〰જ⁀⟡𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓴𝔂〰જ⁀⟡

99.96%.

‘Oh’ was right.

Just his name sends a thrill down your spine.

Your fists clench in your lap, and before you know it, you’re nodding at the woman. “I would…like to meet him, please.”

.

.

.

Name: Fushiguro Toji

Age: ?*

Occupation: ??

Category: DILF

Primary likings: Rough. Manhandling. Doggy. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 8 onwards…)

*Got offended when asked (assumed mid-thirties).

One date that lasts about an hour.

One date that lasts about an hour - that’s all it takes for the boiling tension between you and ‘Mr. Fushiguro Toji’ to bubble over. Perhaps it was due to the shared knowledge that you two were scientifically identified to be perfect sexual matches, perhaps it was the way those vine-green eyes swept over you leisurely, appreciatively, as you walked into the romantic dinner date arranged by the agency.

It seems Toji had entered himself into the BIG BANG THEORY PROJECT on accident after believing it was a normal matchmaking agency.

“—so imagine my surprise when I get there n’ all the questions are about what positions I like to stick my dick in?” He’d gruffed over the candlelit dinner - French cuisine, was it? A few of the other patrons glared at him, but Toji paid no attention. “I mean- I went along with it, of course. Already paid about twenty yen, hmpf…but I hadn’t actually planned to go through with this bullshit until-”

Those intense eyes of his flickered to you once more.

“-I saw that application of yours- of course.” And you felt the inchoate desire in your stomach give a strange twist—“A 99.6-”

“99.96%. Actually.” You interrupted, gnawing on your bottom lip.

“Interesting.” Toji smiled and leaned back into his chair. “Really interesting.”

And perhaps it was—

“Don’t tell me I’ve fucked ya speechless already when I haven’t even put it in?”

You’re snapping back to your senses- enough reminiscing about those first few minