s eyes widen when he recognizes your stern, no-nonsense face and stride. Everyone is well aware of what that means, your kind and lighthearted behavior is put on hold in favor of your stern approach to your academics.
He half expects you to create a scene in the library but he knows you better than that. You never openly got angry, the worst he’s seen you do is roll your eyes. It’s one of the reasons he pokes fun at you as much as possible, hoping to see how he can make you crack.
Yet, you never do. You hold notebooks and files close to your chest as you march to a halt three feet away from him. Indifferently, you pull out a packet and hold it out for him.
“Since your bladder has never-ending issues, I did your part of the lab today,” you chide like you have a myriad of other things on your mind.
“Shit—you did not have to do any of this,” Satoru knows he should be frowning, but he’s not. A little leer spreads on his face, eyes wide and glimmering through the lens of those glasses he absolutely had no more use for since the day he was bit by that spider.
“Don’t bail on me again. Then I won’t have to do it,” you purse your lips at him before you turn around.
He is left there with nothing else to do but embarrassingly watch you walk away, clutching his lab report in his hand.
“Hold on,” Satoru mumbles to Suguru as he watches you sift between the aisles of shelves.
Before either of them know it, he’s making his way to the aisle you are in. He’s eyeing you up and down almost skeptically, eyes lingering far longer than they should.
“Can I help you?” you quiz quite impertinently, your right hand pulling out a heavy book from the biochemistry section.
“Why did you do my part?” Satoru tips his chin down, a crease forming between his silver brows.
“Because you . . . didn’t do it,” you slowly iterate, grasping the book with both your hands as you flip through the pages.
“Well, duh, but why?” Satoru repeats. “You didn’t have to do it. I ran out of class and left it all on you—you shouldn’t have done it.”
You take a deep breath, slamming the book shut, “If you really think I did it for you, you really don’t deserve to be in the same class as me at all. I did it so I don’t have to rely on you to get the work done. I’d rather have the work done right than have it half-assed. And here I thought you were much more clever than that.”
“I’m not stupid,” he smirks. “Just confused about a lot of the things you do sometimes.”
“Yeah, because you don’t know me,” you say, sliding that book back into the open slot on the shelf. You look up, reaching for another book that is placed well above your head.
“I know you. I know you’re your father’s daughter,” Satoru’s statement is playfully delivered yet it strikes you like a bus. His fingers stroke the spine of the book you were reaching for, relishing the fact you couldn’t reach it. He looks down at you, tugging the book out and holding it in his big hands. “You might just be stricter than the captain himself.”
“Why are you talking like you know my father?” you glare, folding your arms.
“Seen his interviews on the news. He’s one tough cookie—but it only makes sense when you’re a cop, huh?” he has a lilt in his head.
“Why are you saying stupid things?” you question, narrowing your eyes at him. “I already have enough on my mind, I don’t need you badgering me with nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense, it’s my professional opinion as your partner,” Satoru holds the book out with a ridiculously charming smile.
“Lab partner,” you fix his statement, reaching for the book but he pulls it back out of your reach, stupid grin still on his face. “Don’t play games with me, I have to get to work now, and you have to get there too.”
You pry the book from his hands and stride off before he can annoy you further. Satoru’s head turns, following you march off. He’s not sure why he’s trapped in staring at you for so long.
“I’m guessing you plan on finding out on your own as to what’s in that bottle,” Suguru interjects in the middle of Satoru’s wandering mind, popping up in the aisle.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Satoru fishes in his pocket, hoping that the touch of his cool fingers on the glass will telepathically reveal its identity to him. “If I had the equipment to do it on my own . . . it would be so much fucking easier.”
Suguru gapes at him like he’s stupid, “Hello? You intern at the biggest scientific research facility in the city.”
Satoru’s brows raise and the corners of his mouth turn down, weighing the possible next route to his answer.
“Okay, you have to log the results in the system like this,” you instruct your team. “Then you move on to the next step. Trust me you don’t want to forget logging that data, it could entirely throw off the process.”
You’ve been interning at JJ Technologies since last summer which has done nothing short of drain you of any free time whatsoever. It’s only been several weeks since you were moved up to lead a fresh batch of young interns. Luckily, you haven’t had to deal with teaching them in the laboratory with the equipment, just basic information and note-taking thus far.
That unfortunately was only the first of four hours at the facility. The next three hours, you would be holed up in the lab, inspecting and experimenting with nanotechnology. As tiring as it is, it is just as rewarding.
Knowing the amount of good that can be done with this research and work was a brilliant means of motivation. Society has advanced already as it is—the world of medicine has benefited greatly—billions of lives have the chance to improve. How could anyone give up on that?
Thoughts of what homework assignments you have yet to submit reign your brain. Hours and hours of straining your mind to intake as much information and apply it all in the lab was making you want nothing more than to crawl under your covers and call it a week.
With a hefty breath, you take a well-deserved recess to the vending machine. Hoping that this little trip for a snack can hold a candle to the sleep you oh so desire.
Satoru knows his assigned place of work is four levels down. He also is aware that his group had been dismissed ten minutes ago and he should be swinging his merry way through the streets to scout for trouble.
He is also entirely aware that he should not be on the twenty-something floor that had a chance of having an empty lab right about now.
Swiping his boss’s ID card is far too easy, shooting an inconspicuous web at any cameras of interest is just as simple.
The hard part is deciphering what is in this damn vial. The lights are dim inside the particular lab he steps into. A breath of relief pushes out of his lungs as he pulls the small bottle from his pocket, circling the stations to get to the specific equipment he needs.
There’s a limited amount of liquid in the vial, so he knows he must handle this process with care and precision. The story would be different if he had another vial or two.
You watch almost lifelessly as a bar of candy and a canned coffee drop down, landing with a dull thud. Mindlessly, you reach through the bottom flap, hearing the faint hinge as you pull out your restitution for break-free work.
Closing and harshly forcing your eyes back open, you try to keep your mind alert as you march on back to the lab to clean up. When you open the door, you’re not expecting this boy to whip his head up at you like a deer in headlights.
“Gojo?” you furrow your brows, one hand still on the door and the other clutching your food.
Gojo is stunned into silence, a laughable silence. When he says nothing, you tip your head down, “What are you doing here?”
“I just had some work,” Satoru quickly lies. “My manager needed me to look at something. I know you’re pretty happy to see me—your face says it all.”
“Oh, does it? Aren’t you supposed to be on the 20th floor?” you quiz, left eye twitching.
In most situations, when Satoru’s backed into a corner, he can somehow flip his way out of there or even sweettalk whoever he needed to. But he can’t explain why he actually feels bad lying to you, it makes his head whirl. “Uh—yeah, but I had to use some of the equipment up here.”
Squinting skeptically, you near him slowly. As you do, Satoru can’t help but gulp. He’s not sure what it is he should focus on. The fact he needs to come up with a way to convince you to not report him? Or the fact you are only a couple inches to his left, looking over his shoulder? The fact you look so adorable in a lab coat?
“What is that?” you peer down at the vial, noticing he has already placed a drop of that substance down on a microscope slide.
“Not sure,” Satoru shrugs. “I haven’t got the faintest clue.”
You continue staring at the chemical concoction, you flick your gaze at him, “Mind if I take a look?”
“Go for it,” Satoru shuffles a couple inches over, giving you enough room to peer into the eyepiece of the microscope.
He can’t help but tautly swallow, hardly able to pay attention because of how sweet you smell. He has to stop himself from telling you just that but he can’t let it get to your head. As effortlessly as he spins webs, he only hopes he’s half as graceful when feeding you some half-assed answer as to just what this chemical was and that his manager most definitely would give him such a compound.
“Hmm,” you hum, slowly turning the dial on the side of the instrument to lift and then focus what was in the slide. “Figuring out what is it shouldn’t be too tricky. I just need to measure the resonance frequency by breaking the substance down a bit more. Then determining the chemical properties shouldn’t be too tricky.”
Satoru’s brows lift and the edge of his lips turn down, amused clearly. “Wow.”
“What?” you blink.
“I always forget how smart you are,” he says airily. When you shoot him a look that seems to be a hybrid of threatening and offense, his nose crinkles and his glasses shift accordingly on his face, “That came out very wrong. I just meant—”
“So this is why you broke into my lab?” you cut him off, still squinting down at the substance.
“I didn’t break in,” Satoru defends himself. “I just figured no one would notice.”
“Why don’t you check over the logic in that again,” you suggest, eyes glancing up at him. “It’s hard to believe you’re the guy who almost beat me out for valedictorian.”
“And why’s that?” Gojo tilts his head, leaning his elbows on the table. It leaves you eyeing him from head to toe as inconspicuously as possible. Sometimes you forget how tall he is. The fact he towers over you serves as a friendly reminder he’s not just any old geeky kid from school.
Before you can give him an answer, his phone buzzes. He shoots a glance down at it, his pretty features sinking. The program he had compiled with Suguru to tune into the police’s radio communications to pick up on any crime alerts had pinged with notifications on his phone. There was a robbery currently taking place at a jewelry store three streets away.
“Shit—my aunt needs me to pick her up from her cooking class,” Satoru quickly lies, blinking unsteadily as he faces you. “It’s kind of far and not safe for her to ride the train by herself. I have to go. Sorry for bothering you—”
“Wait—” you hold a hand up, earning a wide-eyed look from him. It’s kind of endearing how earnest he sounds. “How about you go, and I’ll keep looking at this for you? Once I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
“You don’t have to,” Satoru frowns, sliding his backpack on, his Spiderman suit nestled neatly inside.
“It’s no problem. You go—don’t keep your aunt waiting,” you beckon him to get a move on. “I’ll see you at school.”
There you go again, being so incontestably kind yet being so severe while doing so. It’s when you crack a hint of a smile to ease him that he actually does as you say. That must be the first he’s seen you sincerely look at him.
Satoru rushes out the door and you glance down at the vial again, trying to understand what exactly the contents of it were.
Satoru has no time to think about how badly he feels leaving you with such a task. He’s too busy webbing his backpack up high on an alleyway wall after he’s changed into his suit.
Before he knows it, he’s already in the air, swinging loosely through the streets of New York. He feels the wind rush at him like it wishes to capture him, keep him in the sky with the moon. But with how quick he’s moving, he feels invincible—like nothing can touch him.
Satoru’s fallen into the same routine every night. Despite the fact he never gets the recognition in his personal life, he would not give up being Spiderman for the world.
Citizens walking the streets all gasp and point when they see the great Spiderman shoot past them like a comet. His white and blue suit makes him look like he was meant to be a part of a winter night sky, the sapphire blue spider emblem in the center of his chest casting a beautiful contrast in the ensemble.
He pays no mind as the silver meshy strings of his webs cling to buildings, aiding him in passing through the streets with ease. He also doesn’t stop himself from enjoying the occasional flips to impress the children out with their families and friends. Satoru insists it’s entirely necessary.
Once he spots the store mentioned on the police comms, he zips around the corner. Landing right above the entrance to the small jewelry shop, he pushes it open rather discreetly. It’s almost comical the way the goons inside haven’t the slightest clue that the Spiderman was crawling into the shop right above their very heads.
Thanks to Satoru’s wall crawling abilities, he’s able to cling to walls and ceilings with ease and without so much as breaking a sweat. So when he casually gawks down at the masked thieves, he tilts his head in amusement at how panicked the men look shouting orders to one another.
“Quick! Before Spiderman gets here!” one spits, stripping a diamond chain straight from the display case. When his friend breaks the glass case all together, he screams, “What the fuck are you doing?!”
“The Spider’s not gonna come. He’s too chicken,” the other responds. “I’d like to see him try.”
“Cute,” Satoru chuckles above them.
This causes all four to whip their heads up at the masked vigilante. Satoru is only able to see their eyes through the cutouts but he can tell by the way their pupils dilate that they are downright terrified.
In the papers and in the news, Satoru is privy to the fact the general public is split on whether they see a need in all the flips and tricks that come along with Spiderman.
Satoru couldn’t care less though, he is wholeheartedly prepared to stand trial to attest to the fact that the flair is entirely necessary. He displays the testimony by the very way he does a backflip and lands with both feet and a palm planted to the ground.
“Y’know I left a really pretty girl all alone just so I could stop you?” Satoru teases lightly, straightening up and flexing his arms by crossing one over the other. “But hey, if that’s what you think, we can make this a lot more fun.”
One of the men reached for his gun, pulling it out and pointing it at Satoru. All he huffs out is a displeased and underwhelmed breath as he shoots out a web, yanking the gun back.
“Come on. Show a bit more effort. You’re killing me,” Satoru drawls like a six-year-old. His six-eyes alert him of an impending punch hurtling his way from his left, making him duck and grab the very goon’s fist in the process. “Missed me!”
The goon let out a threatening growl as he swung again, only to miss Satoru. . . over and over again. Satoru laughs childishly as he doges and parries off swings one after the other. Two of the others manage to finally point their guns at the arachnid hero, clicking the safeties with a string of snaps that causes the shop owner to gasp and cower further into the corner he was in.
Satoru rolls his eyes, delivering an unruly kick to one of the men that dominos into him clashing into his friend, knocking them both to the ground.
The hero giggles at the pathetic exhibition before him. He hardly bats an eye when one of the men throws something that resembles a marble to the ground. A cloud of smoke emits from the impact of the small pellet on the shiny limestone floor.
Satoru’s eyes widen behind his white and black mask. He moves to leap back but inadvertently breathes in far more than he intends to.
His head spins, or maybe it’s the room that is spinning, he can’t tell. All he knows is that his head is suddenly throbbing in pain, every nerve ending feels like it’s thrumming to burst within his very skull. Like they are conspiring against him and hoping to flee the purgatory of his mind.
His ears tune in and out like his head has been dunked underwater. Vision beginning to blur, he tries his best to plant his feet firm on the ground but to no avail. He’s hit with a great wave of despondency when he envisions his uncle’s dead body before him.
That and flashes of him in a beautiful house overlooking a balmy little coastal town, the sound of his laughter blends in with a girl’s and he cannot distinguish whose.
He hardly gets the chance to decipher the strange blend of images when he is suddenly hit in the back of the head with a crowbar.
Once again, the poor boy’s head rings and his head snaps down from the impact of the weapon to his skull. He lets out a pained groan, doing his best to gather himself and seize control of his sense again.
His vision begins to clear and all of a sudden, his six eyes begin to tingle and flash in his mind. INCOMING.
He listens to his instincts and ducks straight away, successfully dodging another deadly swing of that damned crowbar.
“Alright, party’s over,” Satoru scowls under his mask and flips back, snaking a well-aimed and well-timed web sticking to the man and tugging him back.
He punches him quite harshly in the face that it all but knocks him out. Satoru quickly lunges for the two goons in the midst of aiming their guns at him. The thieves don’t even process how quickly they are disarmed because Spiderman has already smashed their heads together.
They drop to the ground, leaving one more thug, quivering in terror. He points his gun at Satoru with a shaky hand, only to find that weapon of his leaving his very hands when Satoru tugs it at towards himself with the help of his webs.
“Last one, huh?” Satoru smugly says. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
The thug fumes as he charges at the vigilante, “I’ll fucking kill you. If not me, then the others!”
He throws a fist at Satoru, but he whips his head to the side, “Others?”
He then lands a punch of his own at the criminal before successfully dodging yet another hit. As Satoru’s third punch causes the thief to lose balance, he’s already in the middle of stringing the man upside down from the ceiling.
“Who are your friends—” Satoru stares at the tangled man, readying his fist to intimidate the thug. “And I advise you talk.”
“I’m not saying shit!” The thug spits, trying to wriggle free.
“You’ll be here for god knows how long. All that blood rushing to your brain, oof, must hurt a little.” Satoru threatens playfully. “And it’ll hurt like hell when I actually beat you to a pulp!”
“Shit! Okay! Okay!” the thief cries, panic-stricken sweat dripping down his forehead into his hairline. “I—I work for a guy named Jogo! He’s this freaky looking guy that wears this mask on his face—I’ve never seen him but he’s big in the group, works with some other guy—I don’t know his name.”
“Jogo,” Satoru mumbles wracking his brain to see if he has had a run in with him. “What is he up to?”
“I’ve got no clue! I swear!” the man attests frightenedly. “All I know is that they needed us to look for a specific relic—You see my partner you knocked out right there? He’s got a picture in his back pocket. Jogo sent a bunch of us on heists in banks and jewelry stores to see if we can find it but there’s no sign of it anywhere.”
Satoru steps back and grabs the photo from the pocket of the man the other thief had indicated. He pulls back the photo, glossing over it briefly.
It was a photograph of a box. Made of some sort of coppery-silver metal with engraved eyes on the sides of it. The irises though, were made of jewels—rubies.
“Going through a whole lot for this freaky looking thing,” Satoru waves the photo with a dexterous flip of his fingers. “Why are they going through all that trouble for this? And what’s in it for you?”
“Wish I knew why those guys want that thing,” the man shakes his head, eyes still wide. “They told us they’d give each of us a cut in all that we returned from the heists—Jogo is not someone to be messed with—he’d track us down and kill us if we went back on our deal.”
“Tch. You’re scared of the wrong people,” Satoru tuts, stowing away the photo for safekeeping. “Tell me what that thing was that your friend threw on the ground. That little ball.”
“That? I have no idea. The boss just gave my partner a few—I think that was the last one. He didn’t tell us what it was or what it did,” the felon explains.
Satoru feels his own fingers twitching in irritation, “Think again. Remember what it was and I’ll go easy on you.”
The criminal’s eyes widen, “I don’t know anything! I swear! Please don’t hurt me!”
“Goodnight,” Satoru grunts out, ramming his elbow into the man’s nose, putting him to sleep.
It’s a matter of seconds before Satoru is watching from a few rooftops over as the cops arrive on scene. The flashing blue and red lights flashing into the back of his very skull. He’s running through what the thug he interrogated said, trying to make sense of it.
Speaking of making sense, you’re lugging yourself out of the lab after finally making sense of just what that vial Satoru had given you contains.
The worry on your face embeds itself into your features as you stash the chemical in your bag. Why would his manager hand this to him?
You glance over your phone, seeing your father calling you as you’re walking towards the train platform. Taking a beat to answer, you speak into the receiver, “Hey, Dad.”
“Hi, sweetheart, are you on your way back? It’s getting late,” your dad says, chatter in the back cause your ears to perk. Radios and police codes being tossed around in dialogue.
“Yeah, I’m waiting for the train,” you reply, looking up and down the tracks. “Are you still working?”
“Yeah, captain duties, dear,” your father responds calmly, yet you can hear the annoyed strain in his voice. “That spider’s strung up a few men in a jewelry store downtown. Taking care of what’s left of this place.”
“Oh—you saw Spiderman?” you ask, watching the train stop in front of you, bracing yourself as the lashes of wind whipped at you full speed.
“No, he’s left his webs all over the place,” your dad grunts dishearteningly. “Damage control is going to have lots of fun with that . . . Mom’s going to be pretty mad at us tonight for missing dinner, huh?”
“Oh, yeah, for sure,” you nod like it’s obvious, sitting down and making eye contact with a gruff pair of men before quickly averting your gaze. “Maybe you should bring her flowers. She always likes that.”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” your father says. “Alright, honey, get home safe. I’ll see you in a bit.”
You think over what he says. Your father always mentions the elusive Spiderman. How none of his men have gotten even close to cracking the case on who the wallcrawler is. How Spiderman is somehow everywhere and takes care of crimes of all scales.
How could a man find the time to even do all that?
The desire to study a man like him plagues your mind far much more than you would like to admit. Who would pass up such an opportunity?
But more of what’s spinning in your mind like a deadly train is why Gojo has a vial like this?
Speaking of trains, when yours comes to a stop, you stand up to get off. It’s unfortunate that the subway stop couldn’t be closer to the next one you are supposed to take.
As you drag on down the street, you mull over what you plan to say to your dad when you try convincing him to simply leave you be once you move out because your safety is put more at risk from the distant and late commutes after classes and your internship.
There’s something in your gut telling you to rush, like you’re being chased or watched at the very least.
You toss a look over your shoulder, seeing those two rugged men about fifteen feet behind you. It’s well past dark and your heart hammers louder against your ribcage, a prisoner demanding release.
Facing forward again, you try to hurry as fast as you can but you feel helpless when you enter a scarcely populated street.
Fuck.
That’s when you break into a full speed run. You hear the footsteps behind you pick up. Your hand slips into your bag’s pocket to grab your mace or taser, but when your fingers only skim the glass of that substance Satoru gave you, you know you’re doomed.
You glance back again, thundering heartbeat blaring just as loud as your footsteps against rough pavement.
“Hey, pretty!” one of the leering men shout. They are far too close to you now. “We just want to have some fun!”
You reach for your phone to send an SOS message to your dad—but that’s exactly the moment the man grabs your arm. You scream in horror, trying to keep going but the other one grabs you too.
Against your will, they drag you into the deserted alleyway nearby. You’re still wriggling in their hold, hoping to free yourself. Thrashing, kicking, screaming, you try it all.
“Let go of me!” you scream. “My dad’s a cop and he’s on his way right now!”
“Shut up,” his friend spits. “You’re full of shit.”
“I’m not,” you grit your teeth. “Captain L/n—badge number 103—”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” the first man says. “You look better when you’re not talking. We gotta do something about that.”
Your eyes widen, and you try pushing, screaming as loud as your lungs can take. The elbow you throw against the jaw of one of the men seem to have done some damage. His head whips to the side but surprisingly his body shoots back about five feet, striking against the brick wall.
Your big eyes follow the man, seeing that wasn’t your doing at all. Of course, it wasn’t. How could a girl like you simply cause a man to fly across an alley and slam against a wall?
That’s when he appears like a fallen angel. In black and white, a glowing blue in the core of his chest, a symbol of hope.
Spiderman.
He’s against the wall the man had flown into, but you have to crane your neck a fair amount to look up at where he’s clinging to. You can hardly blink at the fact he’s against the brick wall with no reinforcements whatsoever, just his fingers and soles of his feet keeping him afloat, defying physics, logic, and gravity.
“You gotta be at least a little attractive to hit on a girl like that,” Spiderman tilts his head, voice light yet husky, young.
“Fuck,” the man closest to you now was backing away. “I didn’t do nothing! I’m—I’m sorry—”
“Ugh, shut up,” the vigilante drawls, dragging out his syllables childishly.
He drops down with the most impressive of flips you haven’t even seen gold medalist gymnasts do. After he effortlessly sticks his landing, he wastes absolutely no time in lunging at your assailant.
He punches him square in the side of the jaw, the pop loud enough that you gasp, stepping back.
The man lets out a frightened cry, and right when you almost feel bad, you’re reminded of how you screamed a few moments prior. Yeah, this terror is well deserved.
Spiderman delivers a seamless kick to the side of his opponent’s abdomen. The entrancement you’re trapped in doesn’t let you avert your eyes at all. His movements are like water, like a choreographed dance even Broadway level performers can never imitate.
A scientific miracle. Something inhuman. Someone untouchable.
The man falls to the ground after taking a quite deadly strike to the face. Your eyes go from the attacker on the ground to his attacker.
The superhero stands there, his back to you, silhouetted by the dingy light from the end of the alley. He turns his head to the right, and you’re guessing he sees you from his peripheral because he’s still not looking directly at you.
You want to watch him for much longer, the superhuman that saved you. The superhuman in a well fitted suit, defining every inch of his body—his muscles, his perfect height.
“You okay, miss?” Spiderman asks, turning to you.
“Y-yeah,” you rasp. “Is—he . . .”
“Dead?” he finishes, snickering. “No. Just sleeping peacefully till the cops get here. Which should be in about five minutes.”
You nod, humming in the little frozen state of yourself. Behind the mask, Satoru wants to do a million things. Ask you a million things. But he knows he needs to keep up the persona of the wall-crawler he his.
“You don’t want to get caught in the lengthy questioning the police are going to do, right?” Spiderman (Satoru) crosses his arms, leaning against the wall.
“Not really, no,” you hardly move at all as you speak.
“See? That’s why I like my way of business. Less paperwork,” the web slinger jokes. “I can get you where you need to be in a matter of minutes. Tell me where you were headed.”
You gulp, “Home. But what do you mean? I don’t think you have a car—wait a second.” That’s when the reality of the situation hits you. “You’re real?”
Satoru chuckles, “We’ve been talking for almost a minute now, lady.”
“I know, but,” you’re looking him up and down. “I thought those news reports were based on just pranks. Seriously—no one has seen much of you—I thought these criminals were just leaving webs everywhere as a sign of loyalty to their gangs.”
This gets the man to laugh again, his head is facing down, and he shakes his head. You’re staring again, it’s hard not to.
“Alright, miss,” Satoru looks at you, making sure he doesn’t accidently slip up and call you by your name. “Where were you headed? Home?”
“Yeah,” you say, watching him push himself off the wall and hold a hand out to you. You glance down at his hand, then up at his face. His mask is covered in synthetic fibers stitched to imitate webs.
“I know you’re shaken up by those guys and what just happened but please trust me,” he sounds inexplicably genuine, unaccountably sincere. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
Your eyes soften, so does the rest of you as you place your hand in his. There’s a level of trust you don’t understand the strength of when you do so. It’s borderline undermined when he tugs you toward him quickly, eliciting a gasp from you.
“You might want to hold on tight,” Spiderman suggests, snugly sliding his arm around your waist, pressing you against him.
“What are you—,” you don’t have the opportunity to finish your question when you find that your feet have left the ground.
You grasp on tighter to him, heeding his suggestion without so much as a second thought. You look down, feeling the wind whipping in your hair. The sight below you is enough to draw a yelp. Well, anyone that is being swung through the streets of New York would. It’s only natural.
“Oh my god!” you scream when you feel yourself hurtling towards the ground.
He shoots another web in the nick of time before you hit the concrete, and you’re in the air again. You bury your face in his neck, clamping your eyes shut. Satoru holds you close, tightening his grip on you. This feels nice.
A part of him doesn’t want this little swinging spree to end. Maybe it doesn’t have to.
“Sorry. No seatbelts,” Satoru laughs. “Should’ve mentioned that!”
“You think?” you quiz, half gasping with the rush of the wind. “Wait! Where are you even taking me? I didn’t tell you where I live!”
“Just trust me!” he yells back.
You open your eyes, looking over his shoulder at the city. The lights don’t blur like you expect them to. You feel like you’re flying, like the moon was waiting for you to join with the stars.
Cars seem smaller suddenly. People look smaller. New York, though, looks just as vast as it always has been.
Once the initial fear shakes out of you, you stare at the city, “Woah.”
You turn to look at him—at Spiderman. He’s still focused on swinging you through the city with one arm. Studying his mask, you can see the fibers of fabric, polyester or something similar. There can’t be many people that can say they’ve seen Spiderman, let alone been this close to him.
You’re amazed, in awe of the impossible. Peace consumes you as you continue to gaze at the wonderous city you love.
Another swoop over rooftops and you feel him lowering towards one. You hold on again, hoping the landing isn’t so rough. Luckily, it isn’t.
You look around, realizing you aren’t on just any rooftop. You’re one of the rooftops of the building you live in.
“How’d you know I live here?” you quiz, brows furrowed and jaw slack.
Satoru has a bit of an oh fuck moment. Words almost fail him but he’s easy to recuperate.
“Well, your dad lives here, doesn’t he?” he points at the ground. “The captain?”
Your mouth that was agape slowly closes and your eyes drift to the edge of the building, “Oh. You know who I am.”
“I know who your dad is,” the man replies. “Seen him a bunch of times. So I’ve seen your face around the main precinct a lot and on the news.”
“You have?” you cock a brow.
“Yeah—hey, don’t worry about those guys. Just try not to be alone at night,” he advises, gesturing with his hands. “Guys see a pretty girl and don’t know how to act a lot of the time.”
You can’t help the slight brow raise when you realize he called you pretty. Satoru pays it no mind however as he scratches the back of his neck.
“Where were you coming from anyway?” he asks, pretending not to know.
“JJ Tech headquarters,” you answer, licking your lips discreetly to tame yourself from gawking at his lean yet muscular figure. Eyes lingering far too long on how the skintight suit fit him, accentuating everything.
Satoru catches this, smirking to himself, “JJ Tech, huh? You must be pretty smart.”
“Pretty smart would be an understatement,” you say. “I wasn’t even supposed to be there this late anyway. I should’ve been home two hours ago.”
Satoru’s ears perk up, he takes this as his opportunity to pry, “How come you stayed longer?”
“Just this guy—he ran in and asked me to help him with an assignment,” you grumble, rolling your eyes.
“Just a guy? He your friend or something?” he asks, leaning his back against the wall to the stairs.
“Or something,” you mumble.
“Oh?” Satoru pipes. This is the perfect moment to see what you think about him. To even flirt with you without any repercussions. “Does that mean he’s your boyfriend?”
“What?” you squeak, voice all high pitched. “God, no. No. He’s just a classmate. He pisses me off most the time—I can hardly stand him at all.”
Satoru scowls beneath his mask, not what I was hoping for.
“I still can’t wrap my head around the fact you exist,” disbelief clings to your tone. “You know you’re a scientific marvel, right? Scientists would kill to study you.”
He laughs, it’s a pretty laugh, one that feels hauntingly familiar, “You want to cut me open or something?”
“Oh, I’m not qualified enough to do something like that,” you wave your hands. “Who’s to say I can’t study your body in other ways?”
Satoru can’t help but smile, he sees that glimmer in your eye and you sound so innocent despite how inviting you phrased that. You don’t even realize it, but he smiles wider.
“You’re funny,” he laughs, shaking his head.
There’s a bunch of things on your bucket list, a lot of things you aren’t sure you’ll get to even accomplish. One of them being making thee Spiderman laugh was definitely not one of them.
“Thank you for saving me,” you say, pulling him from his little fit of amusement. “I thought I was . . . I thought they were going to get away with what they wanted to do.”
Satoru raises his head again, straightening up. It dawns on him that he’s responsible for you being out on that street this late. That if he had hurried up, he could’ve gotten back in time like he planned. He just feels lucky that he made it in time.
He made it just in time, and he’s thankful for that. But he truly hates the fact you almost got seriously hurt because of him. He’s at fault and he knows this will haunt you for a long time.
“Don’t thank me. It’s nothing any normal human being wouldn’t do,” Spiderman tells you, walking over to the edge of the building. “Just stay safe. And know you can depend on your friendly neighborhood Spiderman anytime.”
And with that, he dives off the side of the building. You suck in a harsh breath, rushing and leaning over the elevated stone along the perimeter. Looking down, you find that you have to follow the black and white blur swing up again.
You smile breathlessly, watching the amazing Spiderman soaring off.
“Suguru, it was all my fault,” Satoru paces his apartment . . . ceiling?
He’s walking in circles upside down, feet sticking to the ceiling like it isn’t scientifically impossible. His mask off but his suit remains on.
“If I hadn’t left her there for so long working on that freaking solution, she wouldn’t have left so late. If I was even a second off, I don’t even know what could’ve happened,” Satoru’s white locks are swaying as he walks. Although he defies gravity, his hair doesn’t.
“You saved her though, that’s all that matters,” Suguru assured, stuffing the chopsticks with a mouthful of noodles in his mouth. “But how did she not recognize you? There’s no way you talked to her.”
“I did,” Satoru drops to the ground. He makes his way over to where Suguru sits on the couch, picking up a box of takeout. “Maybe she’s not as smart as she thinks she is.”
“Please,” Suguru eyes Satoru, handing him a pair of chopsticks. “Don’t underestimate that girl, she’s smarter than half the tri-state.”
“Sure, she’s cute and happens to be smart,” Satoru shrugs. “She’s just a girl though, not a threat.”
“Why did you bring up her being cute?” Suguru narrows his eyes, lowering his food. “That had nothing to do with the conversation.”
“What?” Satoru mutters, chewing on his noodles. “She’s beautiful—there’s no denying that.”
“Beautiful?” Suguru laughs.
“What?”
“You just took it one step further,” Suguru teases, laughing again. “You have a crush on her!”
“What? No, I don’t!” Satoru snaps.
“Now it all makes sense,” Suguru has a wide grin. “Teasing her nonstop, annoying her to get her to yell at you. Wow, you can just ask her out, y’know.”
“Okay, you’re on drugs,” Satoru squints at his best friend.
“Yeah, yeah,” Suguru dismissively says. “So did you get that vial back from her?”
“Obviously not, I’m not supposed to know about that as Spiderman. Only Satoru Gojo knows that,” Satoru states, pointedly gesturing with his utensils. “I’ll ask her tomorrow.”
“Hm, what are you going to do now though?” Suguru asks. “I mean about this Jogo guy that thug told you about.”
“I’m not sure,” Satoru mumbles. “I’ll have to look into that.”
“Shoko, you know I wouldn’t make up something like that.”
“I know! That’s not what I said, it just sounds insane. Like, Spiderman? The Spiderman?”
You stare at her flatly and Utahime rubs your shoulders, “That sounds terrifying. Did you tell your dad?”
“What? Are you kidding? No,” you quickly spit. “If I tell my dad that he’s going to station two cops to follow me twenty-four seven. I can’t have that.”
“Y/n, that could’ve ended very badly,” Shoko frowns dejectedly. “What if Spiderman didn’t show up?”
“But he did,” you say. “If he didn’t, I’d be dead, and all my stupid little worries would be gone. But you don’t understand—that man . . . wow.”
Shoko and Utahime pause to look at one another, the former quizzing, “You—you don’t have a crush on Spiderman, do you?”
“Not a crush, no,” you chuckle, sipping your coffee before you look down at Shoko from where you’re sitting on the picnic table. “Fascination, yes, I have that. But to be honest, he was incredible to look at—his body was . . . ugh, I don’t have anything appropriate to say.”
“Now, this is how I know you need to get laid,” Shoko chuckles. “Having a crush on a spandex wearing spider is insanity.”
“Is it?” you look at where she sits on the bench. “You experience what I did, and I’d love to hear your opinion.”
Shoko frowns at you, then at Utahime. That’s when the latter says to you, “Wait, didn’t you need to talk to Gojo?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, sparing a cautious glance to your bag containing that mix. “Got to go over that stupid project before class. Would it kill him to be on time? He’s always late.”
There’s no need to tell your friends what the fuck Satoru had given you to configure on your own. Not until you at least talk to him and get the full story. You have enough on your mind as it is, having Shoko and Utahime’s thoughts thrown into the mix would only rattle and confuse you further. It doesn’t help that one of them grew up with Satoru and knows his aunt and the other loathes him almost more than you do.
“I’m going to grab a croissant before class,” Shoko rubs her stomach. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
You hop off the bench and head on down towards where your Orgo class is. There’s still about twenty minutes left till class and Shoko falls behind to grab her baked good.
Those memories of last night carry you where you need to be. You strut along the path with a purpose, your hair is effortlessly styled, makeup barely there, yet it somehow masks just how disheveled you truly feel.
“Gojo!” you call as you spot him by the bottom of the steps in one of the University’s vast courtyards, he just so happens to be in the midst of discussing something Digimon related with Haiba.
Haiba and Suguru’s eyes widen as they realize it’s you storming towards Gojo and not just any other girl.
Satoru flicks his gaze over as you walk over, stopping in front of him. He’s not sure what to say, he knows he should probably address the task he stupidly left for you to do but he hardly strings a solid greeting together without sounding stupid, “Hey.”
“Can I talk to you—in private?” you ask, your face gave away an austere look, like you were about to scold a child.
How can he say no?
He nods, standing up and following you down the side of the building. The two of you are supposed to be heading down to class that happens to be the other way but he doesn’t even question you when he’s whisked onto the school grounds.
His mind fumbles through the events of last night. He had two conversations with you. One as your savior and one as the guy you got stuck with for science class. He’s racking his brain enough to decide how to behave although the answer should be obvious.
The boy follows you behind the bleachers, looking around with an incredulous quirk in his brow when you step into the dark underside of them.
“Is everything okay?” Satoru blinks as you stop.
“Gojo.” You sternly face him, not saying anything else.
“That’s my name, yeah,” he sassily retorts. “Doesn’t answer my question though.”
“Don’t test me,” you hold up your index finger threateningly.
Cute, he thinks.
“Where did you get this?” you hold up the small vial. “And the truth this time.”
Satoru’s eyes lock onto the green liquid, unsure what lie he should curate this time. He could simply insist on the same lie as before, convince you that you were overthinking. Or he could tell you the truth, ultimately putting your life and his secret in danger, but hey, it’ll save him from looking entirely idiotic.
“I told you, my manager,” he states, reaching out to take it.
You pull it back, further from his reach and he wants to laugh at how easy it would be to take it from your hands in the blink of an eye.
“How stupid do you think I am?” you quiz.
“I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” he says, a smile goes with that shake of his head, his hair falling over his bespectacled blue eyes. “Just a little scary.”
“Listen, I know your manager didn’t give you this because he wouldn’t give you this.” You pointedly flash the vial in his face. “Do you realize what’s in here?”
“Wait,” Satoru’s smile fades. “You’re telling me you actually found out what’s in it?”
You nod haphazardly, more confused than skeptical, “You don’t know?”
“No—I don’t, what is it?” he asks, nearing you too closely without meaning to.
You lower your hand, “It’s a highly concentrated blend of hallucinogens and anesthetics. One sip could send a man into cardiac arrest—or worse, kill him.”
Your eyes are on his, but his eyes aren’t on yours. His are on the bottle of chartreuse in between your fingers.
“Satoru,” you murmur quietly, lowering the bottle into his indecisive palm, his fingers edging closer to yours but pulling back ever so gently before they attempt to muster the courage once more. You glance down at his long pale fingers, his skin glows sweeter than the moon itself.
Your gaze dips to your skin grazing his as you place the bottle into his hand. You let your hand linger against his, not sure why you don’t think of retracting.
Why are you just realizing how pretty he is?
The rims of his glasses glint as he looks at your face, studying your features like he’ll never get the chance to ever again. You blink yourself into snapping out of it, pulling your arm back and swallowing dryly.
“Sorry about the trouble,” Satoru quietly says, stowing away the vial.
“It’s okay,” you reply, voice rasping. While his eyes are focused on tucking the bottle safely, you say, “I don’t know what it is you’re hiding—I won’t ask, but please be careful.”
Satoru can’t help the grin he cracks, “I’m tougher than I look.”
And when he walks away, there’s a strange feeling that stirs in your gut. A feeling that tells you he may be right.
You aren’t sure why you’re still thinking about why he had that chemical in the first place. Did he make it himself? Did he buy it off someone? What was it intended for?
The rest of your organic chemistry class, you’re left there wondering what that boy is up to. You’re left wondering why he is missing class again today after you just saw him. And you’re left wondering whether Satoru thanks Yaga for never marking him late or absent at all. Call it favoritism, you suppose.
He thanks any deity that he can think of when he arrives on time to JJ Technologies before his manager questions him.
He finds some time to slip away, sneak up to your floor while you’re instructing your latest interns. He smiles, watching you scribble something down on your clipboard while you walk.
“Okay, this right here is just a sketch of one of our current studies,” you point at a holographic, digitized image that appears above a table. “This is a paradigm for a new discovery of nanoparticles. They’re commonly used to reduce the number of catalytic materials within chemical reactions. There are two fields within certain industries that they are applied to. Can anyone tell me what they are?”
The students all flip restlessly through their notepads, struggling to look for the answer to your question.
Satoru can’t hide the snicker he lets out. Half the student look back at him and you peer through the batch of preppy kids to see him.
“Petroleum refining and automotive catalytic converters,” Satoru replies, still smirking complacently.
You have a bit of a curl to your lips, eyes locked on his as you say, “Yes. That’s correct.”
Seeing him appear within your mix of pupils almost throws you off, but you know you have a certain image before the students so you keep yourself composed. You quickly instruct the students to write the answer down and head to their stations with their teams.
When the interns disperse, you cross your arms, face to face with Gojo.
“What do you want?” you ask, a sickly-sweet smile on your face.
“Oof, would it kill you to talk nice to me?” Satoru acts like a wounded soldier, palm across his abdomen.
“I feel like it might, so I’d rather not take the risk,” you say pointedly.
“Hm, right,” Satoru scoffs, he looks down. “You’re going to be alone now in the lab, right?”
“No, I’ll be in the lab but not alone,” you say. “My colleagues are going to be in there with me. You need something?”
“No, I wanted to ask you something,” his brows tense.
An odd sensation stirs in your stomach, “Ask me what?”
It’s been a while since either of you actually began interacting with one another somewhat civilly. You don’t know what it is that will come out of his mouth but you’re suddenly hopeful.
He grabs your hand, leading you off to the side, causing you to jerk your head around in case anyone’s looking.
Once you are beneath the mosaic mural of DNA helixes on one wall, Satoru stops, letting go of you. You try not to let the idea of his hand staying in yours distract you from what’s to come.
He tries not to focus on how soft your hand is, and once again how the fragrance of your perfume feels like candy on a summer day.
“You didn’t tell anyone about that bottle, did you?” he whispers, eyes darting between yours and the rest of the busy facility.
“No,” you shake your head. “Of course, not. I had a feeling you wanted to keep it private.”
Satoru looks at you, his smile reaching his ears, “Aw, how sweet. You care about me.”
You smack the back of his hand, causing him to hold it close to him possessively and rub it gently from the very slight sting of your slap.
“Shut up,” you snap, catching the way his blue eyes gleam behind his glasses. “Is that all?”
“No,” he states, straightening up and switching his tone from light and playful to serious. “You said it was deadly to take a single sip. That the properties within it were so overly saturated it could do serious damage. But let’s say . . . you needed to use it in combat . . . could you?”
The nature of his question startles you, “Combat? Like if soldiers were fighting?”
“Yeah, sure, like that.”
You’re blinking heavily, looking towards the place where the wall meets the floor, “Well, I suppose it could be used in a vaporous form. Like gas or something. That could do enough damage too.”
“Ugh,” Satoru closes his eyes and pinches his nose. “I was afraid of that.”
“What is it?” you peer up at him through your lashes. “You’re hiding something.”
“No—I’m not,” Satoru groans. He notices the suspicion on your face, “You got time for a snack in the cafeteria?”
Flaring your eyes over his, you glance discreetly at the time, “Fine.”
You begin to walk away.
“That was a yes or no question! Not a secret third response,” he trails behind.
“You got your answer, didn’t you?” you gesture to yourself.
“Yeah, but you seem entirely unenthusiastic about it,” Satoru grumbles. “A little energy may do you good.”
You hit the elevator button, crossing your arms, “I’m not here to appease you.”
“Appease me? Oh, god,” he lets out a baffled scoff.
“What?” you furrow your brows. “Poor choice of words?”
“Not exactly,” Satoru replies, loosely shifting to get into the elevator. “It might be nicer, I guess, to know if you actually wanted to get a snack with me and not as if I’m holding you at gunpoint.”
You roll your eyes, “You brought up a snack and I happen to be hungry. Where does gunpoint come in the mix? You really want me to do cheer like you came to my rescue?”
He almost laughs from the irony but he knows not to. He knows just as well that things could have gone extremely wrong the other night if he had not gone about everything carefully. There’s another sort of irony to him, a different form of saving.
“Mhm, but you like coming to my rescue pretty often,” he responds, a lopsided smile on his lips as he leans against the wall with folded arms.
You squint at him, the word rescue coming out of his mouth reminding you strangely of the danger you were in right in that alleyway.
“What does that mean?” you say with tightening eyes.
“You did my part of the lab report to save my ass, you helped me with that liquid, you kept that secret for me,” Satoru breaks eye contact, looking at the ground. “And that time in freshman year of high school.”
His final reminder steers your heart to a slow pace, your shoulders untense. You remember that event all too well.
“I’m a decent human being,” you explain as if it’s a scientifically proven, immutable fact. “It’s less about enjoying something but more of the fact I would be miserable and angry with myself if I didn’t help someone that needed it.”
Satoru lifts his head to level with you, his eyes are wide in a blank stare. That is right before he suddenly blurts a short chuckle. “Spoken like a true hero.”
Your eyes flit upwards as the doors to the elevator open. He leads you out into the hall, his strides are much longer than yours.
“Wait up! I can’t walk that fast!” you snap breathlessly.
His gaze flicks over to you, his eyes close behind his lens, laughing again. Bustling closely to him, you quiz, “Okay, well you still have a lot of explaining to do. Like where you got that green thing from.”
Satoru stops by the line of sandwiches. His head turns to face you, “Don’t you trust me?”
“Absolutely not,” you’re quick to counter. He throws his head back as you grab a saran wrapped sandwich from the stall and face it at him strictly, “You’re not normal. That’s what I’m realizing.”
Satoru grabs a sandwich and a sugary soda too and he’s about to follow you as you walk off to a table but is interrupted when the employee behind the register curtly clears his throat. A nonverbal cue to pay for you both.
Satoru lets out a throaty groan, fishing deep in his pockets for a crisp ten dollar note. He rounds the table to the other side, sitting down with you.
“You’re having all these revelations pretty late into our lives, aren’t you?” Satoru picks up the conversation as if there was no gap in between. “I’m a little surprised you just came to the conclusion I’m not normal.”
“Hm, I’ve known for a while,” you hum, turning focus to your sandwich.
Memories are thrust upon you from high school. When you first met him, he hardly spoke. He was short with his interactions and would hardly have the grace to offer more than five words. He clearly didn’t enjoy being around people.
Suguru seemed to help him out of this at some point because in your sophomore year of high school, he came to school as a completely brand-new person. His personality shown more, and he only then began pissing you off.
In a way, it was better than seeing him so down like he was before. Because of that, you have been more inclined to tolerate his shit a lot of the time.
“Listen, Satoru,” you sigh, not even noticing the way his body electrocutes at the fact you called him by his first name and not his last. “I’m very serious about my future. It means everything to me and to my parents. There’s only a certain amount of shit I can tolerate. And I can’t tolerate you slacking off at my expense.”
Towards the end of your warning, you look at him. He lowers his drink from his mouth, eyes straight ahead.
“Fair enough,” Satoru says. His head falls loosely between his shoulders, his hair glistening in the fluorescent lights. “It’s important for your parents too, that’s something I respect.”
Your brows uncinch.
“It’s important I get home on time for my parents too,” you sigh, looking at the time.
“You have an hour,” Satoru asks. “Why are you worried?”
Now he knows why you are worried. He still has to act oblivious, that’s all.
He sees the faltering blinks, eyes dancing here and there, mouth parted without a word ready to fly out.
Satoru takes another bite from his sandwich, talking with a full mouth, “Is your dad strict or something?”
Those anxious eyes morph into a revolted side eye, “You know who my dad is. You know what my dad is.”
“Yeah, he’s just the captain. Not some flesh-eating monster,” Satoru makes himself giggle.
You set your forearm on the surface of the table, rotating your body to turn to him, “My dad is a great man. He’s all law and order and then there’s my mom, also law and order. If I didn’t have enough on my mind, now my dad wants to assign a detail to me.”
“Assign . . .” Satoru shifts in his seat, lowering his meal. “You mean have a pair of cops following you around all the time?”
“Yeah,” you breathe.
Satoru’s eyes travel over your face while you’re not looking at him. If the captain does sign cops to tail you, that means that there’d be cops around him. Background checks, tailing him to get a sense of who he is . . . that could lead them to him being Spiderman . . .
“That—he can’t do that,” Satoru pipes, jolting you out of your little trance of eating. “That isn’t fair to you. You wouldn’t be able to hang around me—hell, they’d be standing right behind us listening to every word you say.”
Your lips turn down and brows raise, “I had no idea you cared so much.”
“Sure, why not?” Satoru dials down his emotion.
He supposes he’d have to stay away from you if your father went through with that after all. And he finds his heart twisting and turning from the very idea of doing that.
“He’s pretty stressed because of those string of bank robberies,” you exhale, Satoru’s eyes refuse to move from your face. “So my safety has gotten to his head too.”
Satoru’s blinks were slow, something that could be confused with lethargy, “Does he have any leads?”
“Not really. He just knows they’re all linked. He thinks Spiderman’s involvement is fucking everything up,” you say, remembering your encounter from last night.
“Hm,” and he can’t help but ask. “What do you think about him?”
“Spiderman?”
“Yes,” Satoru’s heart teetering on the edge.
“I think,” you begin, “he’s what our city needs. As a medical miracle, you decide to help others—that shows what kind of man you are.”
He has nothing to say for once. No quick quip, no fast remark. His mouth falls open, unsure how to respond. You were talking about his alter ego, but it felt like you were telling him.
“He’s pretty cool,” you nod, thinking about the vigilante.
He watches as you get up, saying, “I’ve got to get going, I’ve got to get work done before my dad picks me up.”
He feels like he has much left unsaid, but he still watches as you make your way out on your own.
Satoru is rooftop hopping, rushing back after he hit a dead end on a potential jewelry store he believed a heist may occur. That has been his routine that past week on top of annoying you in class and sitting with Haiba and Suguru in the library.
“Hm, okay. I just need to get a minimum of a C on this next exam to maintain my A,” Suguru mumbles aloud. “Satoru, you should maybe focus on your philosophy paper, you don’t want to get called out by the professor again—"
Suguru continues talking but Satoru is on a completely different planet. His gaze had flicked over to you walking through the maze of tables, and it was like an angel had stepped onto Earth.
The dim library of the university had mysteriously brightened tenfold. The incessant chatter of students around you crashes to a muffled halt as the faces begin to lose definition. All he can focus on is your pretty face. Your graceful smile. Your beautiful existence.
He feels his heart caper at the very sight of you laughing, the honeyed sound of it. His heart twists a bit more at the fact that it’s because of another guy.
“Hello!? Earth to Satoru,” Suguru breaks into Satoru’s eyeline. He looks back at whatever could have grasped his attention so unapologetically. He groans in frustration, “When are you going to tell her you want her?”
“I—what? I don’t want her,” Satoru snaps his head over at Suguru.
“It’s pretty obvious you want her, bud,” Haiba says with wide eyes and all Satoru can do is roll his own.
The sleep deprivation is catching up to him and he’s not sure how to remedy it. Those brief hours he does get to sleep he can hardly do so, he’s too busy trying to figure everything out. Where is Jogo hiding? Where is the next hit going to be? Why does he need that relic?
What could you be wearing tonight?
He has to shake his head like a wet dog, screw his eyes shut and bury his ears with his pillow. What is going on with him?
The next lab you have together, you spend most of it trying to figure out how to get through it working together and not competing against one another.
Afterwards, he wants to trail behind you, talk more to you but you’re tugged away by Shoko without fail.
Every time.
Every time you sit on some staircase out on campus, step through the winding aisles of bookcases in the library, sit at some table in one of the cafes, Shoko or Utahime are always there.
He figures he’ll get the chance at JJ Tech but he’s barely seen you with how busy both of your schedules have been. His last resort is waiting for a perfect moment to get you alone.
Satoru manages to catch up to you somehow once again in the library, studying for midterms.
“Here,” he places a bottle of chilled coffee in front of you on the table, it sat before your notebooks and thick textbooks like an almighty divinity.
Your eyes pierce through the coffee, then up at him, “How’d you know this is the flavor I like?”
You look tired, usually you can put yourself together enough to not seem so, but tonight it’s apparent. Your pens and highlighters are spread across the desk in a crazed frenzy.
“That’s the one you usually get at work, I don’t know. Thought you might need it,” he shrugs nonchalantly, sitting down.
You straighten up, wanting to smile but holding that feeling back, tying it down, “Oh, thanks.”
“I see you’re studying for . . .” Satoru tries guessing but squints at the papers you have strewn across the table, “what class?”
“Neuroscience,” you sigh, chewing on the end cap of your highlighter.
“Stop doing that,” he lowers you hand, essentially pulling the highlighter away from your mouth. He then opens the bottle of chilled coffee, handing it to you, “Here.”
You take it from him, eyes on his as you pull it towards your mouth, taking a sip. He leans back in his seat, his eyes roaming the papers you have laid out.
“Looks fun,” he drawls, looking through everything. “Have you had something to eat yet?”
“No, not yet. I’ll eat when I’m home,” you answer. “Have you?”
“No, me neither,” he says.
“Oh,” you ponder over what the situation is. “If you aren’t doing anything, we can go get something to eat right now.”
Satoru nearly stops breathing, he has every reason to frantically say yes. One: he happens to be starving. Two: he knows he’s going to be busy all night with studying and with his Spiderman duties. Three: he can sit and relax with you. Four: It’s you.
But he needs to get going, a potential lead came up in relation to Jogo he needs to check out right now.
“I can’t,” he wants to punch himself. “I have to help my aunt with something.”
Disappointment prickles through your body, a feeling you weren’t expecting in the least in a situation like this.
“Oh, that’s okay,” you gather your belongings.
“Wait—where are you going?” his eyes go wide, watching you pack your bag.
“Uh, home,” you say as if it were obvious. “Did you forget what we talked about that one time? Dad—security detail—never letting me breathe?”
“You can’t actually be worried about that,” Satoru says as you sling on your bag. “I highly doubt the captain will go through with that.”
“Just make sure you’re on time tomorrow for class, we have to work on that lab,” you tell him, flipping your hair as you adjust your bag on your shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“I have an issue with losing track of time,” Satoru frowns. “It’s not my fault.”
“Maybe use your glasses to keep an eye on the time. Are four eyes not enough? Do you seriously need six of them?” you challenge with a look over your shoulder before turning back to the exit.
He wants to laugh at the sheer irony of your question.
Satoru’s on a rooftop again. Another sleepless night is sure to pass him by. He follows lead after lead, suspect after suspect, but nothing.
That tip he got led him to nothing. Led him to nothing but missing class the next morning.
He’s thinking only about how guilty he feels, how he should apologize for bailing on you again during lab. Especially when you told him not to.
You count your lucky stars that you are sitting at home today worrying about your midterm exams approaching and not worrying in the lab.
Your father shows up at your door with a cup of hot cocoa, settling it down beside you. He has a cup of his own, a rare to see smile on his face as he sits down next to you.
“Thanks, Dad,” you beam, taking the cup.
“How’s studying going?” he asks.
“It’s okay,” you sigh. “How’s that heist case coming along?”
“It’s stressful,” he huffs out as well. “Got a bunch of different stories coming from the witnesses and that Spiderman jackass isn’t helping with my peace right now.”
“He’s not so bad,” you chuckle, taking a sip.
Your dad cocks a disgruntled brow, “That guy’s a menace. Just like that one news guy keeps saying.”
“That guy is crazy, Dad, and you know it,” this time you scoff.
“You calling me crazy, too?” your dad quizzes.
“No,” you set down your cup, “That’s not what I meant. I just meant that Spiderman has saved a lot of people. A lot of his good deeds go unnoticed because there are so many little things he does that don’t get broadcasted. Whatever—anyway, what are the witnesses saying?”
Your dad slowly lowers his offended brow and explains, “Witnesses from each location are saying they were knocked unconscious. Then there are witnesses who are also saying that the suspects dropped some sort of spray on them, then there are others saying it may have been a gas they inhaled.”
“Gas?” your nose scrunches.
“Hm,” your dad nods. “After they either inhaled or felt it on them, they started hallucinating. Some saw flashes of things they feared in their life, or of traumatic moments, or they were close to being driven to sleep by pictures of nice dreams. It all is difficult to figure out what it is. Our forensics team is having a shit time with narrowing it down since it may flush out of their system quick.”
You gawk at him, lost for words. It’s a highly concentrated blend of hallucinogens and anesthetics. One sip could send a man into cardiac arrest—or worse, kill him.
Your own voice rings in your head but his face is what appears before you. Those sparkling blue eyes and that silvery white hair. A flash of that green vial struck in an instant too.
“It’s all pretty confusing,” your dad exhales, taking a sip from his foamy drink. There’s a ring at the bell, steering his attention to it. He looks over at you, ruffling your hair, “You get back to it kiddo, I’ll see who it is.”
He walks out, closing your door and you look over that video about the fundamentals of chemistry, your notes splayed open with highlighters and sticky notes littering your desk.
But you can hardly focus—now that you’re thinking about Gojo all over again. This all has to be a coincidence, right? There’s no way Satoru Gojo of all people is affiliated with a high crime gang and drugging people to rob banks. There’s just no way.
But his voice rings in your mind once more—a memory of your conversation when he asked about that liquid being able to be used as a gas in combat. . . ‘I was afraid of that.’
The little three tapped choreographed knock on your door tells you that your father is on the other side.
“Sweetheart, there’s a . . . boy from your class here to see you,” your dad awkwardly says.
You blink the tiredness away, getting up and heading to the foyer of your penthouse apartment. Your hand rests on the railing as you descend down the stairs, only to stop halfway when your eyes land on snowy hair and silver framed glasses.
His sky-blue eyes lock onto yours, his blinks are restless, and his pretty lips are parted. You see him visibly gulp, like he was nervous to face you.
“What’re you doing here?” you finally say, remembering the fact he abandoned you once more today.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Satoru waits a beat till his heart tries to settle down. “Is that okay?”
You should yell at him, and you truly want to but for some reason you can’t. You huff out a sigh, beckoning him to follow you. As you turn around to lead him up the stairs, he’s once again scattering his field of vision everywhere.
He’s paying attention to the extravagance of your home. The chandelier in the foyer, the numerous potted bonsais and lilies, the expensive stonework polished floors, the ornamental china vases and molded ceiling. He shouldn’t expect any less from the daughter of the veteran police captain of the city and the successful assistant district attorney. Your parents were clear overachievers, mother and father both, it is no less than obvious you would be on a similar path of greatness yourself.
He eyes you rather shamelessly, it’s not like you have eyes on the back of your head. You glance over your shoulder at him.
Or maybe you do.
Satoru already felt scrutinized at the door when your father opened it. He should care a little more but finds that he doesn’t care one bit about the police captain’s protective gaze on him following his daughter up to her room.
You open your door, unveiling your bedroom to the boy. Suguru and Haiba would go nuts if he were to tell them he was standing in your room with you right now. Nanami would hardly believe him at all.
Your room is neat, that’s the first thing he notices. And it’s exactly how he pictured it. Furniture white, minimalistic and clean. The bed had four posts, sheer curtains draping down the top. You had white boards, bulletin boards, filled with excessive diagrams and notes. You had bookshelves in a corner of the room, lined with chemistry and medical textbooks where your desk was.
There was a wall of windows that overlooked the city, a balcony that had a set of Parisian doors to it. He wonders how much time you spent out there with your thoughts and what they could possibly be.
While he’s observing every element of your room, you face him. He has this wondrous look in those frosted eyes of his, a look that makes them look even wider. His lips part and when you look at him in the dim lighting from your study lamp, you notice the way his top lip prods out slightly over his bottom. That they have a pouted yet subtle curve to them that came to life when he smiled. That there was a soft pinkish sheen to them.
You wonder why you’re suddenly paying such close attention to him these days.
“Here,” you speak, ringing yourself out of wherever your mind was going.
He cocks a brow, gawking at you rifling through your school bag. His puzzled expression deepens when you press a packet of paper against his chest. “What’s this?”
“Your part of the lab report,” you grumble, eyes cold yet thwarted. “Just memorize the material by next Friday before our presentation. I’ll make sure the rest of what’s left throughout the week gets done.”
Satoru’s entirely taken aback. You have every right to be mad but he wasn’t expecting you to still want to help him. His arm shoots out to grab yours before you can walk away. Your halted against your will, shocked as you gape at him trapped in the lamplight as it clings to his skin.
“Wait—that’s not why I came here,” he sighs begrudgingly. “I came to apologize. I’m sorry I missed class and bailed on you.”
“Twice,” you correct with furrowed brows.
“Twice,” he revises. “It was a shitty thing to do. And it won’t happen again.”
He swallows dryly as he stares at that cynical look on your face. He looks like a lost pet, waiting to be scolded by its owner.
“Promise?” you tip your head to the side.
“Promise,” he answers, he feels his heart tearing through his chest at how you’ve suddenly acquired a childlike disposition, one he’s never had the chance to witness before. And all because of him.
“Okay,” you smally smile, flashing your pearly teeth at him. “But if you bail on me again, I’m telling Yaga to give you a zero.”
“Got it—but how come you’re so sure he’ll give your word priority over mine?” Satoru challenges.
“Because you were the second smartest kid in high school, and I was the first,” you pointedly say. “I have a higher GPA than you, I have won three more academic awards than you have—and let’s face it, my attendance record outranks yours in an embarrassing way.”
Satoru presses his lips firmly and raises his brows in hilarity, trying to contain that laughter wanting to blurt out of him. He fails though, laughing anyway.
Your lips part as you stare at him, suddenly you’re so aware of how tall he is again, how he’s not as lanky as he used to be in high school.
“At least I’m not stupid,” Satoru tells you knowingly. “You could’ve ended up with a lot worse than me.”
“Really? Like who?” you cross our arms.
“Yuki—Haiba—Need I go on?” he speaks with a teasing tone.
“God, no. I got your point,” you hold your hands up in defense. Your nose twitches as you let your hands slowly fall to your sides. “You didn’t have to come all this way to apologize, you know. You could’ve just apologized tomorrow or over text, you have my number.”
“You wouldn’t have thought twice about forgiving me,” he puts his hands in his pockets. “Or murdering me.”
This evokes a laugh from you, cheeky and bright, this cold light of the moon suddenly feels like beams of sunlight embracing him, warm and comforting.
Then you point a finger at him, “But you have to tell me why you have that green liquid.”
Satoru can’t flip his way out of this corner. Another lie must suffice, “One of my friends from my neighborhood gave it to me—said he swiped it off some kid in his school. He wanted me to find out what was in it.”
“Oh,” you frown, all doe-eyed and innocent. “You should get rid of that thing. It’s dangerous.”
“Will do,” Satoru salutes with his middle and index fingers. He catches that little sideways twitch of your mouth, as you stare at him from the bottom up but stop halfway. “What is it?”
“I’m just a little shocked you’re not really how I thought you’d be,” you say. “Is that bad?”
“Depends,” Satoru eyes the room shamelessly, glancing at you before he sits down uninvited on your bed. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. We’ve known each other for like over half a decade—and we hardly ever really talked. I always thought you were some nerdy guy that had a bad attitude. I guess I thought you never really liked me.” You circle around the bed post to get closer to him.
Satoru’s brows are raised so far up high that they are practically skimming his hairline. He was talkative, just not with you at first. He feels like he might’ve been a bit blunt overall—but that changed for him when he became Spiderman years ago.
“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Satoru says the unexpected. “I guess I just found you intimidating.”
“Me?” you point at yourself, sitting down. “Why? You’re, like, one of the most talented kids I know.”
“Because you’re crazy smart,” he blurts out, smiling as he can’t even maintain eye contact with you. He feels your body heat, just a few measly inches to his left. You’re in reach and he’s scared he’ll do something to cause you to slip away.
Your eyes widen at his words, and he seems to not be done yet with the way he sucks in a breath, hands resting either side of him on the comforter.
“You’re insanely clever and nice and it doesn’t help much that you’re pretty,” Satoru is shaking his head, meeting your gaze once again. Once again, gorgeous eyes stare back at him.
You furrow your brows, not remembering an instance in your life where you had seen him look so vulnerable for even a moment. Your eyes flick down to his pouted lips then back up to his eyes.
“You think I’m pretty?” you whisper.
“Is that even a question?” Satoru breathes.
You lean close, his icy blue eyes contrast his half lidded warm look behind his glasses. He inches closer, your noses brushing against each other.
Your lips are half a centimeter away from his. He can smell the scent of your lotion, the sweet scent of your lip balm. He’s so close to tasting it that he feels like he’s the closest he’ll ever be.
That tingling sensation shot up his spine and straight to his ears, not because of this tension.
It’s his six eyes telling him there’s an incoming threat. Footsteps. They’re faint, but he feels them coming this way.
He suddenly jumps up, grabbing the lab report and rifling through it, “Your dad.”
“What?” you’re taken aback, your face crinkling.
“He’s coming,” he says.
You blink at him, wondering if he’s just scared or if he didn’t want to kiss you in the first place.
“Listen, Satoru, if you don’t want to—”
Your door swings open, revealing your father. One hand rests on the knob and one on the door frame. The way he opened it indicated a sense of urgency, or a sense of wanting to catch Satoru in the act. The act being the boy making a move on you.
“Hey, sweetie, everything alright in here?” he eyes you quickly at the term of endearment but then keeps his razor-sharp cop stare on Satoru. He’s not doing anything to ring alarm bells, simply just thumbing through report papers like he gave the impression of initially.
“Yes, Dad!” You glare at your father. “I thought we talked about knocking.”
“Oh, sorry—I was just—” he attempts defending himself but your eyes widen as you tilt your head at him and he ushers himself out of your room.
“Jeez. You’d hardly believe I’m nineteen years old with a dad like that. What is he going to do after I move out,” you grumble. Your eyes slowly dance over to the boy who was standing up, “How’d you know he was coming?”
“I could hear his footsteps,” he says.
“Yeah, you told me like a whole minute before he actually was at the door,” you stand up, nearing him. “I know your eyes suck, but no one has that good a sense of hearing.”
“I told you that’s what I heard,” he defends himself.
You tighten your lips, watching him set the papers down with his eyes fixed on the door. His eyes are still but his mind runs a mile a minute. He’s ruminating on the fact he almost kissed you and that your father could have walked in. What’s worse right now though is the fact he is still standing in the wake of your missed moment.
“Satoru, something is up with you,” you stand up, taking a daring step forward. Your shoulders square in assertion, “I’m not sure what it is. But I promise you can trust me.”
He slowly turns his head to you, thinking about what to say but his breath stops short when you place your palms over his chest, gazing up at him.
He gulps, and he hopes you don’t see how his nerves are clearly rattling, shaking his very bones. His phone buzzes with the soft four chimed ring he’s all too familiar with and he curses himself and every other wrong doer in the whole city of New York.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” he grabs yours wrists. “I have to go.”
He goes around you, passing you without so much as another glance. You watch him leave your room and in the simplest of terms, you felt like shit.
You begin walking to your door to slam it shut when your father runs past you, frantically pushing his limbs through his police jacket, his other hand on his phone.
“Dad—what is it?” you question breathlessly.
“Sorry, honey, have to go in. There’s another theft in progress in the upper east,” your father explains in two quick breaths.
Your eyes follow him as you hear the front door shutting after he leaves, only a minute or so after Satoru did.
You can’t help that scowl you toss at your microscope on your desk, or how you sprint towards it to inspect the elements once again.
Satoru is thinking only about you. Only you, only you.
His cognizance on the fact he should focus on this heist is hardly doing him favors from how much he regrets not kissing you. If being caught by your father was a repercussion anyway, how bad could that have possibly been? Yeah, so what. Mild embarrassment, maybe a few threats here and there.
His hand wraps around the web he shoots at the side of the building, swinging straight through the shattered window. He has no time for histrionics, he just wants to get to the bottom of this case.
When the thugs turn to face the man that flew in through the window, they all drop what they are doing, scowling menacingly at the boy.
“Okay,” Satoru cracks his knuckles, tweaking his neck to the side. “Let’s wrap this up.”
That’s what prompts four burly men to lurch at the boy. Gojo makes quick effort to shoot at one’s face, gluing a sticky web to his eyes and hindering his senses completely.
He knocks over another one with a horse powered kick, pushing him into a glass display. He’s nearly amazed with himself by how rushed this fight is.
Another man comes at him with a closed fist, brass knuckles adorning them as they hurtle straight for Satoru’s face. With lightening reflexes, he swats the man’s arm, aiming the base of his palm straight up the man’s jaw. Except it isn’t his jaw he’s aiming for.
An anguished scream of agony leaves the man as he cradles his bleeding, broken nose. Spiderman towers over him again, kicking him in the gut while he’s down.
The fourth man fires several shots at Satoru, unfortunately for the goon, he hasn’t experienced just how the Six Eyes senses really benefit the Spiderman.
His gun is in Satoru’s hand before he knows it, a stringy web stuck to the end of it. The thief’s jaw drops, eyes reddened and wide when he witnesses the way the gun crushes in the vigilante’s hand, the pieces of it crumbling to the ground.
“This is getting boring,” Satoru whines immaturely. “I can’t believe I had to give up being with a pretty girl for this.”
Forcibly tugging the man towards him with a web, Satoru delivers a lethal blow to the back of the man’s head, instantly knocking him out.
The sound of a glass rustling behind him draws his attention, the man he had knocked into the display was on his feet again. He has something in his hand that catches the vigilante’s attention, three small balls.
“Fuck no,” Satoru grabs the pellets by shooting webs again. “Not falling for this again.”
He lunges to the wall behind the man, psyching him out when he kicks off the wall and practically tackles the man to the ground.
“Not in the mood to get to know you,” Satoru frowns, his boot on the side of the man’s neck. “Where’s Jogo? And who gave you this?”
He hold up the pellets of gas, the stare of whitened eyes through his mask are enough to terrify the man.
“Please! I don’t know where Jogo is! I was just instructed to make this hit!” the man chokes out. “I got these through the—the lady we got that makes these—her name is Hanami—she works in a lab somewhere—we don’t know where. She has someone drop them off and she tells us where after the drop’s been made but—”
“You’re not telling me what I need,” Satoru steps down on the man’s throat harder.
“I—I can tell you where she gets her stuff from! In fact, I heard from somewhere that she’s got a guy on the inside getting her the goods. It’s at Myrtec Chemicals—one of her guys told me there’s a drop happening later tonight!”
“Thanks,” Satoru lifelessly smiles, kicking the man unconscious.
Shivering behind a wall of crates is not how you expect to be spending your Friday night. What you envisioned after a long night of studying was curling up with some popcorn and other snacks to watch a nice movie.
Most certainly not a group of men talking about people they are planning to kill.
“Man, I fucking hate the captain,” one spews. “I’d love to rip his heart out of his chest if I ever got the chance.”
You cover your mouth, trying to contain your gasp. The suspicion that Satoru may be involved with these men is tearing you apart. You haven’t seen or heard him in the last twenty minutes you’ve been here.
Standing outside the wired fence of Myrtec Chemicals is not how you want to go out. So slipping out now makes sense. You needed to make sure Satoru wasn’t linked to these guys and there’s been no sign of his loudmouth anywhere.
As you shift to run off as fast as you can so you can get to the bus stop at the edge of the next street, you accidentally bump your elbow into one of the big crates. A dull yet prominent thud reverberates through the air.
Fuck.
“What the fuck!”
“Someone’s here?”
“Who’s there?”
You know once again you’re cornered. Why must you test your luck so often? How on earth will you get out of this one?
“Hey! You!” a man is looking around the pile of crates, eyes landing on you.
You make a run for it but he grabs you—as expected. You cinch your eyes shut and a loud whoosh over your heads shoots through the air.
No way.
“Hey! Hands off her!”
The voice is hauntingly familiar. So is that black and white suit and that emblem of blue across his chest. That glowing spider—hope.
Spiderman leaps at the man that had grabbed you, striking him across the face. The other men shout out, rushing to grab their weapons, all the while the great Spiderman is making haste to scoop you into his arms.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry about this.”
“That’s okay, been wondering about you for a while,” he says with ease, then he leaps and you scream out, not realizing you’re on top of a small security tower. “Stay put here, okay?”
“Okay,” you nod seeing the thumbs up he gives you as he falls backwards to the ground, flipping straight back into action.
You watch as he takes down the remaining men, but the fascination to him isn’t all that you think about. You’re trying to pinpoint that voice—that cadence and rhythm in it. It sounds an awful lot like—
“How’d you end up here?” the vigilante is hanging upside down by a web in front of you, attached to the top of the watch tower’s antenna structure.
You blink, retracting in place, “I thought my friend might be here, but I might’ve been wrong. I was just worried.”
“You get into trouble pretty often, don’t you?” he chuckles, still upside down.
That thought invades your mind again—his voice sounds too much like his. There’s no way. There’s just no way.
“Sorry about that,” you shake your head.
“Why’d you think he’d be here?” the man tilts his head.
“They’re using a chemical, aren’t they? Those thugs?” you quiz. “They’re using it on people when they ransack places like banks and jewelry stores. I analyzed the particles and managed to isolate where certain specialized compounds can be mixed and it traced back here. Thought I’d check it out.”
Satoru’s suspended in the air, his state of mind matches his physical state. Speechless, he does nothing but stare.
“Ugh, God, why are you so stupid for someone so smart?” he groans.
“Excuse me?” you quickly pipe, taking a step back as he lowers onto the tower’s rail with you.
His arm slips around you, and he murmurs, “You could’ve gotten really hurt. This was a very dumb thing to do.”
“I know that but . . .”
“Why’d you have to come, huh? You care about that guy or something?” he asks, shooting out a web to another building.
“Yeah, or something,” you quietly say, eyes on him. Your suspicion as to who is behind the mask is starting to piece together and you aren’t sure whether you should comment on it or not. “Wanted to make sure he was okay.”
He can’t even face you. Do you even know what you’re saying? He wants to chalk it up to delusion but a mind as sharp as yours can’t be subject to something so petty as delusion.
When your arms slip around his neck, you stare at him and you can practically see through him.
“Hold on as—” Satoru begins.
“As tight as I can, I know,” you finish, not even being as terrified as you were the first time he web slung you through the streets of New York.
He stops at the top of a building, one far too high above the ground. That is when you realize you aren’t on top of any old building at all. You gawk from this point, the highest point of New York’s famous Vessel.
You look down, overlooking the Hudson Yard and seeing that the structure is closed to the public due to how late in the evening it is.
“I’ve never actually been here before,” you marvel at the sight. “It’s beautiful.”
“Hm, it is,” Satoru mumbles, staring at your wonder-stricken eyes.
At the sound of his voice you turn slowly, facing him, “Thank you for saving me. Again.”
“Nothing to it,” he replies, his tone hinting at a smile you can’t see. “Think I might’ve chipped a nail back there.”
Your eyes flit over him, head to toe. While your eyes stay by his feet, you say, “I want to take off your mask.”
“That defeats the whole purpose of it,” Satoru states. “Then you’d see my face. It defeats the sense of mystery too when you find out who I am.”
“I think I already know,” your eyes settle back on the white blank eyes of the mask, wanting to see the blue you’d been thinking far too much about.
Satoru’s stunned silence screams over how you move toward him. Your searing palms set on his chest, he feels like he’s being scorched to ash with how close you are.
He makes no effort to move away or tell you to stop. He swallows his inhibitions when your hands hesitantly slide up his chest to the base of his neck. The tips of your fingers caress his collarbone and neck till they tug at the edge of his mask.
Satoru knows he should tell you that he can’t let you see but he wants it so bad at the same time.
That’s why he watches with withheld breaths when you inch your way as your pull up the mask, slowly.
The pale of his moonlit skin exposes itself to you while you gently tear the mask further up. His chin peeks out, the sharp cut of his jaw, then you see his soft lips, the ones you want to just lean in and kiss so damn bad.
So you do and he knows he’d be stupid to stop you this time around. Your mouth feathers over his before you finally press onto him. Your lips meet his, buttery soft, warming your cold ones by a single touch.
He kisses you back softly but you back away, his head following your back before you part lips. He gazes at you as you cradle the lower half of his face, easing him into letting you take the mask off further.
You pull it back more, seeing that pointed nose of his you were accustomed to watching crinkle as he smiled. Then you finally pull them away from his eyes and his hair. You aren’t so surprised anymore, not as much as you should be at least.
That snowy white hair, like a fresh fleet of ice had poured onto his head ever so lovingly. Then those eyes, God those eyes. The shimmering blue that twinkled so brilliantly in the amber light, the eyes you feel like you’re seeing for the first time without any pair of glasses or masks in the way.
For once, you are the one smiling and he’s left with a somnolescent look on his face, like he could fall over at any moment. His eyes are half-lidded, fixed on your eyes and fleeting down to your lips without any sign of subtly.
He bends his neck down, capturing your lips in his again before slipping his arm around you and his free hand to your face. Now even if you wanted to move away, you couldn’t. Key word ‘if’.
You feel the way he softly inhales from his nose, breathing in like he’s breathing you in. He’s gentle and yearning, like he’s wanted this for a long time.
He presses his lips a little harder, and you can’t help the little sigh you let out. If you were in this situation two weeks ago, you’d be running around flipping your lid at the revelation that Satoru Gojo was the Spiderman. Except now, that mattered slightly less to you.
You both pull away by a hair, noses grazing one another’s as you gaze into each other’s eyes. You pull back a little more to see his face in its entirety. A fallen angel.
The little fidget of your smile as you decide whether to smile or not is enough to have him take the lead and smile anyway.
“So you did want to kiss me,” you say cheekily, eyes glistening from the city lights, the winter air pinching your nose and cheeks.
“Yes, dummy,” Satoru responds with a quiet nuance of hilarity. His gloved hand remains on your face, his thumb pressing down on your chin.
Tipping your chin down, your mouth opens. The cool air of the night blends in with Satoru’s warm breath, swirling in a strangely comforting breath, one that bore escape.
He pushes his tongue into your mouth, doing his best to taste every bit of you because he missed the chance for far too many years. Here, there is no police captain father to rush in, no thug or criminal to interrupt, no man that could touch you. Other than him of course.
You taste like peppermint, like what he would envision a warm and loving Christmas with family to be like. He wants more—he needs more.
Your tongues twirl in tandem, pace still slow but you each feel a growing desire crushing on your souls. It’s heavy and bone rattling, enough that he pulls back to shake himself out of it.
“I should take you back home—your parents—”
“Dad’s going to be out all night with that heist and Mom drank too much wine at dinner and my brothers and sister aren’t going to say anything about me not being home,” you’re quick to arbitrate. “I’m a little cold though.”
“I can see that,” he laughs as you shiver, the frosty air intermingling with his warm breath to create a translucent fog. “I—I don’t wanna sound like I’m rushing but you can come home with me to my place. I can explain everything there.”
You press your tongue in between your teeth in thought before you grin, “Let’s go.”
You help put on his mask when he cranes his neck down to you. He grabs you and you know the drill, hold on tight and do not, under any circumstances, let go.
He’s swung you through the entire city again and you take the time to enjoy, this time trusting him without a shadow of a doubt. The city looks pretty from his view, you count yourself grateful to get a glimpse of that, and that he has shared this special thing with you.
He stops outside a half open window on the side of an apartment building, he helps you through the ledge, safely getting you inside. You take a few steps back and watch him crawl inside, dropping to the floor with the agility of a cat.
“I can’t believe I’m seeing this,” you say softly. “I can’t believe I kissed Spiderman. I can’t believe I kissed you actually. That’s crazier to me.”
Satoru tears the mask from his head, his hair all disheveled fell into his eyes, “That’s crazier to you? That you made out with me not that I saved your ass again?”
“Shut up,” you narrow your eyes, looking around. “This is where you live, huh?”
“Mhm,” Satoru answers, watching you. “So you looked into that liquid again. Why did you come all the way to that place? That was very dangerous. And very very stupid. You really came all that way because of me?”
You face him, the air still coolly frosting at the shell of your ears, “I thought you might’ve been involved with those guys at first but based on our conversations, I assumed that maybe you were trying to play hero.”
“And you showed up and realized I was,” Satoru peers down at you. “Idiot.”
“Hey, if I was an idiot, I never would’ve been there in the first place,” you jab your pointer finger straight into his chest. He lets out an exaggerated and overdramatic cough, clutching his heart as if you did serious damage. “Seriously, Satoru, I get why you couldn’t tell me but . . . were you planning on not being near me to protect that secret?”
He stills, the smile vanishing from his face. His icy hair falls over his equally icy irises, bottom lip pushing ever so lightly into his top one in a small frown.
“I didn’t mean to push you away. I tried to stop myself from being close to you—that day you were late was my fault,” he shakes his head, eyes wide.
“But you still saved me,” you justify.
“But you wouldn’t be there in the first place if it weren’t for me,” he counters quickly.
You lower your eyes, “I have a mind, you know? I can say ‘no’, and I can make my own choices. Staying to help you was my choice. And I don’t regret it.”
Your eyes lift to meet his, lights darkened in his apartment. The only thing illuminating the space is the moon, its incandescent glow spilling into the room as if it were sneaking in secrets.
Shining down on your clandestine meeting, you each are inching closer, lips feathering over one another’s before he can’t take it anymore and kisses you.
His hands thread through your hair, his fingers interlinking at the nape of your neck, pushing you against him. He’s kissing you like he wants to breathe you in, like you’re the air that needs to be in his lungs.
You let your tongue slide across his bottom lip, easing it into his mouth. You lap inside his mouth, exploring every bit that your muscle can physically reach, intertwining with his.
Feverishly, you keep kissing each other, and it simply isn’t enough. Panting like starved dogs, you want to whisper to him to take you to his room but it feels too far—and your mind is running in circles right now.
Between kisses, you reach back, shedding your coat and kicking your boots off. Fuck, why is it always so cold in New York? Couldn’t it be summer, so you had less layers to shed?
He’s reeling you back in every time your lips leave his for even a moment. Taking yourself away from him for even a split second is cruel to him, worse than battling a group of mutants as Spiderman.
Satoru appreciates your enthusiasm and your forwardness, considering he’s not as experienced as he’d like to be for you. Hey, it’s hard to date as a superhero. He just prays it’s not too obvious
Your hands are busy unbuttoning your pants as he backs you into the backrest of the couch, not as coordinated as he hopes. He is not all that concerned clearly because you find yourself on your back on his couch, him hovering over you, lips not leaving yours for even a slight moment.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he breathes, his hips in between your parted legs. “I can’t believe my luck right now.”
“You’re such a dork—” you begin to joke before he rolls his hips against you, that tent in his pants prods at the heat between your thighs and you gasp out in pure shock and thirst.
Your eyes widen when they shoot down between your bodies, seeing that prominent bulge at the front of his pants, so obviously emphasized in that tight suit of his. How had you missed that before?
“What was that?” Satoru teases, eyelids bonneting over his irises seductively, a coy smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth.
He tries to hide just how painfully hard he is but now he understands there’s no use. After all, he can still play with your head a bit—just a bit.
“Oh fuck,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist.
And his lips are on yours again, swallowing in your gasps and vice versa. All the while, he ruts his hips against you, grinding and dry humping like two pathetic teenagers.
Each time he rolls his hips into you, you moan, humming into his mouth shakily. He’s taking each sound in with pride, he can hardly believe he’s drawing out noises like that from you, miss put together. His lips trek down your jaw, peppering kisses as he makes his way down your neck, a smile curling at his lips.
With hazy eyes, you let your hands skirt at his abdomen, trying to tug at the fabric at his waist, “How the fuck do you get this thing off?”
“You’re supposed to buy me dinner before you see me undressed, you know?” he chuckles against your jaw.
“Ha ha, very funny. Now take your suit off—I don’t want to play any more games,” you plead, your tone dwindles towards something most would call pathetic, but he knows better than to make that mistake. “Please, I just want you.”
Okay, maybe he’s wrong.
He doesn’t have the heart to wait any longer either. The command is clear in his mind, tear the suit off, but his fumbling hands make the effort stretch beyond eternity.
While he is busy with the strenuous task of undressing, you decide to get yours over with. With the desire to stop, go slow, take it all in, each of you are still keeping your eyes on each other—listening to the other’s breaths, taking in the sight of the other’s skin unveiling itself bit by bit.
As ceremoniously as one could in a moment like this, you discard your top and kick off your pants. You regret the split second you look away because when you look back at him, his shirt is gone.
The spider suit has a variant of features, all that aid in the never-ending trade of fighting crime. That suit also serves justice to whoever it may be underneath it, but fuck it underscored just how beautiful Satoru’s body is.
In the dim light, you make out his chiseled abs, how his shoulder blades are sculpted like an artist spent every drop of sweat, blood, and tears into defining them. How those broad shoulders seamlessly crown the defined muscles of his biceps. Your eyes trail down his arms to his forearms, veiny and working to take off his pants.
That’s when your focus shifts to his chest once more. The plains of his torso display his corded abs.
And you’re counting. Five—six—seven—eight—For someone so rambunctious, he sure fails to flaunt his perfect eight-packed figure.
Your eyes lock in on his lower abdomen, how his waist his much narrower in comparison to the width of his shoulders. His hips hollow out as they carve out a defined line, trailing down between his legs.
Temptation is close to getting the best of you when you realize he’s been frozen in place for half a minute now. Shooting your attention back up to his lustful gaze, you’re suddenly hyperaware of the circumstance of you only in your bra and underwear.
“You’re staring,” you warn with a sharp look.
“Mm—and you weren’t?” he returns the same expression, smugly lowering to kiss you once more.
Any argument you wish to spew are revoked the second his lips are on yours again. Satoru’s hands roam your body. Despite the freezing cold of the winter, his fingertips are piping hot, searing your skin wherever they touch. Your hips, your waists, your face, your breasts, your thighs.
Those lithe fingers slide down your side, around your back and where the clasp of your bra is. And you want to giggle at how he’s struggling to get it unhooked.
“Need help?” you grin, leaning on your elbows.
“Shut up—I got it,” he grunts out. He doesn’t have it in him to admit that he’s suddenly registering the fact that it’s you. You’re the one underneath him right now. It’s your body he can’t believe looks this perfect.
His breaths stops when he manages to tear off that stupid bra from you, your fingers toying with the waistband of his underwear.
“Holy shit,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Hm?” you hum interrogatively, being cut off when he dives down. “Satoru—ah—”
He buries his face in the valley of your chest, kissing you harshly while making his way to your exposed nipples. He latches his mouth over one and your chest nearly caves in. A moan slips from your mouth, hands at the back of his head, curling in his hair while he sucks your tits so lasciviously.
“Fuck—Satoru—ah,” you try to keep your eyes on him but find yourself cinching them shut anyway.
“You sound so cute saying my name like that,” he gasps out, tongue flicking over your pert nipple, and hand massaging at the mound he’s left alone.
Chills dissipate over your arms and legs, causing you to let out shivers. Shivers that could be a mixed response of the cold air and at the sensation of his mouth sucking you.
Satoru begins to lower himself, trailing kisses down your stomach as he goes. He doesn’t stop when he reaches the waistline of your panties. His lips press on top of the cloth, over your pussy, his fingers curl into the waistband at your hips.
His eyes flick up to yours, a smile on his pretty lips as he takes in your expression, pure desire stitched in every crevice of your face.
He pulls down your panties, eyes fixed between your legs like he was seeing the holy grail itself. His mouth is watering at the sight before him. He can’t believe that after years and years of knowing you, this is the outcome. All the competition, the annoyed glances, quick remarks, all boiled down to this very moment. With you spread out underneath him like a slut.
“Fuck me,” he groans out, tossing your underwear to the side. He lifts your left leg, kissing your ankle and trekking his way up your leg. When he reaches your thigh, his tongue begins to playfully drag across your skin. “Mmm.”
With shaky breaths, you watch him get close and closer but then he stops. He mulls over every form of research he’s ever done. He knows if he puts his mind to it he can please you, he just needs a second to reel himself in. Quite unlike him.
You watch him carefully, seeing how his smile faded and how he’s swallowing down dry lumps. There’s a flush in his face that isn’t something you’ve seen before. Is he . . . nervous?
Your hands shift down, cupping his face. At the endearing action, his heart quivers, as do his eyes. That’s when his jaw slacks, tongue lolling out and licking up your pussy.
You suck in a fragmented breath, fingers trembling when he smiles again and does it again. The saliva on his tongue drips down from the tip of his muscle, dribbling straight down to your slit.
“Do you always get this wet around me?” he has a smile painted on his face that is reaching his ears.
“Can you for once put your mouth to good use?” you whisper back sharply, earning a deep chuckle from his as he lowers his face between your legs again.
Eagerly, he swipes a long languid lick from the bottom of your pussy to the top, milking out his spit as well as your arousal. His arms easily slip around your thighs as he now buries his face, lapping at your cunt like a starved animal.
A loud moan rips straight from your throat, you toss your head back from the sheer intensity. And you can’t help but cry out like that again, feeling his tongue circling over your clit over and over.
When he hears a rather high-pitched cry leave you, his chest swells with pride. He isn’t sure what he was so nervous about. He just can’t believe he’s the one making you feel this good—or you’re the one he’s ever had a moment of weakness like that for.
Tilting his head to the side, he angles his tongue. Licking, sucking slurping your cunt, he’s producing the lewdest of noises, getting absolutely high off your taste.
“Oh my god!” you whine, now rolling your hips on his face, fingers tugging his hair and digging at his scalp. “Do that again.”
“What? This?” Satoru feigns innocence, flicking his tongue repeatedly and quickly over your clit, teasing you.
You almost let a scream burst from you, slapping your palm over your mouth as he teases you. It dawns on you then that those blue eyes looking up at you, are the same very ones you took so long to truly see. He’s not in his glasses but that sight between your legs would’ve been just as gorgeous too.
His hands grip your thighs, pushing them closer to your chest. His jaw unhinges like he’s eating a meal, nose rubbing against your puffy clit as he feels himself become impossibly and painfully harder that he could cum right then and there.
Goosebumps ripple over your body, every cell in your body short circuiting. His fingers dig into your flesh in a bruising grip. With another wanton tug at his hair, he slips out a nasty moan, eyes deliriously rolling to the back of his head.
There’s a sense of greed in the way he’s eating you out. Hunger and lust intertwine together in his movements, he can’t get enough.
His hand comes down between your thighs, fingers swiping over your clit.
Your back is arching off the couch, loud and shameless cries escape you one after the other with no end in sight. With your vision beginning to blur like a flock of clouds rolling in before a storm, you feel a white-hot heat between your legs.
Your eyes flicker towards his face below you. His eyes were shut and his brows your furrowed adorably in concentration. His hair fell in soft tufts and his jaw and tongue are moving in ways you would never have fathomed to see before. Needless to say, he is so fucking sexy.
Feverishly rocking your hips as best you can to meet his insatiable mouth, you know your orgasm is closing in. Every piece of your being is only focused on this immense pleasure and straining to get to the peak point it so desperately needs.
He sees you becoming more and more restless, your legs shake more and your fingers tug harsher at his scalp. The way you’re practically screaming tells him all he needs to know, you are right there.
You scream when it hits you like a freight train. You’re cumming right on his tongue and gushing down his mouth. By no means does that indicate he is stopping though. He continues his motions through your orgasm, not daring to stop till you were done.
Free falling from a great height, you’re whining, clawing at his hair, his shoulders, anything. Pushing him away because of how criminally intense the feeling is. He stays right there, undeterred by your efforts to get him away from you.
Your eyes stay shut but your mouth hangs open, long and drained breaths filling the air. Satoru raises his head, “So fucking messy—I find it hard to believe you haven’t always had the hots for me.”
Meanwhile, you still are reeling in your post-orgasm state, chest rising and falling. Your eyes shift to Satoru straightening up, expanding his posture.
“You okay?” he says, devious tones underlying in his voice. Sincerity had flown out the window.
You respond halfheartedly anyway, “Mhm.”
You slowly move to sit up, biting your lip to ground yourself. Despite your head feeling as weighty as a boulder, you hold yourself up. Your hands reach for his briefs, fingers hooking into the waistband and tugging at them.
“Woah—someone’s impatient,” he chuckles.
“We both know you’d prefer this over anything else,” you say with a daunting lilt of your head.
“That might be true but—” he sucks in a sharp breath when your hand grazes over the precum soaked bulge in his briefs. “Holy fuck.”
Hearing his exasperated breaths draw a smile from you, urging your hands to tug his underwear down and freeing—no way.
No Fucking Way.
Judging by your reaction, Gojo understands through and through that you were expecting much less from him.
It isn’t like you expecting so much less, but you weren’t expecting so fucking much. A dire mistake on your end.
It’s monstrous, big enough that if you wrapped both palms around it, there’d still be uncovered length left. You tilt your head in awe, eyeing the slight curve in it. How his pale skin underneath doesn’t overmine the flush in his tip, the white precum seeding at the opening of it.
“Something the matter?” Gojo flatly whispers, fully aware of how long you’re staring. But by no means is he feeling the heat of it.
“No,” you quickly glance up at him, unblinking.
“Uh huh,” he accepts disbelievingly, a cocky smirk on his face.
You lean forward, wrapping your palm around it. You give it a few precautionary pumps, almost as if you’re petting a wild beast, hoping to tame it. When you hear the reaction it elicits from Satoru, you can’t help but fixate on his face.
His brows knit together and his mouth drops, heavy breaths escaping him. Not only that, but you feel it. You feel the way his dick practically jumps in your hand, sensitive to your touch yet wanting more.
Your chest swells with pleasure, letting your hand feel just what he has to offer. You can feel the ridges in it, the way his veins ran thick, pulsating in your hand.
“If I knew this was the most effective way to get you to shut up, I would’ve done it a long time ago,” you murmur, half-lidded eyes on his twitching face.
“Ngghh—Ahh—Shut up,” he shudders, one hand gripping the backrest of the couch, and the other reaching across his stomach, a feeble hope to ground himself.
“Why should I?” you tease, tugging at his dick as you begin sinking further down on your knees, eye leveled with his waist. “I like hearing you like this a lot more, Satoru.”
And just as you’re about to drag your tongue along the tip of his dick, something within him snaps. He shivers, grabbing you by the back of the head and pulling you to his lips. A soft moan slips from his mouth into yours.
“I don’t think I can wait any longer,” he breathes between kisses. “—I gotta be inside ya.”
Just then, you practically feel a second heartbeat between your thighs. There is no argument in the world that you could use to refute him. All you do is nod dumbly, giving yourself up to him.
He pushes you down, your back falling against the couch cushions beneath you. Satoru hovers over you, staring down at your face, truly studying it. His gaze flicks down when yours does too, to where your fist covers his shaft.
He shudders pathetically when your hand moves along his dick, pumping it impatiently. He notes the clear enthusiasm it elicits from you, how your body curves into him from how horny you were.
Satoru’s own hand reaches for his cock, jerking it slowly before he drags the tip up and down between your folds, gliding over your quivering hole enough to tease it but not give it what it craves so desperately.
You whine, feverishly bucking your hips up into his dick, hoping he takes pity and gives you what you want.
He chuckles darkly, “So needy.”
He slaps his tip against your clit and you gasp, legs jolting at the feeling. It is more than clear he enjoyed pulling a response like that from you, so he does it again. And when you jerk in place like that once more, he sadistically laughs in a way that you wouldn’t believe he’s a hero at all.
“Look at it when I put it in,” he quickly pecks your jaw.
You hesitantly look down, seeing how he coats his cock with all your arousal mixed with your cum. A little huff drips from your lips, watching how his thumb swipes over his tip, a little wet sound stringing as he fists his heavy dick.
While he aligns his cock with the opening of your pussy, your right hand flies to his left forearm and your left hand curls around one of the couch cushions.
He begins pushing it in, grunting as the softness of your walls cling to his tip, threatening to suck him in. Your jaw drops, choppy breaths falling one after the other at how it feels like he’s splitting you open.
“Shit,” he chokes, his hair tickling your face with how close he is. “You feel so fucking good.”
Your fingers tremble the further he pushes in. Your pussy wraps around him so deliciously that he has to remind himself to practice restraint—for your sake. Ever the hero, Satoru Gojo.
Your breath stops, realizing he has way more left to go when you spare a painful glance down. He isn’t even halfway in yet.
“Fuck—Satoru, you’re too big—it won’t fit,” you push at his abdomen, teary eyed.
“Then we’ll make it fit, baby,” he coos, swatting your hand away. “Nothing to worry about.”
When someone tells you not to worry, you learn, it is entirely appropriate to in fact, worry.
He angles himself to sink into you, glancing down between each of your bodies and up at your face, seeing your face contort into a pained yet pleasured expression. The more you become acquainted with his shape, the more it begins to feel good.
When he ruts himself against you, you let out a sharp squeal, clinging onto him. Your eyes feel like they are about to burst from their very sockets, in an almost cartoonish sense.
He watches you, a smirk on his restless face. He draws his hips back and jams them back into you.
“Oh fuck!” you cry, a crease forming between your brows.
“Aw, you look so cute,” he smiles, taking a breath to wince at just how snugly set he is inside you. “All the other guys at school would want to fucking kill me to get to have a sight like this.”
“You talk too much,” you shake your head, reaching up to grab his jaw.
“And you love it,” he pulls himself out till only his tip rests inside you, then he drives his cock back in you, stringing a shriek from you. He begins doing it repeatedly, thrusting in and out of you.
At first his pace is slow yet precise, the tip of his cock prodding so far inside you, you feel it kissing your cervix. Then he decides it’s better to make you work for it before he gives you his all.
His quickens his pace, his thrusts rough and catching you off guard with each one. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles hooking behind him and toes pointing tautly.
“I’m beginning to think you go looking for trouble just to get the Spiderman to ruin you like this,” he accentuates his point with a well-meaning thrust.
The sounds filling the air are beyond your wildest dirtiest dreams. The sound of his heavy breathing is like music to your ears, just the way your moans are to his. The lewd noises of pap pap pap ofhis balls hitting your ass mix with the squelch of his cock drilling into your wet cunt.
The feeling of him on top of you—inside you, is something you can’t even comprehend the perfection in. Every inch of your body just feels so fucking good that you feel yourself teetering on the edge of delusion.
Your hands make their way up to the base of his neck, your fingers loosely intertwine behind his head. You moan again, letting your fingertips scratch at the back of his head.
Satoru pumps himself in and out of you. He can’t even help it—it’s like his body has a mind of its own. And now, he’s trying to have at least some form of restraint, trying his utmost best to not cum. It isn’t like you’re making anything easier on him.
He nearly falls apart when you pull his mouth to yours, gasping adorably as you let your tongue meet his. You’re sharing the same air at this point, and he fucking loves it.
You feel like you could cum at any given moment. You fixate on that feeling, realizing that you haven’t had time to yourself at all in the last few months. Certainly not enough time for a man to make you cum, let alone give yourself the time to do so.
Now though, you come to the understanding you were deprived. Satoru is giving you just what you needed after so long.
He knows that if his mouth stays on yours, he doesn’t have a fighting chance. So he parts from you, holding himself up by his arms and fucking you even harder.
Your hands jump to his biceps, whining as you do so. All the while, he soaks in your appearance. Your fucked out face, the way your tits are bouncing with every one of his strokes, and the way his cock is slipping so easily in and out of you.
When he suddenly pulls out of you completely, you hardly have beyond a second to realize he’s flipping you over. Your arms rest on the arm rest of the couch, while he adjusts your hips, getting you on your knees.
You turn your head over your shoulder, seeing his big strong hands spreading your ass, spitting down between your legs. You shudder, nose crinkling at the feeling of his spit dripping down to your pussy.
He then slides his dick between your folds again, coating it before he, without warning slips back into you.
He doesn’t ease into it like he did before at all. He has a quick, relentless pace from the get-go. His dick moves inside you like it wants to blend into your body, or perhaps go so far inside you that you feel him in your throat.
With this new position, you feel him prodding deeper than before. Your walls suck him in, helping the tip of his length brushing your cervix, this time at a higher intensity.
He angles his strokes better when his hands grip into your hips. With every lust driven thrust, you feel his fingers dig into your flesh even more. You’re more than certain it will leave a mark that you’ll be seeing for days.
“Fuck me,” Satoru breathlessly laughs. “You’re being such a good girl for me. You feel good?”
“So—so fucking good,” your eyes are closed, nails digging into the plush of his couch. “Don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he darkly mutters.
He ruts himself into your pussy again, feeling the warmth that he never wants to ever part from. He clenches his jaw, trying to ground himself in the smallest way possible at the very least.
His pelvis slams against your ass with great fervor, over and over again. Your heads drops pathetically, forehead against the armrest as you jolt forward . . . forward . . . forward. Your shoulders blades contract, back arching and creating a beautiful crease down your spine.
While he’s fucking you, a part of him wants to bend down and lick up that expanse of skin. Right where the spokes of your spine take shape. Then his eyes fix on the way your ass meets his skin and he does not dare tear his gaze away.
“Mmm shit, baby,” Satoru throws his head back deliriously. “Sucking my cock in so fucking nice.”
Then he rocks his hips against you so zealously that the angle he’s at elicits a loud scream from you. Your body falls forward, knees shaking.
“Oh?” Satoru comes to a grinding halt. “Did I find something?”
He draws himself back and drives himself straight into your pussy again, realigning himself to hit that same spot again.
When you choke out a sob, he grins, “Looks like I have.”
You spare another glance behind you, meeting eyes with that complacent expression on his face. His strokes are quick, deep, and precise, skimming at your g spot just right.
“Oh my god,” you cry, arms and legs shaking. A familiar heat stirs in your core, an iron searing heat. One that feels much more intense than anything you’ve ever experienced before.
You look back again, seeing how Satoru’s washboard abs are glistening with a beautiful moonlit sheen. He throws his head back and you spy the way his jaw hangs when he moans.
Your trembling legs are on the verge of giving out and he feels your pussy clenching. He knows you’re on the edge. He hovers over you, his chest pressing against your back as his hand swirls your sensitive clit in circles.
His senses are clouding, vision blurring just as yours is. Every muscle in your body tightens without any direction, moving at their own accord. A million little tingles flurry over your body like blizzards.
Your throat is drying out from the sheer amount of stamina stringing out of you. And you weren’t even doing any of the work.
Your cunt tightens around him, clamping down on him. His ministrations on your clit get you right where he wants you, cumming like a whore on his dick.
You cry out, body spasming like you no longer have any control over it. You’re writhing beneath him, spilling the sweetest of moans that are going straight to his head.
“Yeah, baby, come on. You got this,” he’s whispering encouragingly in your ear, lips brushing against your helix. “Ah—ah—yeah, just like that.”
Stars stipple across the night sky of your vision. All flickering on and off as if children are playing with light switches in an empty house. Any rational thought flies out of your mind, all you can focus on is this feeling, ardent as a flame.
Satoru’s pace comes to a stop, hands slowing on your nub as he backs away. He chuckles as you slump into the couch, watching you catch your breath.
Once you do, you get back on your knees, turning to face him. He looks as if he’s about to spew some condescending rhetoric but you push him so he’s now seated.
“Your turn,” you say hoarsely, taking your place on his lap.
He surprisingly has nothing to say. Or perhaps he does but his tongue fails him quite severely in that moment.
You straddle his hips with your thighs, sitting up straight in his lap. Your arms are slung around his neck and he finds it so sexy the way one of your hands reach down to put his dick back in you.
As you sink down on his cock, both your mouths fall open, eyes on each other’s. Your arms are slung across his shoulders as you look him dead in the eye and bottom out. You softly whimper but fuck, the whimper that escapes him is worth more than any currency.
His brows pinch and nose scrunches, his pretty lips fall into a pout. One that you want to kiss off his lips so bad. His hands are on your ass, pathetically trying to guide you to go faster and move at the very least. And you do, but the speed you move at is far from fast.
You lift your hips up, and then slam yourself down, earning a strangled gasp from him. You do it again, eliciting the same reaction. Your arms slide down till your hands are at the nape of his neck, feeling the scruff of his undercut.
He moans again, this time wrapping his strong arms around your back and letting you take the reigns completely. He watches the way your cunt sheathes down on his cock repeatedly, your hair in your dazed eyes and all.
As you ride him, he can’t steer his eyes away from any part of you at all, especially your tits bouncing in front of his face. He can’t even help leaning forward ever so slightly, wrapping his mouth around your nipple, hoping it stifles his moans.
You let out a raspy cry, feeling the way his tongue flicks over your bud. His prior hope of suppressing moans is all but futile for you can hear how his heavy breaths spiral into pitchy whines.
Your hips gyrate, rolling against him and he’s already been edging himself to prolong his orgasm but now he knows he’s done for. His dick twitches, and he lets go of your nipple with a pop.
His hands come to rest on your thighs and he looks up at you darkly, “You on birth control?”
Your nails scratch tenderly over his nape again, you bite down on your lip and nod.
“Good,” he simply mutters.
He lets out a choppy moan again, eyes hooded and breaths heavy. His cock twitches inside you again, and with one final plunge in you he’s fallen completely apart. “Fuck—"
His cum spurts inside your pussy, ropes of white liquid shoot in you. The warmth of it invaded your space, hurtling deep in you before it begins leaking out of where the two of you are connected.
Shakily, you breathe as you look down, feeling his seed dripping down your thigh. You take a moment to breath, watching him come down from his high as well.
You both heave heavily, catching elusive breaths. Each of you slowly trail your eyes up at each other, staring for a moment before you both break into laughter.
He rubs his hands over your thighs, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you smile, tilting your head unconsciously. You flick your gaze over his face, seeing the damp mess his hair is now, sweaty and clinging to his skin. His eyes still have that wintered glimmer. A smile rests on his lips too.
“Can I ask you something?” you quiz.
“Shoot.” Ironic pun.
“Is the reason you’ve been getting under my skin a lot because you had a crush on me?” you ask.
“What? No,” he scoffs, hands on your hips. You cock a suspicious brow, your hands loosely skimming his neck. “You’re crazy.”
“Uh huh,” you nod sarcastically.
“You hungry?” he asks, raising his brows.
“Oh, like crazy,” you breath.
He grins, “Let me order something and I’ll get you cleaned up. Now where’s my phone?”
He stands up, carrying you easily with one arm as he reaches for his phone on the floor. You squeal, tightening your grip on him. “Satoru!”
He pays no mind as he’s already halfway through punching in his pizza order, “Hmm, how do you feel about stuffed cheesy bread?”
“I could go for it, yeah,” you say.
“Great. Done,” he clicks, a satisfied bliss on his face.
“You know have a lot of explaining to do, right?” you remind him.
“You don’t think I know that?” he scoffs airily. “I’d be pretty dumb to forget that with you badgering me around all the time.”
You open your mouth to argue and he laughs, “Kidding! I’ll tell you everything—I swear. Let’s get you cleaned up first. Food should be here by then so I’ll explain while we eat.”
“Okay, but I like hot showers—if you put me under cold water I’m feeding you to that mutant lizard thing on the news,” you warn as he carries you off into the bathroom.
“Oh—I wouldn’t dream of it,” Satoru says. “Besides, can’t take that risk. The city needs me.”
Rolling your eyes at him, you choose to keep your sarcastic remark to yourself. Instead, you lean your head against his shoulder, letting him whisk you away.
hope you guys enjoyed as much as i enjoyed writing this!! likes and reblogs are appreciated!!!
🕷 content warning ~ Spider-Man AU, angst, one sided yearning, a parody of Peter and MJ’s scene in the coffee shop, self erasure, isolation and loneliness, slight mentions of past trauma, slow burn (probably), concepts related to the multiverse, violence/fight scenes, mentions of lost loved ones; cws may be added or removed as the story goes on.
🕷 SYNOPSIS ~ Ellie finally furnishes her new dorm at ESU. She also can't help pondering her recent (failed) attempt at telling you what she promised she would back when it still meant something.
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a/n at the end :)
-series masterlist- -masterlist-
Ellie Williams is no more.
She officially doesn’t exist. Not to anyone that matters, at least. The only things that prove she’s even alive are her birth certificate and high school diploma. That saved her college acceptance, the only thing she still has going for her.
She considered retiring the mask multiple times, but she’s never been that smart (socially, at least). She’s always had that fire in her, as Tony used to put it. Does he still remember her in the afterlife? What about Joel? Ellie wonders that sometimes, as much as she tries not to.
She carries two boxes out of her busted up car, climbing up the staircase without seeing the steps. She’s just starting to furnish her apartment even though she moved in two weeks ago.
Part of her, the part that wasn’t dimmed the day she told Strange to cast the spell, couldn’t keep the excitement at bay. She’s jittery at the thought of being an ESU student. She had gotten into her dream major too, which is astrophysics. God, she couldn’t wait another week for classes to start! Maybe this could be a fresh start. A new, different life, with different friends, routines, and people.
But of course, you’d be there. Dina and Jesse too.
What are the odds you’d all meet properly? Would Ellie try to befriend you all over again? Would she explain the multiverse from scratch and tell you about how you two were in love? Would you think she’s crazy?
She promised she’d find you. Make you remember. She never did.
You said you’d figure it out, though. You’ve done it before, you can do it again.
The day Ellie planned it, everything she prayed she wouldn’t feel, she felt. Practicing her ‘speech’ the entire way to the coffee shop wasn’t enough. She paced around her cramped, empty studio apartment, thinking about every individual letter she added to her little paper.
Now that Ellie stood in front of the door adorned in Christmas decorations, her entire body felt stiff and tense from things other than the cold, the now crumpled paper shoved haphazardly into her back pocket. She kept pulling it out every other minute to ‘revise’. Before second guessing herself again, she stepped inside.
The bell above the door chimed and a gust of cool air entered with her. You looked in her direction and paused. Ellie almost sensed a hint of familiarity in your features. You even lifted your hand in a reluctant wave.
Before the green eyed girl could wave back, a familiar voice resounded from behind her. She turned to see Dina waving back at you, that signature grin plastered on her face. Ellie felt a lump forming in her throat as she watched you welcome Dina with a giggle. She never thought it would hurt that much to see you and Dina from an outside perspective. Even though she pictured this exact moment, the weight of it could never be prepared for.
You walked away from Dina as she took a seat at the far end of the counter. Approaching Ellie, your face turned into a carefully catered customer service expression, as you used to call it. It felt so unfamiliar, being the subject of said expression.
Ellie didn’t register it when you stood in front of her by the cash register.
“Uhm… hello?” You repeated.
Ellie’s gaze locked onto yours as she finally flinched back into this moment.
“Hi,” Ellie replied, her voice an octave higher.
“How can I help you?”
Ellie simply stared for a little while longer, as if hoping a flicker of recognition would come from your eyes, or your eyebrows, or even your lips.
You gave her an expectant, yet polite, nod, encouraging her to reply.
Realizing she probably looked like a total weirdo right now, Ellie stood up a little straighter and cleared her throat, lowering her hand holding the paper. She turned her brain off in an attempt to recite what she had to say without chickening out.
“Hi,” she said again. “I’m Ellie Williams, and I…”
The words died in her throat. She squeezed the paper under the countertop a little tighter. She couldn’t. You seemed so… happy. Was it really the right choice to possibly give you an existential crisis so she could get her lover back?
You still stood there, ever the patient one, as you always were with Ellie.
When you patched her up in your bedroom after countless fights.
When you listened to her rambles about space, dinosaurs, and everything in between.
When you said your last goodbyes.
“And… I would like a coffee.” Ellie smiled, tight and forced. She pressed the paper into her fist, making a little ball, before pushing it back into her pocket.
You gave a small smile and took a step back from the counter, visibly a little bewildered by the encounter. “Alright, Ellie Williams. Just a minute…”
Gloves slipped onto your hands, and you grabbed a donut and walked back to Dina’s spot, sliding it across to her, a smirk playing on your lips. “On the house, for my fellow doctor.”
Dina laughed in response, vibrant and carefree. “ESU, baby!”
You always wanted to be a med student. Of course Ellie remembered. And it seemed like Dina really did settle on med. She waited until the last minute to confirm it as her first option.
Ellie was lost in her own world, gone as you wandered to the coffee machine to prepare her drink.
She hates coffee. What was she doing?
You brought the cup to her and gently placed it on the counter, blessing her with that slight pull on the corners of your lips. “One coffee. I assumed you meant a small black—I hope that’s okay. I’ll remake it if that wasn’t what you had in mind.”
Ellie quickly shook her head. “No—this is good.” She placed a five dollar bill in front of you and shifted her weight as you calculated the change. The coffee warmed her finger tips as she watched you, deeply in thought. Okay, this was getting creepy.
“Anything else…?” You chuckled weakly, your fingers wrapping around your wrist out of habit.
She blinked a couple of times before forcing herself to break out of her trance and smile back. “You, uh, excited for ESU?”
For a moment, you looked confused. Then, you looked back at Dina and appeared to realize that Ellie simply overheard your conversation. Of course, you didn’t remember the three of you, along with Jesse, opening your acceptance letters together at this exact cafe. It was only a couple months ago.
“Yeah, uhm… I’m pretty excited, actually, which is weird, but this time feels different for some reason...” You answered, feeling an odd urge to speak just a little more to a customer than you normally would’ve. Maybe you were just really looking forward to college.
“Y’know, expect disappointment, so—”
“—so you’ll never be disappointed…?” Ellie completed. You hesitated before nodding.
“Yeah… right.” You faltered.
The two of you continued to stare at each other. It was like your souls communicated in a way that shouldn’t be feasible, something memory alone couldn’t touch.
“Anything else…?” You asked despite the reluctance you felt, knowing you were cutting that moment short.
All Ellie did was smile and nod, neglecting the redness of her eyes. “No. No, that’s all. Thank you.”
You stepped back, offering a small wave before returning to Dina. Ellie took her time leaving, taking slow steps back to savor the sight of two of her best friends for as long as possible.
She bumped into someone, though. Stumbling as she turned around, she croaked out a flimsy apology. She paused when she saw that black mullet, though.
Jesse smiled at her with that same easy kindness. “No worries. You good?”
Ellie gave a curt nod and rushed out before she burst into tears.
Now that she’s in her dorm building, carrying her new stuff upstairs, the memory etches itself into her very being in the most bittersweet way. At least all of you are doing well.
She drops the boxes onto the floor next to her bed and takes a deep breath, taking in her surroundings as she wonders what her new life has to offer, and if it’ll even feel like her own.
a/n: WOW OKAY I'm so so so excited to post this, I've been thinking about this idea for a while now!! It's my first time starting a series, and I get busy sometimes, so I can't promise the most frequent updates although I'll do my best :) Thank you so much for reading, I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
𓏵 ( you're my path ! and you're always gonna be my path . )
८ sypnosis. Being Spiderman's object of adoration after promptly saving him on the streets is, by definition, incredulous and delusional to a fault. Given those assumptions, what exactly was Spiderman doing on the comfort of your windowsill? You've ought to watch for spiders in your home, now!
(spiderman!gojo x fem!reader) wc: 8k
@ warnings; no-curses au, spiderman-au, they're in tokyo not nyc im not making a man called satoru gojo white, banter, bad flirting from gojo's side are we surprised, slight canon-typical violence and description, character analysis, down-bad gojo, gojo is stupid, angst if u squint, fluff mainly, a lot of movies mentioned ᝰ.ᐟ
── notes. ok so this started as a drabble bc i love spiderman & spiderman brand new day is coming out & i love gojo and i've been getting back into jjk surprise surprise but i accidentally entered some flow state & wrote too much MY BAD i just really like the idea of spiderman gojo and i wanna write more for spiderman gojo so this is like a test trial or something idk (ㅅ´ ˘ `)
art by @/aliyartss on insta !! god her stsg spiderman au is so good plz check it out
Spiderman!Gojo finds pleasure in your displeasure.
The sounds of palpating rain, dragging across the streets in streaks of liquid. A body strewn under a shed without light, a noise without sound. You shifted the clear umbrella over his figure, letting the rain stop amid.
When your newly appointed residential spiderman didn’t speak, his head hung low, you hummed underneath your breath.
“I know superheroes have this mysterious aura they need to keep up, but I’d feel bad if I let the person who’s protecting my neighborhood get soaked in the rain. You’re staining the street red.”
Your voice filters among the recedes of rain water. He looks up blankly as you knelt down to his level, situating the umbrella over his figure, his mind half in its own head.
He watches, eyes half-lidded, as you dig among your bag for an aid kit. His mind swirls as you wrap a barely adequate bandage over the bleeding part of his mid-section, hands slightly shaking - from the cold, he presumed. His brain is rushed with impeded adrenaline, taking in everything and nothing.
You’d stood up, leaving the umbrella over his head without taking it for yourself. “Thank you, Spiderman.” You’d mouthed, before hastily running off as his eyes followed you in a sense of fanatic wonder - strewn by adrenaline, drawn by reverence.
You’d saved him (save, really, is a strong word. He’d say it’s more like you aided him) from certain clutches of death with an on-hand first aid kit outside the alleyway of some fucked up run-down building – much to his personal delight, and much to your chagrin as you realized that now, you’ve inadvertently placed a spider on your back that refuses to get off.
Spiderman!Gojo was never one to believe in miracle encounters - or placements by fate's design by which he meets another that his soul tethers to. He stopped believing in the goodness of fate once his duty was bound to the city's.
His name is Satoru Gojo - he's was bitten by a radioactive spider, and for only 4 months - he'd been the one and only Spiderman.
You know the rest.
Spiderman!Gojo, who may or may have not taken your grace as something by the fates. His mind half in a delirious state, he takes it upon himself to impede into your life.
After a few days, Spiderman!Gojo finds out where you lived (it’s not creepy! He swears! You don’t believe an inch of his words, though) and is rather determined to ‘pay back his owe’ in interest of your ‘grace-saving action’ for his mental and physical wellbeing, claiming he would succumb if your actions were not returned in earnest.
“I told you, I don’t need the help.” You frown, trying to usher the large (6’3, to be exact) spider out of the comfort of your home, swatting at his chest.
Yet, much to your discontent, Tokyo’s spiderman stays perched on your windowsill, legs planted in a squat as his hands balance him in between. The weight distributed among his muscles, tensing on your window.
Satoru grins under his mask, crooked and all – you can imagine it’s an egoistical sight. Different from his stature under the rain – the Spiderman you are now privy of, is a man of confidence and charisma.
The eyes on the suit crinkles in the corner, prominent testament to his amusement. “What kind of hero would I be if I didn’t provide charity, sweetheart?”
You flush, tempted to push him off from the window as he finds humor in poking fun at your apparent frankly impoverished lifestyle. “There is no need for charity!”
Satoru tilts his head, raising an eyebrow in skepticism. “Your creaking windowsill begs otherwise.”
“That’s because your fat ass is sitting on it.” You scowl. “Besides – I certainly don’t need a superhero to do me any favors. I’m getting by just fine.”
“I’m repaying you,” Hums the said superhero, all smiles and amusement. “And I never let a debt go unpaid.”
You scoff, crossing your arms across your chest, slumping your back as arguments begin to fail you once you realize rejection is not in the hero’s understanding. “You don’t look like you can clean. Or cook. Or housekeeping.”
“Tsk, tsk. Stereotype, much?” He clicks his tongue, hopping uninvited into your home. Feet landing onto your carpet with a thump! – staining bits of the carpet with dirtied mud.
“Hey–!”
You panic, he smiles and lingers around, eyes joyfully taking in your home, lingering on the framed photos on your wall. He whistles as he takes in the plants on your wall, flicking at one of the leaves. “I can fight. You know that, yeah?”
“I don’t need you to fight for me– or whatever it is you think you’re trying to do!” You hurriedly attempt to clamber at him to leave, he doesn’t budge. Not an inch. Not even as you attempt all your strength to grab at his arm and pull him towards the door.
“What? There’s no one pissing you off?” Satoru raises an eyebrow, placing a hand on his hip lazily as he negates your puny endeavor of pushing him away. “No way! Geez, are you trying to be all sunshine and rainbows, sweetheart?”
“You’re such a– okay, number one! Stop with the nicknames.” You huff, defeated as you stand back onto your own two feet, relenting to the hero’s casual trespassing into your home against your legal will.
Spiderman smiles – again, you can’t see it because of his mask, but he does. You could tell by the crinkles of the corner of his eyes.
“Oo, rules. Exciting.” He rubs his chin candidly, irking larger abundances of your indignation.
You interrupt him with a scowl by holding up two fingers to his face. “Number two! If you do something without my knowledge, I’ll kill you.”
“There it is. Threats. That’s hot.” He enunciates the last word with a smug grin. You want to die at whatever implications he believes is supposedly suave.
You are fairly tempted to kick him. Though, you wager it’d be more like kicking a brick wall. “Number three, no fighting anyone.”
He pouts, jutting his lower lip out – under the mask, that is. You can only see the pitiful expression expressed by his eyes from beyond his mask. “But that’s my whole brand..”
“So you don’t know how to do anything other than fight?” You raise an eyebrow, placing two hands on either side of your hips.
“I’m perfectly good at fighting.” Satoru throws up a ‘thumbs up!’ motion – as if it would help his cause. You frown, corners of your mouth pulling at the senselessness in his confident words. Is this really the hero who was protecting your city?
“And nothing else?” You probe.
He hums. “.. Can’t I just repay you through fighting whoever you’re beefing with for you? Listen, I can take down like 10 frat guys in five seconds, light work, no reaction. Look at this!” He emphasizes his point by making a show of flexing his biceps, the muscles bulging in its place.
You try not to gape as you swat his arms down. You’re not as disillusioned as to claim that you haven’t seen his figure. It’s hard not to – especially when he’s towering over your form in your small Tokyo apartment. His presence fills up the majority of the cramped space – yes, he has a great body and an even better build. His body crowds the spandex of his suit, permeating around the seams. You try not to drool, you make it a point not to gawk at jerks – but wow, did Spiderman make it hard.
“I just told you I don’t need you to fight anyone!” You argue with an unfortunate red tinge around your cheeks, chest huffing in irritation.
He theatrically holds a palm to his heart, dramatically swaying in discomfort at your words. “Aww, you’re undermining my efforts here, sweetheart.”
“I just told you to drop the nicknames, spiderman.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Satoru sing-songs, throwing his hands up in exasperation at your adorable reaction.
He can’t help but find it cute, the tiniest discomfort of a scrunch between your furrowed eyebrows, the fire glistening in your irises as you talk to him, the downturn of your soft, tender lips, the slight tousle in your hair as you move about his impeding presence in your space, he smiles in undisguised fascination.
“Since you so insist on repayment, or– Whatever!” You rant, stomping your feet on the ground as you moved about. Satoru’s gaze shamelessly follows you and the curve of your body, tutting his lips. “I’ll let you repay me – and that’s not because I want to be repaid, in case you go twisting this little tale around.”
Your voice tunes out in his brain like a melodic tune on replay cascading from a consonant of a fine instrument. He smiles, not quite listening, leisurely rubbing your floor as he sways back and forth in your space.
He feels it again. It lingers, this time. As if it had clawed into his cells and dug its place into the veins of his being. Like that spider. Yet this time, the bite is less radioactive.
It’s compulsive. It makes him want to rake his nails into flesh and scratch till the bite burns.
He’s might be addicted to you. Satoru ponders to himself with a smile. Perhaps it was your fiery personality, perhaps it was your looks – perhaps both or none. Yet Satoru, for all his cockiness and ego, can’t will his eyes away from you. He hasn’t been able to – not since you gracefully patched his sorry self up in that alleyway with much precision of gentleness in your touch. He feels he’s already become quite addicted.
– Satoru also feels he doesn’t quite mind the addiction in the slightest.
His mouth curves up underneath the veil of his mask in a sickened sense of delight. His chest thrums with anticipation, churning in quiet, humming elation.
“That’s good with me.”
Spiderman!Gojo finds you at your home more often than not – and you begin to think he’s not doing this as a levity for repayment.
By the fifth time that you found him lingering on the couch of your living room (much to your horror, how many could claim the friendly neighborhood spiderman was lounging in their home uninvited?) with his feet staked on the coffee table, disregarding rectitude in the existence of manners, you begin to suspect his goal isn’t repayment.
Spiderman!Gojo is a man with zero manners – he walks around as if the nature of propriety does not exist to someone of his status and capabilities. Humble is not a word present in any version of his dictionary, and diffidence is not a species of spider.
He eats the food in your pantry while lounging on your couch after a long fight, wearing and stretching his legs onto the length of your couch.
He digs for a post-it note of your Netflix password to watch some dumb shows while munching on your celery when you were at work, and leaves a scribbled note of paper which he took from tearing a piece of your calendar on the wall, saying: ‘Word of advice: lock your windows, and change your Netflix password >3< what the hell is password123? Also i ate ur wholeeee celery shelf. I dunno why celery is so good when ur trynna cry to Train to Busan. Oh, that show ur half finished with - the heroine dies at the end :P!!!’
(You want to murder him. You want to strangle Spiderman and have him buy you a supermarket worth of celery supply. You want to kill him even more at his unprompted spoiler – what kinda jerk spoils like that? After desecrating someone’s entire celery stock and trespassing into private property? You crush the paper in your hand, aggressively palming it into a ball to throw at your wall.)
Spiderman!Gojo sometimes stares at you from outside your workplace window from a higher building. It’s not stalking, he promises to his own hero conscience. He’s observing. He’s.. cataloguing. Stalking implies there is intent and desire. Which – he can’t lie, there totally is. But, this is different, he swears again in his head. He does like to see that agitated frown on your face when he shows up at the lobby of your firm, though.
A job as a journalist. Cute. Adorable, actually. His eyes tended themselves to search for your figure when the press showed up after a grueling match on the city’s skies and rooftops – it never is you, though.
Spiderman!Gojo is completely not creepy nor does he ever imply negative insinuations with his actions. He only does that to super-duper-evil villain bad guys!
.. And with the generous exception of those guys that stared at you too long in your work uniform and scribbled down their numbers onto a receipt in hopes of being the recipients of your affection, staring at you as if you were some meat to devour. He wouldn’t fault them on appreciating a view, sure, but he could very well fault them on appreciating his view.
“Hey, guys! Whatcha doing there?” Satoru dangled upside-down, his calloused fingers grip the ledge of his webs, hanging straight down, weight distributed evenly among his shoulders as he hung above the two men with their phones whipped out.
“.. Spiderman?! Oh– oh, this is my lucky day! I’m a huge fan of yours.” Normie #1 said, not bothering to close his phone. Bad idea.
Normie #2 holds a receipt with a number – your number, probably – Satoru immediately notes it in his head for later uses.
“Lucky day? Sure, you could say that,” Satoru hummed, eyes lingering on the man’s open phone. A picture of you staring back at him from the dimmed phone screen. He smiled, the mask stretching with the width of it. “Say, wanna have a chat?”
Safe to say, spiderman could indefinitely expand and entail his reputation anywhere – nobody dares to question the ‘friendly’ neighbourhood spiderman about the disappearance of two middle-aged males. Besides, he didn’t do anything entirely bad that they would completely cease their function in daily life. No one said you can’t talk with a few missing teeth.
He’s told you before – his talent is in beating the crap out of people.
Spiderman!Gojo loves science. Astrophysics. Physics. Astronomy. Space. Astronaut movies in space. You tease him for it. When you found him on your couch (for the nth time, this time, you’re less surprised at his presence in your home, almost expecting it) watching Interstellar with the widest expression on his face which stretched his mask upwards, you rushed to hand your local Spiderman the title of a nerd. He relents, but prefers to think of himself as a hunk - you disagree with a disapproving look.
"Do you even have your own apartment?" You raise an eyebrow, body expecting his presence in your home, this time. He'd make it a point to invite himself in - you stopped freaking out around the 11th time.
Spiderman leans back on the couch - his mask slightly unraveled. Not revealing his face, gosh no. Just enough to see the pink of his glossy lips, munching on a standby of popcorn, manspreading on your couch while mulling over Project Hail Mary on your television which you paid with your bills.
"Uh, obviously?" He shrugs, popping another popcorn into his mouth, before his eyes find the TV again. "Wait! Get over here! Get over here! It's the good part!"
You frown, pointing at him indignantly from the entrance of the doorway. "I haven't even watched it! Don't you dare spoil!"
Spiderman ignores your words, flicking his wrist to produce a web to attach to your waist, pulling his arm back to swing your body to his on the couch.
He grins, and you see the peeks of his white teeth prickling out from his jaw as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you to his side. "Whoops. Better close ya eyes then, it's the climax."
You punch him in the face.
Spiderman!Gojo is an insatiable man. He discovers, when he finds himself incapable of staying away from you. You’ve found it in yourself to accept that chasing Satoru away is no longer possible (not that it ever was), so you’ve made peace with his presence. Satoru, on the other hand, craves more.
“This is weird. Your suit feels so weird.” You groan, your side pressed firmly against his much broader and harder one, as he languidly draped his arms around your shoulder, head tilted back on your couch without much as a care in the world.
The movie plays in the background, noises slurring into the backdrop soundtrack as he measures the rate of your heartbeat. Each thump! makes him tap his finger against the spandex of his thigh, creating a quiet melody from the rudimentary beats of your being.
Satoru could make a tune out of it, he thinks quietly, fingers tapping in patterns.
Seeing that you are no longer threatening to bite his head off every time he gets so much as 2 meters close to you, he relishes in the touch you allow him to give. Similarly, delighting in every touch you initiate.
(The first time you allowed your shoulder to bump into his own while you two obnoxiously sang to an off-pitch curated version of Britney Spear’s ‘Toxic’ in your messy kitchen, he fell on his way out of your window because he missed his web shot. He then rolled on the ground he fell on with a grin.
Onlookers are far too scared to question their residential spiderman rolling back and forth on the grass.)
“What? D’ya want me naked, or something?” He raises his eyebrow slyly, letting his words settle as he presses himself closer to you. The scent of your shampoo fills his senses euphorically. He hums, lightly sniffing the air around you.
You push his head away from coming closer to the crook of your neck. “Ew, no. I’ve seen enough depravities in my life. Naked means your mask comes off. That’s weird.”
You are past the point in your sad young adult life of miserable housing rents and harrowing job listings where you question things – so you do not question half-cuddling Spiderman, your city’s superhero, on your couch on a fine evening with La La Land playing in the background.
"City of Stars--
You are also past the point in which you question why you’re half buried in the chest of a man whose face and identity you technically do not know.
The only thing you know is that he eats celery raw for some reason, sometimes sniffles under his mask after an ending of a sad dog movie, and spends an awful amount of time lingering in your home while pouring himself the coke that he snipped from your fridge. And you suppose his jokes are funny at times.
Are you shining just for me?
“How is that weird? I’m handsome. Awfully, actually. Are you more scared of my face than my naked body? That hurts.” He pouts in a way that a grown man can make pouting look cute – you huff in delirium as he presses himself closer to you.
“I don’t want to imagine either, thank you very much.” You scoff, eagerly swatting away whatever concoctions your conscious decides to produce.
“You don’t believe me? I’m extremely handsome.” He purses his lips together to garner pity and adoration – you only scowl at him from above. He pouts again. “I’m serious!”
“Yeah? Prove it.” You tilt your head, chin jutting up in a challenge. Spiderman stutters.
“.. Maybe another time. Ugh, just take my word for it!”
You try not to sound disappointed when he sidetracks your challenge. You raise an eyebrow. “I’m just supposed to imagine it?”
City of Stars--
“Yup.” Satoru lifts his head straight, you sigh when the pressure on your collarbone is relieved. “Okay– picture this: six foot three supermodel body–”
“I find that highly unlikely.”
“Shush. Six foot three, extremely pronounced biceps and muscles that ripples with my abs when I take off my shirt to flex at the gym–”
“Ew? Girls don't like it when men do that, you know that, right–”
“Can you wait? Spiderman’s talking, sweetheart.” He obnoxiously places a finger on your mouth to shut you up. You fight the urge to bite it. “Anyway, my hair’s messy but fluffy in the best way– no products, by the way. Just genetics. My long, luscious eyelashes flutter when I blink, and my eyes are blindingly beautiful. You’d get pulled into it, trust me. Oh, and I’m super smart and charismatic and also I read feminist literature.”
There's so much that I can't see.
“Woww, color me stoked, ever heard of the word ‘humble’? You sound like every woman’s wet dream, and I also find that highly improbable. I mean, you eat celery raw.”
He groans, dropping his head back into the crook of your neck indignantly. “Will you stop mentioning that? My gorgeous, perfect body, face and personality quite overtake that slightly unbecoming quality of mine.”
“You raked my whole cabinet! How am I supposed to not mention that in this economy?”
“It’s not my fault your groceries consist of celery and spinach.” Spiderman rolls his eyes, shifting his weight onto you again despite your huff of protest under your breath. “A man gets hungry, sweetheart. And who even likes spinach?”
“You are so annoying.” You grunt, an attempt to push his head off the crook of your neck, to which it only pathetically flops down as you maneuvered.
“Annoyingly mesmerizing and charming?” He blinks a few times, poking your hip in the meanwhile as he utters an amalgamation of pathetic expressions under his mask.
Who knows?
You raise an eyebrow - you sort of believe him, but hell if you’d ever admit that. “Right, so the opposite of that.”
He whines. Digging himself a space in your body without shame. “No mercy. Whatsoever. How cruel!”
“Aren’t you popular?” You hum, a facade of nonchalance as you watch the tv screen - scratch that, watch him out of the corner of your eye. “Ask your fans.”
I felt it from the first embrace, I shared with you.
“Boo,” Spiderman laments and deflates like a popped balloon, indignation in his tone. “They’re boring.”
“Geez, narcissistic much?” You gave him an incredulous look, before a thought popped into your head. “People keep theorizing who you are underneath that mask of yours, did you know people like editing celebrity faces onto your cameo pictures?”
“They what?”
You detach yourself from his body to grab your phone on the coffee table, promptly ignorant to his breathless whine, shuffling through the likes on your profile. He wraps his arms around your waist when you return with your back to the couch as if it’s a normal occurrence – you don’t punch him or swat him away, so he takes the welcoming initiative to firmly press his face onto your shoulder, peering eyes watching your screen.
“Look.”
He squints his eyes at the screen. “.. Is that Tom Holland’s face? He’s not even as tall as me– Andrew Garfield? Really? These are so farfetched– Tobey Maguire? Why am I white?”
You pause. “‘Cause you got a white suit.”
He grumbles into the crook of your neck. “This is why I don’t use social media.”
“No, you’re right. On second thought, Andrew Garfield is way too fine to be someone like you.”
“Excuse me?” Satoru pinches your hip with his fingers, you swat him away with a laugh that derives a grin onto his face. The mask flexes – he almost forgets it’s still there, on his face. It felt as if he was laid atop and stripped of his layers by you.
That now, our dreams--
“You’re soo mean,” He huffs sorely at you, to which you grin. “Come on, you got the real Spiderman here.”
You shut him up immediately when your hand instinctively went to the bed of white hair on his head, fingers lightly tangling through the locks with a hint of a smile which he delights at. “Yeah, suppose so.”
Spiderman starting to find it harder to remind himself there indeed is a mask atop his expressions.
Satoru tries not to remind himself that still, the mask is all you see.
"Oh, it's the divorce arc for Mia and Sebastian."
"-What?!"
They finally come true."
Spiderman!Gojo dabbles in photography. It never really was his thing - not really. He never cared about freezing a moment of joy in time, or creating moments he could come back to because, often times, there was nothing for Spiderman to come back to in the end.
Spiderman supposes he's had a change of heart. While testing out a stupid mechanic camera he'd been experimenting on to input into the model of his suit to conveniently take pictures of criminals on the run, he'd had the brilliant idea of testing the mechanics of his creation on you.
Click!
You pause in your laughter, face turning red as Spiderman, legs crossed on your couch, lowers a budget-looking camera from his face, eyes peering into the picture taken with added wonder.
Satoru hums, reveling in the result. The picture came out sort of blurry, but candid. You mid-laugh about an overdone romance niche, it feels so so personal. The way the corner of your eyes crinkle just the slightest, the way you lips part in giggles.
"–Delete that!" You shuffle, hands frantically reaching for the camera which he took from your line of grasp. "You're such a jerk! Delete that!"
Satoru laughs, holding the camera by a hand as you crawl over his body in a feeble attempt of over-powering a superhero. "No way! Oh my god you laugh like those seals–"
"I'm starting to wish you got hit by that truck last night–"
Satoru raises an eyebrow. "Oh? You watching my news now? Don't tell me.. you're worried about me! Please, you shouldn't have." He drawls out, leaning into your personal space, fingers clasping at your wrist to stop your reach.
"That's– not the point!" You grovel, frowning.
"Don't look so pouty, I won't post it or anything."
"Yeah, right. Who knows what you'll do with it?"
He printed the photograph and placed it into the pocket of his suit, that's what.
Spiderman!Gojo is unfortunately a charming man, against your better knowledge. Because whether consciously or otherwise, you’ve become entwined with whatever the hell Spiderman is doing – which is oftentimes, a lot of bullshit (fighting pigeons on the Tokyo tower? Really?).
Still, you find yourself wondering when he’d come home, when he’d come to you.
You feel like a fool, at times.
“Aren’t you an idiot.” You huff, tightening the bandage around his abdomen, causing spiderman to wince in pain as he tilts his head back on the backrest of your bed.
“Be a little nice to me, sweetheart. I am injured and terribly in pain from saving the city you reside in.” Satoru sulks, eyebrows knitted together in inexplicable pain from his wounds, though he’d vehemently deny such.
“I think not. This feels like charity work.” You mimic his words from your fateful meeting on the windowsill, he frowns.
“You’re so mean. Awful. You’re mean. Is this all you do to repay your savior?” He whines exasperatedly as you tie a knotted bow from his bandages, soothing with the lingering touches of your fingers.
“Savior is a strong word, you know,” You hum, finishing the cleanup on his mess of a body, trying not to grimace at the drying blood on your sheets. “Besides, I don’t even know this so-called savior’s face.”
He winks, shrugging off your idea. “It’s part of the charm, remaining faceless and maintaining that mysterious identity. You know the saying, ‘the chase is better than the reward’, or something?”
You think it’s his deliriousness speaking, because there certainly are no phrases as such. You play along for his sake, lest he spouts more bull. “Sounds like something a fuckboy would say.”
“Hah! Is there something you wanna tell me? You’ve imagined me as a fuckboy? How scandalous, (name). That impeaches on my purity.”
You pinch his wound, he yelps.
“It’s awkward to bandage you up when your face is the only thing covered up.” You approach the topic again, hands wavering in indecisiveness.
Satoru parries your words with ease. “Is it?” He laughs obnoxiously, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s nothing too exciting. Anyway, how about that movie we were finishing? I’ve been thinking about the ending for–”
“You’re deflecting.” You frown, opening the cupboard drawer of your nightstand, avoiding his large, white eyes, which flickers around inches of your room behind his mask. He’s staring at you. Yet, you can’t stare at him back.
“I told you it’s nothing interesting! It’s just a face.”
You slam the drawer close, letting the sound reverberate as your shimmered fury did. “It’s your face.”
Silence draws out. You finally stare back at him, yet you aren’t, at the same time. You’re staring at the mask – you’re staring at Spiderman. You’re not staring at the man who invites himself into your home, the man who integrated himself into your life, drawing your being into the webs of his making.
You’re not quite staring at the man who loudly commentates on horrible romantic comedies he dug out from Book-off, the man who makes it a point to mess up your hair when he sees you, grinning like an idiot when you hit him for it, the man who you might’ve unintentionally fallen in love with.
Oh.
Oh.
You’re still staring at the hero.
Not him.
Fuck, you don’t even know his name.
Spiderman isn’t a name – it never has been. It’s an identity. It’s his identity, but it’s not the identity of the man under the mask.
Spiderman sucks a breath, his voice silently wavering, the mask captures it, placing the imprudent vulnerability back into the qualms of his open mouth.
“.. Does that matter?” His voice goes softer. Less teasing. Less spiderman, more Satoru. The Satoru he never wanted to show you, yet his heart moves a length which he does not follow.
You furrow your eyebrows, biting down on the flesh of your lip. “Are you serious? I’m asking you, so of course it matters.”
“Aren’t you content with this?” Spiderman’s arms shoot up, gesturing to himself boisterously. His voice is sharp, unbecoming of him – you’ve always been unbecoming for him. “What more do you want? You have Spiderman.”
“Okay, have you ever considered that I don’t want Spiderman?” You scoff, straightening yourself. You clench your palms, drawing crescents into skin from the press of your nails.
Satoru stands up within record speed and pries your fingers away from the skin of your palm, the spandex suit over his fingers trail over your pulse, resting on your wrist with an intimacy rivaling that of tenderness. His eyebrows are furrowed again.
“.. Stop that.”
“No– no, no! You stop– whatever this is.” You furiously step back, yanking your hand away from him. His expression is pained – you could imagine in your head. The part that hopes you are something to him. Something personal. “I never pried because something deep down I hoped that you would tell me. I hoped that I could at least chip some of those walls down because– because you’re a good person, and fuck– I’ve barely even scratched any surface!”
“You know why I don’t tell you anything. It’s dangerous–”
“Dangerous?” You could laugh. You tried – stifled laughter bubbled out, heavy in your throat. “Oh please, since when did you care?”
Spiderman straightens up with a displeased frown. “Don’t say that. I’m protecting you. I’m doing the duties of Spiderman. Revealing my identity– do you know what that does? What danger it could bring if you had that knowledge?”
You purse your eyebrows, your voice catching in hoarse shout, ignoring the rationality in his argument in pursuit of pettiness and the overwhelming stimulation of swirling emotions in your head. “I’m not asking you to– what, share your government credentials and social security number. I’m asking you to share something. Something to make it seem like I’m not just some dumb game to you!”
“You aren’t!”
“Oh, right. I’m supposed to believe the guy who I don't even know the name of thinks I’m someone special?” You sneer, Spiderman takes a wavering step towards you – you step back, he steps forward again.
“I know I seem like I’m full of bullshit–”
You scorn under your breath. “Because you are.”
Satoru steps closer to you regardless, his feet bringing him across the mattress of your room as you back up to the wall, him stepping in front of you tentatively even as you glared him down, eyes sparked in anger. Deserved anger towards him. He frowns.
“Right, no, you’re right. I am full of bullshit,” Satoru said slowly, as if he was finding the words as he spoke, his arms finding no place but besides his body, his eyes helplessly stare at the floor. At his feet. At anywhere but your eyes which see nothing more than a mask – your eyes which so heedingly wanting to take his mask off.
Wanting to see him.
He fears that he would allow you, he realizes under the haze of his mind. He fears that he would not stop you had you asked to tear every little layer of his skin until your hands wring him down to his core. He fears what he’d become under the solace of your presence.
Silence stretches out between the two of you as Satoru stares blearily at the floor. As you stare at his stretch of vulnerability with invigoration.
“.. Gojo Satoru.” Satoru breathes out. The words escaping his mouth one syllable at a time, unwilling, impulsion threaded in each tone. He finds it in himself to tear his eyes away from the ground, to meet yours as they widened to his words. “My name. It’s Gojo Satoru.”
You blink, shoulders tensing up as he towered over you. Your words leave in haste as you taste his name in your mouth. “.. Gojo, then.”
Satoru laughs softly, his hand coming up to rub at his neck – was he nervous? Spiderman? (Gojo Satoru, now, you suppose. Not spiderman, you retract.) Nervous? He’s never looked this scared, you surmised. “Call me Satoru. It’s.. personal, right? We’re personal.”
You gape in shock. “What are you–”
Satoru steps closer. Crowding you against the harsh wall behind your back. You thump into it as he takes another step, jaw clenching in action. He’s staring down at you – expression unreadable, like always. Like it always has been. He’s never shown past the facade he wanted you to see, after all.
“I get it. Fuck, I get it. Don’t you think I do? I want it so badly– to show you what’s underneath,” Spiderman stutters out, words spilling in tandem as each vowel jumps over another, prancing in heedless consternation.
You blink, unsure of how to respond to this side of Spiderman.
“But what happens after that? What becomes of us? Of me? Of you? I’m not allowed to be lenient, (name). But you keep making me want to do all these – stupid, idiotic stuff. Like I’m some lovesick idiot that’s been bewitched and–” Satoru prattles, his rambles wavered in each word as he brings a hand up to his face, dragging it downwards as he faces you.
“And I don’t know what to do. You’ve ruined me. You might as well have. With your stupid thirty percent rate of butter in popcorn and dumb movie takes and vanilla scented perfume– you’ve totally irrevocably ruined me. What should I even do? What should Spiderman do? Tell me.”
Oh wow.
Oh wow.
Oh wow.
Oh wow.
If someone had told you Spiderman was going to give the most pathetic confession (was it?) a yearning desperate man could ever make in front of you 2 years ago you would’ve laughed in their face. Present you, however, is unattended in the headspace to comprehend what just transpired.
Why did Spiderman just practically say he was in love with you? Quite pathetically too, you silently note.
Why did you like that? You figured self-discoveries were being made presently, not that it was important.
“.. Why do you keep asking what Spiderman should do?”
“Huh?”
“What about what you want to do?”
“Spiderman doesn’t get that luxury, sweetheart.”
You frown. Hands lightly itching to reach upwards. “But you do, don’t you? Satoru has that luxury.”
“Satoru is Spiderman, and Spiderman takes precedence. It’s.. no offense, but it’s nothing you would get. And that’s for the best, alright?” He murmurs softly, tenderness lacing in his tone as his gaze traveled over you against the wall.
Him towering over you. Still masked, unabiding even as his nerves rupture for closure, burrowing for gaze.
Gaze to him.
Gaze to the man behind the mask.
But Spiderman can’t do that. Life-threatening stakes are familiar to him in his workplace, if he could even call it that. But with ‘great responsibilities comes great power’, right? How could he bare to expose you to that? He swallows loudly, throat closing up in apprehension.
“Just what are you so afraid of?” You bring your hands up to his face, to his mask. Slipping your thumb under the mask falling off on his neck, threatening to tear down every barrier he’s ever built in this sick occupation of his. “What are you so scared I will see?”
His hands come up instinctively to your wrist, holding it in place. Scared that you’ll do it. That you’ll take it off then– then, what?
Run away? Why would you run away?
His head runs in a space he cannot follow, as it always had been.
He suspects, sometimes, that it was the spider running instead of him. He’s merely catching up to the bug that idly sucked on his possession.
“That’s– that’s not it. Don’t you see? I’ve always shown you what’s underneath. Everything. Everything, but this.”
“That’s not fair, Satoru.” His name glides off your tongue with euphonious resonance. You’ve one more barrier to rid of, and greed claws like a parasite leeching. “I want everything. Especially this.”
“This is the one thing I’m not supposed to give you. Ever. I can’t – what do you think I’ve seen, huh?” His voice breaks off shakily, his hold on your wrist tightens as you keep your finger hooked underneath his mask. “Innocent people are used as leverage. Innocent people are used to draw me out. What do you think they’d do with someone I actually care about?"
“You can’t continue to keep someone out and expect them to stay.” You lift his mask up lightly. The slip of his neck is exposed, Satoru’s breath hitches at your contact against his skin. His real skin. Real. This is real, he appalled himself in the shiver of your hold.
“– That’s all I've ever known how to do.”
“Okay,” You hum. Calmer. You lift another inch up again. “Learn. Even spiderman could learn.”
“Pfft. Thought we were past that now. I’m Satoru to you, forget about Spiderman. That guy’s last week’s news.” The corner of his lip quirks up despite himself, his fingers on your wrist softening to a loose hold.
“Oh?” You laugh. “The stains of Spiderman’s blood on my bedsheet are very much not from last week. Something tells me this Spiderman guy will have to do my laundry.”
Another thumb juts another inch upwards. He doesn’t resist – not anymore. Not against this, against everything he’s ever wanted – normalcy – you. You take it as an initiative to drag the spandex of his mask further elevated.
“No need. Satoru here can do aaalll your laundry.”
You’re angry. No, that’s not right. You were angry.
Because he’s reckless, stupid, and he’s been keeping himself locked up in walls cladded with iron. Spiderman – Satoru – you reiterate inside of your head, is still all of those things, and more– yet you can’t find fury to shimmer beneath your veins, for all you find when you dig the vessels out of your skin, is a lenient tenderness.
Perhaps you’re terrified. That must be it. If not anger, you’re terrified. Your thumb juts upwards again, Satoru’s breath hitches against the air as your fingers tenderly review his lips. Pink. A little glossy, upon your surprise. Human.
Him.
“This is weird, huh?” Satoru laughs, and you see his mouth moving. You gape silently, the way his lips move, the way his mouth forms vowels. “I’m gonna start to think you want to kiss me if ‘ya keep staring at my lips like that, sweetheart.”
“Is this okay?” You mutter. Your fingers moving further and further up the top of his head. His fingers finally detach from your wrist, a leniency following his actions, a peace of acquiescence in his mind.
“Yeah,” Satoru’s hands wander around the air, before settling on your waist tentatively. He nods, the mask bunching up. “More than okay.”
“Just to preface,” You purse your lips in wait. Biting down on your bottom lip, before meeting him in the eye – your thumb touching his jaw, the most skin-to-skin you two have ever been. “Regardless of what you look like, I– I'll still–” Love you.
“I’ll still let you eat my celery.” Great improvisation.
But Satoru’s mouth quirks into a boy-ish grin, a toothy smile grazing his lips. “Are you implying there was a chance that if I was ugly, I can’t eat your celery anymore?”
“Okay, I get it! Celery’s an old joke–”
Without giving you much as a moment to react, one of Satoru’s hands detached from your waist – the other bunched up around your shirt – to swiftly tuck his thumb underneath the front of his mask, pulling it swiftly off.
The first thing you noticed was– wow. His eyes are blue. They’re bright – a hint of mischief swirling as the corner of his lips tugged up, eyes curling in satisfaction. His white eyelashes are framed against his eyelid as he drunk the site of you up. As if his eyes didn’t know where to flee, now that they were out in the open. Now that they bore you in their orbiting site.
His white hair caught on the light in your room – ruffled up, strands of hair stuck clinging to his forehead when his mask came off, sticking to a million little places. Ivory under light, snow under flash. For a moment, all you could do in your sensible brain was gape.
“Speechless already? I told you I was handsome, didn’t I?” A grin fixated on his lips, you don’t miss the way his eyes soften almost imperceptibly at the notice of your eyes running over the girdles of his face.
He was. You didn’t think you’d ever admit that – not even in your head. Those Reddit threads hypothesizing on Spiderman’s identity were right. He’s handsome. Intricately so. Your cheeks flush lightly a darker hue.
“.. You’re such a dork.” You finally huff, hands designedly cupping his cheeks, jaw flexing on your palms. He leans into your touch, a smug roll of shoulders escaping him.
“Yeah,” Satoru smiles crescively, his hand dropping the mask on the ground, not caring as he lowered himself to your body against the wall, his hand finding purchase on the curve of your waist once more.
“I guess I am.” He beams, igniting an aura of inconspicuous satisfaction. “I’m your idiot though, right?”
“Yeah, that’s–” You hum, fingers drawing fingers around his jaw. “That’s debatable.”
Satoru laughs, head leaning into your touch as you hold them closer to you. Your face is a mere breath away from touching, bright blue fixated on you, pulling you into its gravitational orbit – you don’t seem to mind, anymore. You hold him closer. Paralleling his orbit with your own.
“.. You’ll stay, right?” Satoru breathes. His voice low.
You looked at him. Without the mask. Without the pretense. The surficial identity. You laugh as if you never considered the possibility of doing otherwise. “Did taking away your mask remove your brain too?”
“Of course I’ll stay.”
He didn’t even have to ask.
You were sucked into the tinsel of his webs since the day you found him bleeding. Since the day he made a point to (against your own understanding, and his own, too) make a home out of your house. You’ve been caught, tangled and wrapped around the silk of his webs since he set his eyes on you–
And you’ve never thought to pry it off.
“Good,” Satoru purrs, his hand digging further into your waist. “That’s good.”
Spiderman!Gojo is an idiot who usually fumbles – but you suppose now, he’s your idiot.
BONUS:
“Take your mask off.”
Satoru rocked back and forth on your bed, his knees drawn together in a criss-cross-apple-sauce seating. “Whaaatttttt?”
“Satoru.”
“Ya want a kiss? Just ask, sweetheart.” Satoru grins, hooking a thumb underneath his mask, pulling up just enough to only reveal his lips, puckering them obnoxiously for you. “Here, mwwwwuaahhh—”
You ignore his obnoxious smacking of lips, and pull the rest of his mask off. Lo and behold – your residential (long-term) neighborhood superhero and (newly appointed) boyfriend with a black eye smearing his face. At the revelation, Satoru shrugs, pleading innocence as he sticks his tongue out.
You exhale. “I knew it! What did you do this time?”
Satoru had the nerve to stick a finger to his chin, pondering your question. “Mm.. my job?”
“That’s not what I–”
“Whateves, whateves. C’mere!” Satoru promptly ignored your worried glance over his injury, drawing his arm around your waist, easily shuffling you atop him, straddling his lap as his other arm braced his figure on the bed. “‘S nothing. You should see the other guy.”
You pinch his arm at the attempt of levity. “Stay here. Let me grab the first aid kit–”
“Noooo, come on. ‘M missing my vitamin k.”
You frown, endeavoring to get up, yet even with one arm, Satoru holds you down to him effortlessly. “Vitamin k? That does not exist.”
His blue eyes flash with a mischievous glint at your skepticism, drawing his face closer to yours. He relishes in the way your breath hitches as his mouth comes a near breath from yours. He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face, reverence in his touch. “Sure it does.”
“Now you’re just making things up–” You start, but your sentence is yet to be finished before his mouth feathers over the brush of your soft lips, connecting the two of you by a soft, yet equally electrifying in-measure act.
You groan against the plush of his lips, his mouth readily swallowing it up as he deepens the kiss, fingers pressing onto your sides as his arms move to hold you in place, situated over his lap. You try to move away – maintain what little dignity which you have – his head follows suit, lips still pressed firmly against yours as your hands move to his shoulder despite your mind’s slower protests.
Satoru kisses like a man needing water. You think, your breath losing as you attempt to pull away once more, yet his lips refuse to detach, his arms swirling you closer in contact. Yet, you begin to waver, losing the mind to move away, you kiss him back just as feverishly, needing the contact in the marrow of your bones.
You forcibly detach your lips from his when air begins to run out of your lungs, his face a dexterously red hue as he stares at you, eyes half-lidded.
“Told you,” A grin forms onto his face as you pant, swollen lips heaving hot air, a string of saliva connecting your lips together. Satoru’s eyes glints with satisfaction. “Vitamin k. Kisses. I need those. Like, I would've died, you don't understand the severity.”
“You,” Breaths heaving out of your lungs, you send a half-hearted scowl at his smug expression. “Are so insufferable.”
Your hands situate themselves onto his shoulder, bracing your body over his in a manner which he very much appreciates, as the view of your body is one he is not attended to be shy with. “You like it.”
Satoru leans closer again, his lips a breath away, feathering the ghost of your own, swollen lips. You sigh in exasperation, a hand moving up to cup his cheek.
“Debatable.” You hum, feeling the vibrations between your mouths, before pressing down against the creeping of his lips. Hands moving into the cradlings of his hair, tugging on his white locks, to which his hold on your waist tightened.
Spiderman!Gojo finds pleasure in your displeasure – but you can’t say wholeheartedly that you mind, anymore.
- woah JJK listen i havent been in this fandom since the ripe of 2020 & it's weird being back because so many of the fans are illiterate whoops did i say that
- office au gojo fic next oouhh
- sorry for the dumbass jokes idk how to flirt it was lowk unfunny but a girl can try
- this is the opposite to the normal spiderman x reader tropes - which in this version, reader knows spiderman before they know the man beneath the mask, as opposed to finding out the guy you've known is spiderman. Idk i wanted to see where that could lead & what it means for a relationship built up of spiderman
- UGHHH THEY'RE ROUGHLY based off of Peter Parker & Gwen Stacy from the Amazing Spiderman & SORT OF Peter Parker & MJ from Spiderman: Homecoming but this time they're both adults and i wanted to go a lil different route for spiderman
- this is lowk buns but we ball bcs exams r coming up & im DEAD
- next oneshot reader fucking dies (JK!! i wouldn't do that! I don't like angst at all! wink. turns head slowly, hair swaying in the wind.)
- The narrative changing from 'Satoru said' and 'Spiderman said' interchangeably is on purpose - the words that are more vulnerable, Satoru said it. The words that are casual or 'demeaning', Spiderman said it.
- omg i love writing spiderjo FUCK I LOVE SPIDERMAN MY GOAT
- Taking off the mask as an allegory for letting people in, letting people close, and opening yourself = taking your mask off
- Kinda based off of the song City of Stars from La la land but i'm ngl i didn't know what to title it so I just grabbed city of stars from my playlist
- Ryan gosling is the goat & Andrew Garfield is the hottest spiderman i rest my case
❝ cis this a start of something wonderful or new? Or one more dream, that I cannot make true? ❞
౨ৎ spiderman!choso who has an undeniable infatuation with you
spiderman!choso who can swing through nyc easy peasy, fighting off bad guys and getting his ass beat. but talking to you? absolutely no fucking way did he have the balls for that.
spiderman!choso who you recall to have about a few classes with. the quiet booksmart emo adjacent choso kamo, making eye contact with him when he passed by the campus’s local Starbucks. you’d be chatting away with a friend of yours but couldnt help but notice the coffee he had stacked on top of all his books, black rimmed glasses tipping over the bridge of his nose, striking black tattoo that always infatuated you laying right beneath them. he never forgot the day he practically almost ruined his laptop with all his school stuff and coffee in his hand, you coming over to him and helping him like the generous angel you were. “cho,” you giggled. “you gotta be more careful!” choso felt the heat rise to his cheeks, the nickname, your little laugh, the way you smiled up at him, this was practically his first interaction with you besides a ‘good morning’ when you entered your shared lecture.
spiderman!choso who knew it was utterly pathetic. crushing on some pretty girl just because she helped his clumsy self? if only he could show you how cool he could be, maybe if he was in his spidey suit he could be smooth, more chill. he fought bad guys and criminal day and night, then why the hell couldnt he talk to a pretty girl?
spiderman!choso who’s head raised when he heard his name come from one of your friends mouths. “did you see what spiderman did last night? isnt it so crazy that he can just shoot webs like that?” he tried to not to eavesdrop, but he just couldn’t help it. “spiderman this, spiderman that, whatever! he’s just some other run of the mill guy that thinks he’s some great superhero for just being a good guy.” choso’s ego shattered a little bit, wincing, pretending to be deep into whatever photography work he had due on his laptop. you weren’t impressed with spiderman huh? well, there was only one thing he could do then—choso just had to change your mind.
spiderman!choso who was just finishing up one of his nightly takedowns, blood prickling down his lip under his mask. he was gonna throw in the towel for the night, webbing up his victims tied to a pole, leaving the rest of it to nypd. it was rather late at night, about to be 1 am. his head turned when he heard a familiar giggle, none other than you; the pretty girl in his literature lectures. you stumbled out of the nightclub, waving clumsily for a yellow taxi. you were alone, your coat falling from your shoulders to reveal your pink glittery mini dress, your matching tory burch sandals flipping against the dirty concrete. his heart warmed at the sight, but his spidey senses heightened when he noticed the two men that stood behind you, he already knew their intentions.
spiderman!choso who after beating up a couple of low life douchebags, turns to your side, drunk shock written all over your face when you catch him in that alleyway, throwing out the trash. “sp—spiderman?” you hiccuped, clutching your purse. he looked over to you, flushed and a couple pieces of your hair fraying on your cute little head. he choked for a moment, before remembering he had his mask on. “that’s—thats me!” he choked out nervously, bringing his hand up to scratch his neck. he watched as your eyes widened when he walked closer to you, “dont come any closer!” you squealed, choso spiderman putting his hands up in the air, the two white eye holes of his mask widening comically. “relax, im not here to hurt you sweetheart.” you stumbled on your sandals, almost dropping your pink little coach purse. choso used his webs to grab it before it hit the dirty brooklyn floor. your breath hitched looking up at him, his hand already around you, helping you stabilize yourself. “cmon, let’s get you home.”
spiderman!choso who swings with you to your dorm, you holding onto his neck. he wanted to be for sure you had maded home, so he took it an extra mile of dropping you off at your window. he tucked you in bed, as you croaked out a sleepy drunk “bye, spidey” before he jumped out the window, a tingly warmth in his chest at his proximity with you.
spiderman!choso who tried to eavesdrop again to hear if your opinion on spiderman changed ever so slightly, but all he got were little moments with you—however he wasn’t complaining. “you’re so smart, choso!” you smiled when he solved a math problem for you for one of your business classes. heat rised to his cheeks at the compliment, “it was nothing” that was until one of the cafe tvs played the news headlines again from the nightbefore. “spiderman, at it again! last night in the brooklyn area two juveniles wanted for robbing a nearby bank were found tied up in webs, finally being turned into the police.” the tv then displayed a couple blurry shots of civilian pictures of choso in his suit swinging around. choso watched your face intently to see if he you were forming a newfound opinion. “spiderman, huh?” choso chuckled. you took a sip from your latte, biting your pen. “hes okay.” you stated, with an incoherent demeanor. “now, cho, show me your new photos!” you changed the subject. okay, choso thought. just okay? sure he didn’t do much, but he needed to gain your approval. a normal person wouldve just left it alone at an okay. but no, choso needed more.
ཐི Pairings: Spider-Man!Gojo x f!Reader
ཐི Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI: blood/injury, mild language, brief suggestive tension, emotional vulnerability, mentions of past trauma/injury, friends-to-lovers tension, slow burn maybe, shirtless Gojo in distress (you're welcome)
ཐི Synopsis: You always knew something was off. The bruises, the excuses, the way Satoru smiled like nothing was ever wrong. But you never expected to catch your best friend climbing through his dorm window in a torn Spider-Man suit—bleeding, limping, and very, very confused to find you already in his bed. Turns out, the mask was the easy part. Explaining why he kept it from you? That’s going to hurt more.
Look, in Satoru Gojo’s defense, he didn’t mean to get bitten by a radioactive spider.
It wasn’t like he woke up one morning and thought, “You know what would really spice things up? Permanent genetic mutation.” No—he was just eighteen, bored, and dared by his best friends to sneak off during a field trip.
It had been Suguru’s idea, naturally. Haibara backed it up with that reckless grin of his and a, “Come on, Gojo! Don’t be a coward.”. And Gojo—never one to turn down a challenge, especially with you watching from the corner of the lab, arms crossed and suspicious—took the bait.
Next thing he knew, he was sneaking behind the barrier in one of the restricted research wings, alone, because of course his friends had ditched him to go flirt with the grad students.
But then he took one wrong turn, finding himself in a closed-off lab, staring at a glowing containment case he definitely shouldn’t have opened. And then—snap. Right on the web between his thumb and index finger. Like the thing had been waiting.
Yeah. He got bit. Sue him.
It was small, and honestly, the bite had barely hurt. You’d scolded him for wandering off, of course. Dragged him out by the sleeve of his lab coat and threatened to tell Yaga about the whole thing. But he never got the chance to explain the bite. Not before the symptoms started.
First came the dizziness. Then the freaky super strength. The creeping sense of pressure in the back of his head every time something bad was about to happen. And then the wall-crawling incident. That one was hard to ignore, especially when it ended with him stuck to the ceiling of the boys’ dorm for two hours before Suguru had found him. He was the only one who knew.
And the weird powers? They never went away.
The getting-stuck-to-the-walls thing just got worse. Along with his super strength that he hadn’t learned to control, resulting in him accidentally flicking an entire cafeteria tray into Nanami’s face (which he still hadn’t been forgiven for).
The rest, well...it escalated.
He got a mask. A suit. A name.
And for the past few years, he’d been juggling college classes, part-time tutoring, and the occasional city-wide disaster. It wasn’t glamorous. He wasn’t rich or famous. He still showed up to class ten minutes late with iced coffee and fresh bruises he refused to explain. But someone had to look out for this city—and it might as well be him.
Most nights were spent slinging webs across the skyline, fighting weirdos in mech suits or mind-control cults or whatever flavor of chaos happened to be trending. It wasn’t exactly what he had imagined his early twenties would look like, but hey—at least the cardio was good.
Tonight had been one of the rougher ones.
The villain had some sort of magnetic field tech—don’t ask, he’s still figuring it out—that completely messed with his web cartridges, which was honestly just rude. His ribs were sore, his suit was torn along the left thigh and shoulder, and he was pretty sure there was dried blood on his chin.
All he wanted to do after was crawl into bed and maybe sleep for the next week.
He didn’t bother swinging all the way across the city. Not tonight. He cut through a few back alleys, scaled a fire escape, and ducked into the familiar creak of the window that led to his dorm bedroom.
He dropped down inside with a grunt, one leg over the sill and already halfway to peeling off the top half of his suit when he heard it:
A soft rustle. The distinct turn of a page.
His head snapped up.
You were there.
Not a hallucination. Not a dream.
Just you, curled up on his bed like you belonged there—hoodie sleeves pushed up, a paperback balanced on your knees.
You blinked.
He blinked.
Both frozen.
And for once, Satoru Gojo had absolutely no idea what to say.
It was almost midnight when your phone buzzed again.
Another text from Gojo.
still working late :( don’t wait up
You stared at the message for a second too long, thumb hovering over the screen like you were tempted to cuss him out one more time. But then you rolled your eyes, locked it with a sigh, and tossed the phone onto his nightstand with a quiet thud.
Liar.
“Working late,” your ass.
He always said that. Or some variation of it—meetings ran long, had to help Yaga with something, emergency tutoring session. All suspicious. All delivered with that same infuriating grin, like he knew you wouldn’t push.
Sometimes you did. Sometimes you tried.
But he always wriggled his way out of it, brushing you off with a joke or a wink, or a “God, you worry too much.” Like caring about him was some kind of thing you should’ve been embarrassed about.
It was infuriating how vague he could really be—always making it seem like he was out actually doing something normal. But the bruises told you otherwise. The busted knuckles, the limping gait some mornings, the way he winced when he thought you weren’t looking—it all added up to something much bigger than “late-night tutoring sessions”.
So you stopped asking. Mostly.
Suguru was even worse. You’d begged him once, cornered him in the campus café after class when Satoru had come home with his ribs wrapped and his knuckles bloodied. “What is he doing at night?” you’d asked, giving him a look that said I’m serious this time.
Suguru had just looked at you for a long moment before quietly saying, “It’s not my place to tell. Satoru’s just…a complicated guy.”
Like you didn’t already know that.
Then he paid for your coffee and changed the subject.
You’d never felt so helpless in your life.
Satoru Gojo was your best friend. Had been since high school. Loud, ridiculous, impossibly smart—annoying, in that way that got on your nerves like it was his full-time job (though, he made it incredibly hard to actually stay mad at him). He was also the one who carried you home on his back when your feet hurt. Who sent you memes when he knew you were upset. He made you laugh. Made you feel safe, even when the rest of the world didn’t.
Somewhere along the way, the closeness stopped feeling purely platonic.
You never admitted it. Not even to yourself—not really. But it was there, humming under your skin like static.
And lately…he’d been pulling away. Or maybe hiding something. You weren’t sure which felt worse.
He was so secretive. Always brushing things off, changing the subject, vanishing in the middle of plans. You’d started pretending not to notice. That maybe it was just work, or stress, or something he’d eventually tell you when he was ready.
But that excuse had been wearing thin.
So tonight, instead of going back to your own dorm, you waited.
You’re not even sure why. Stubbornness, maybe. Or something softer you don’t want to name.
You were already curled up on his bed, one leg tucked beneath you, a paperback open in your lap as you reread the same sentence three times now. The hoodie you were wearing was one of his—oversized, soft, with a faded Digimon print on the front and sleeves that fell over your hands. It still smelled like his detergent—that faint peppermint-and-cotton scent that always made you feel like you were here, with him, even when he wasn’t.
His dorm was quiet, except for the occasional shuffle of someone in the hallway and the low hum of traffic outside the cracked window. The room was small and messy, barely big enough for one person, let alone two (he shared with Suguru). His desk was cluttered with open notebooks and loose pens. A pair of round sunglasses rested crooked on top of a physics textbook. The desk chair was pushed back at an angle like he had left in a rush.
You turned a page.
And another.
The clock ticked past midnight.
You didn’t know why you were still here. Maybe out of spite. Maybe hope. Maybe because you wanted to be there to make sure he was okay. That if he came back again limping or bleeding or cracked open, you’d be the one to catch him.
But deep down, you were hoping—just a little—that tonight would be different. That he’d walk through the door and sit beside you and finally tell you the truth.
You glanced at the window. It was cracked slightly, as always. He insisted that it was for ventilation, but you always suspected it was just another one of his stupid quirks.
You sighed, stretched your legs a little, and settled deeper into the pillows.
If Satoru wanted to keep secrets, fine. He could have his mysteries and his midnight escapades.
But he could at least have the decency to come home before you fell asleep in his bed.
You were just about to give up and call it a night when the window creaked.
Not loud. Just enough to make your head lift.
You blinked once, slowly, glancing up, expecting him to walk through the door like a normal person.
But no.
Of course not.
There was movement—a shadow pulling itself over the sill, graceless and muttering.
And then he dropped into the room.
You froze.
So did he.
One leg still hanging out the window, one glove halfway peeled off. His other hand tugged at the edge of a white mask, lifting it high enough to expose his jaw—his bruised, bloody jaw—and a familiar mop of white hair.
And your stomach dropped.
He hadn’t noticed you yet, not fully. He was grumbling under his breath, tugging at the top half of his suit as he peeled it down to his waist with a wince. His hair was a mess, clinging to his forehead with sweat, and there was a cut on his temple that looked like it hadn’t stopped bleeding.
But that wasn’t what made your heart stop.
It was the suit.
Mostly black and white. Torn at the sleeve. Streaked with dirt and ash. And right at the center of his chest, printed in bright, unmistakable blue—
A spider emblem.
Your breath caught.
He looked up. Finally saw you.
And everything in the room just—stopped. He was like a deer caught in headlights.
You felt your heart kind of stutter, because it’s him. It’s Satoru. Except—it’s not.
You stared at him.
Then at the suit.
Then back at him.
Your mouth dropped open. There is no way. No fucking way…
You’ve seen Spider-Man before—but who hasn’t? He was on the news, in blurry tabloid photos, grainy clips online. The masked vigilante who swung in to stop a building collapse downtown. The guy who took on four robbers at once outside the Midtown bank. The same one who—
—saved you once.
But that had been months ago.
And he hadn’t said a word.
Just lifted you out of danger, bridal style, and disappeared before you could even thank him. You’d told yourself it could’ve been anyone.
But now, with him standing in front of you—torn suit, wild hair, and a look of complete panic settling across his features?
There was no denying it.
The book you were barely reading slipped from your lap, hitting the mattress with a dull thump.
“Y–You’re Spiderm—” you start, the words tumbling out before your brain can catch up.
His eyes went wide.
“NOPE—NOPE NOPE NOPE—” he yelped, practically throwing himself across the room.
You shot to your feet, voice rising. “You’re Spider-M—!”
“SHHHHH—” His palm slammed over your mouth mid-sentence.
Your hands flew up in protest, eyes wide, muffled complaints coming fast and still loud. He looked equally horrified and apologetic, the panic written all over his face.
“Stop talking. Stop—please—shhh. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.” He glanced wildly at the window, as if worried someone might’ve heard you from four stories below. “Why are you here?! Why are you—why are you awake?!”
You glared up at him.
He winced, looking like he was two seconds away from passing out. “Right. Yeah. Okay. That’s a dumb question. But this is fine. Totally fine. Normal, even.” he muttered mostly to himself.
You raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Okay, not normal,” he amends quickly, eyes darting around like the room might start recording him. “But manageable. Kind of. If you just—stop screaming and don’t say the name again—"
You swatted at his hand until he finally took the hint. He slowly peeled it away from your mouth, like you might bite him. You didn’t—but only barely. You gaped at him for another beat. Your eyes flicked back to his suit, to the emblem, to the blood on his temple. “You’re Spider-Man?!”
“That’s…um.” He scratched the back of his head, grinning weakly. “A surprisingly complicated question, actually.”
Your hands flew up again. “Are you insane?!”
“Okay see, that’s more fair—”
“You’ve been lying to me this entire time—”
“Not lying,” he said, holding up both hands like he could Jedi-mind-trick you into chilling out. “Just, you know. Withholding certain city-saving, occasionally life-threatening details…”
You were still too stunned to speak. Your pulse was thundering in your ears.
Satoru Gojo—your idiot best friend—was the Spider-Man.
“What the fuck, Satoru?!”
“I can explain!”
“Can you?!”
“...Well, no. But I will! Eventually!”
There was another beat of tense silence. Then you both spoke at the same time.
“You’re a superhero—”
“You were not supposed to be here—”
Another pause.
You looked at him again. This tall, ridiculous man in front of you, standing in his half-peeled suit, covered in bruises, and desperately trying to hold it together with pure denial.
And you couldn’t help it.
You bursted out laughing.
“You’re Spider-Man?” you ask again, still breathless. “You trip over your own feet walking across campus.”
He pouted, deeply offended. “I don’t trip—okay, that was one time, and the floor was weird.”
You shook your head, a hundred questions forming at once. None of them left your mouth.
Because suddenly, everything—every late-night excuse, every wince, every disappearing act—made a terrifying kind of sense.
And it hit you, like gravity finally catching up, that he’d been doing this alone.
So, the laughter faded. Slowly. The corners of your mouth still twitched, but your chest felt tight again. It didn’t just disappear completely—but it quieted. Simmering beneath the weight of everything you’d come to realize.
Satoru looked at you, and you looked at him—this idiot, this liar, this half-dressed, scraped-up mess of a best friend— was still standing there, scuffed and bloody and too tired to keep the smile on his face. His shoulders were tense. His eyes—usually so loud, so annoyingly bright—were just…quiet. You felt everything all at once. Relief. Anger. Confusion. That familiar knot of worry that always settled in your stomach whenever he came home bloodied.
But mostly? You were hurt.
You crossed your arms over your chest, with a pout matching his own, “Why didn’t you tell me?” It hadn’t meant to come out so quietly, a little too raw.
He flinched as if you slapped him. “I—I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I just—”
You stepped back before he could get any closer. “No, seriously. Don’t start with that. You lied. You disappeared. You let me sit here for months, wondering where you were. You let me think you were just being a dumbass, going out and getting into fights for fun, when you were out there risking your life every single night.”
He flinched again. You hated that he looked so small sitting there with his arms half out of his suit. Like he knew he’d messed up and didn’t know how to fix it.
“Suguru knew,” you snapped. “And not me. Do you have any idea how shitty that feels?”
His mouth opened—then closed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, like he didn’t know where to start.
“Okay, that wasn’t—on purpose,” he said eventually. “He walked in on me stuck to the ceiling of our dorm one night. I was still figuring everything out, and he… just found out. I didn’t tell him. He saw. And I couldn’t really explain that away, could I?”
You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because you believed that part—but it didn’t fix the ache.
He looked up at you then, eyes wide and a little too honest.
“Look, you’re right. I should’ve told you. I just…I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted.
That made your eyes narrow. “What?”
He exhaled, long and rough-sounding. “Not because I don’t trust you. It’s the opposite.”
“Satoru—”
“I’m serious,” he said, cutting you off. “I’ve seen what happens. Bad guys figure out who matters. They look for leverage, and people get caught in the middle. People I care about. I didn’t want to put a target on your back. If anything ever happened to you because of me—”
His voice broke off shakily, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t survive it,” he said, quieter. “I’d never forgive myself…”
You blinked, feeling your throat tighten. “But I’ve always been there,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Whether I knew or not. I was already close. That didn’t change anything. You just…kept me in the dark.”
He just looked at you like you were breaking his heart. “I know…I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to lie to you. I just—wanted to keep you safe.”
There was a long, slow silence. Your shoulders sagged. The tension in your chest didn’t disappear, but it softened.
“…You’re such an idiot,” you muttered, stepping forward and tugging at his wrist. “Sit down before you fall over.”
He obeyed without argument, slowly sinking onto the edge of the bed with a quiet wince. You didn’t wait for permission—you turned on your heel and disappeared into his tiny bathroom, hands trembling as you opened the cabinet under the sink.
You needed a minute to breathe. To focus on something real, like disinfectant and gauze pads. Something you could control.
When you returned with the first aid kit, he hadn’t moved. He looked up at you with those stupidly blue eyes like he expected you to throw it at his head (which he definitely deserved).
Instead, you knelt down in front of him, pulling the kit open with practiced fingers. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, smiling just a little.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you said, your voice fell quiet again. It wasn’t meant to sound so soft, but it was the truth.
He didn’t say anything, but he held your gaze.
You gestured toward his shoulder. “Suit.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“For the wound, asshole.”
“Oh. Right.” He winced, hesitating for a moment before he peeled the rest of the top down, the fabric sticking to a bloody scrape along his ribs. His chest was broad and flushed in patches of bruised skin and dried blood. Strong. Vulnerable.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the gauze. You tried not to look too long, but your gaze lingered. On the muscles shifting beneath his skin. On the curve of his neck, the dip of his collarbones, the pale trail of a healing scar across his ribs that you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell, shallow and slow.
Your pulse fluttered, and it made you angry—because he was reckless and stupid and hadn’t told you anything. And it made you terrified, because you didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t made it home tonight.
He winced when you dabbed the cut a little too firmly. “Baby,” you teased, gently. “You jumped off a building tonight. I think you can handle a little antiseptic.”
He snorted in response, smiling just a little, but it was smaller than usual. More tired. “That’s rich, coming from the person who cries during animal rescue commercials.”
The silence stretched. Your fingers moved more slowly, feeling the tension between you suddenly shift. It softened, changed shape.
You realized you were still kneeling between his knees, still tending to the bruise blooming down the side of his chest, and his eyes hadn’t left you once. When your hand brushed along the exposed skin, his jaw ticked.
The air felt warmer now. Thicker. His eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips. Yours flicked to his.
And he leaned in. Just barely.
And you let him.
Your heart stuttered against your ribs once more, this time for a very different reason. Your lips parted slightly—
—and then the door swung open.
“Hey, Satoru, have you seen my—” Suguru’s voice cut off midway.
Both you and Satoru whipped your heads around, flustered, wide-eyed, practically jumping apart.
Suguru stood in the doorway, eyes landing on you. Then Satoru. Then the awkward tangle of limbs and exposed skin between you.
There was a beat of silence as he blinked. But then he smirked. “Oops,” he said, backing up with his hands raised into the air. “My bad.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Then, slowly, you sat back, pressing the gauze firmly to his chest like it was his fault. “Tell him if he walks in like that again, I will kill him.”
Satoru coughed, trying and failing to look innocent. “Technically, he does live here.”
You glared. “Whatever.”
And this time, he laughed.
You cleaned the last of the cuts in silence, fingers steadier now. The sharp edge of anger had dulled into something quieter. Something that felt like grief, maybe. Or relief. A kind of tenderness you weren’t sure what to do with.
And it wasn’t awkward between you anymore. Just heavy. Full of things unsaid.
You taped down the last bit of gauze and let your hand rest—briefly—against the uninjured part of his chest. The warmth of his skin. The steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
He didn’t move.
You knew he was still watching you. He always watched you like this—like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.
And maybe you would’ve. If things were different.
When you finally sat back on your heels, you expected him to deflect. To joke. To shove it all down again, the way he always did when things got too real.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his voice came low. Careful. Afraid he didn’t deserve to ask.
“…Can you stay?”
You looked up at him. Really looked—at the bruises, the bandages, the blood still drying in his hair. But more than that…you saw all of it. The fear. The loneliness. The guilt he’d never once said out loud.
You wanted to yell at him again. Or maybe hold him forever.
But instead, you just nodded. Quietly. Without hesitation.
Because he didn’t need to ask.
Because you were already here.
Because you’d always stay.
And that was enough.
Author's Note: I've had this oneshot in my drafts forever now, but I was feeling inspired by Only One's Who Know by @indiewritesxoxo, because this superhero au of Gojo and Geto is chef's kiss. And I HIGHLY recommend you guy's go give it a read (I'm addicted)!
As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3
divider: @strangergraphics! | Art by: @aliyartss on instagram
dancing is the hidden language of the world. - martha graham.
[spider!man choso x iceskater!reader]
note: my first mini series not on ao3! please i'm trying!
synopsis: your college boyfriend choso has a secret! he's spiderman!! how exciting but the demands of the growing crime and villians in nyc, leave him little time to be with you much to your detirment. can choso save the world & his relationship?
warnings: 18+, choso is dumb at feelings, modern day nyc [2025], emotional conflict, angst, guilt anxiety, reader is higurama's daughter, intimidation, conflict, smut, smoking, apology sex, injury (skating & fighting), blood, slight geto x reader
One of the kids in Alexandria calls you Mrs. Dixon. Neither you or Daryl make a move to correct him despite the fact that you aren't together.
It started as a joke.
At least… you thought it did.
Alexandria had settled into one of its rare good days—sun out, kids running around without fear biting at their heels, the walls holding strong. You were crouched near the steps, helping one of the younger kids patch up a scraped knee, murmuring soft reassurances while they sniffled.
“It’s okay,” you said gently, tying off the bandage. “You’re tougher than that, I know it.”
The kid grinned, all gap-toothed and proud.
“Thanks, Mrs. Dixon!”
You froze.
“…What?”
They didn’t even hesitate. Just beamed up at you like they hadn’t said something that made your entire brain short-circuit.
“Mrs. Dixon,” they repeated. “’Cause you’re with Daryl.”
Somewhere behind you, you heard a very distinct choking sound.
You turned your head just enough to see Daryl Dixon standing a few feet away, a hand awkwardly covering his mouth, eyes wide like he’d just been shot instead of mildly embarrassed.
You blinked.
“I—uh—” you started, then looked back at the kid.
They were already running off again, problem solved, world intact, leaving you sitting there with your heart doing something weird in your chest.
You should’ve corrected them.
You meant to.
But when you glanced back at Daryl—still standing there, still staring at you like he didn’t quite know what just happened—you didn’t.
“…You heard that, right?” you asked.
He shrugged, a little stiff. “Kids say dumb stuff.”
“Right,” you said.
But neither of you said it was wrong.
That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Because kids talk.
And then adults hear.
And then, apparently, the entire population of Alexandria decides it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever encountered.
“Morning, Mrs. Dixon!”
You nearly dropped the basket you were carrying.
“Don’t you start,” you warned, pointing at Glenn as he passed by with a grin that could only be described as menacingly amused.
“Start what?” he asked innocently.
“You know exactly what.”
He held his hands up. “Hey, I’m just going with what the community’s calling you now.”
“There is no community decision—”
“Pretty sure there is,” came another voice.
You turned to see Carol standing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“Carol,” you said flatly.
She smiled. Sweet. Dangerous.
“It suits you,” she added.
“I’m going to start ignoring all of you.”
“Too late,” Glenn said. “It’s caught on.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.
“Where is he?” you muttered.
Carol’s brows lifted slightly. “Daryl?”
“Who else?”
“He didn’t start it.”
“He didn’t stop it either,” you shot back.
Carol hummed like that was a fair point.
Avoiding Daryl proved… impossible.
Mostly because he started avoiding you.
Which was new.
Suspicious.
And honestly? A little annoying.
You finally cornered him near the edge of the walls, where he was checking his crossbow like it needed checking for the tenth time that day.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“Am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Ain’t.”
You crossed your arms. “Daryl.”
He didn’t look at you. “What?”
You stepped closer, enough that he couldn’t pretend you weren’t there.
“You’ve been acting weird since—”
“—Since what?” he cut in quickly.
You stared at him.
“…Since everyone started calling me your wife,” you said bluntly.
That did it.
His hands stilled on the crossbow.
Silence stretched.
Then—
“…People got too much time on their hands,” he muttered.
“That’s your response?”
“What d’you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” you said, exasperated. “Something would be nice.”
He finally looked at you then.
And for a second, all the deflection dropped.
“…You don’t like it,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
You blinked, caught off guard. “That’s not—”
“Ain’t gotta pretend,” he added quickly, already looking away again. “I get it.”
“Daryl.”
“Nah, it’s fine. Just—people talk. Don’t mean nothin’.”
Your chest tightened.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Didn’t have to.”
You stared at him, frustration bubbling up sharp and sudden.
“You’re unbelievable.”
He huffed, defensive. “What now?”
“I never said I didn’t like it.”
That made him pause.
Slowly, he looked back at you.
“…You didn’t?”
“No.”
A beat.
“…Then why you look like that every time someone says it?”
“Because it’s embarrassing!” you snapped. “Not because I hate it!”
His brows pulled together, confusion flickering across his face.
“Embarrassin’ how?”
You threw your hands up. “Because it’s not real, Daryl!”
The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to take them back.
His expression shifted instantly. Closed off. Guarded.
“Right,” he said shortly.
“That’s not what I meant,” you rushed to fix.
“Sounded like it.”
“I meant—” You exhaled sharply, trying to get your thoughts straight. “I meant it’s not real yet.”
That stopped him.
Completely.
“…Yet?” he echoed.
Your heart pounded.
“Well, yeah,” you said, softer now. “Because we’re not—” You gestured between the two of you. “—this. Not officially.”
He stared at you like you’d just said something in another language.
“And whose fault is that?” you added quietly.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
“…Mine?” he tried.
You huffed out a small, incredulous laugh. “Yeah. Kinda.”
Silence again.
Thicker this time.
Then, slower—
“You want that?” he asked.
Your chest tightened at how careful his voice was. How unsure.
“You don’t?” you shot back.
He stepped closer without really seeming to realize he was doing it.
“Didn’t say that.”
“Then say it,” you pressed.
His jaw worked, like the words were physically hard to get out.
“I ain’t… good at that stuff,” he admitted. “Talkin’. Feelings. All that.”
“I know.”
“Thought—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Thought you just… liked things how they are.”
“I do,” you said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want more.”
He searched your face, like he was trying to find any hint you didn’t mean it.
“More,” he repeated.
You nodded.
“Like… people calling you that,” he said slowly.
You smiled, just a little.
“Maybe not in front of everyone,” you admitted. “But… yeah.”
Something in his expression softened. Shifted into something warmer. Steadier.
“…Didn’t correct ‘em,” he said.
You tilted your head. “You didn’t either.”
A faint, almost shy huff of a laugh escaped him.
“Didn’t wanna.”
Your heart skipped.
“Yeah?” you murmured.
He nodded once.
Then, quieter—
“…Kinda liked it.”
That warmth in your chest spread, soft and bright.
“Me too,” you admitted.
Another step closer.
Now there was barely any space between you.
“So,” you said gently, “what do we do about that?”
He hesitated.
Then reached for your hand.
His fingers laced with yours—rough, grounding, sure.
“We make it real,” he said.
Simple.
Certain.
Your breath caught, but you smiled.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’d like that.”
Behind you, somewhere not nearly as subtle as they thought they were, you heard a very distinct—
“Called it,” from Glenn.
And a soft, satisfied hum from Carol.
You groaned, dropping your forehead briefly against Daryl’s shoulder.
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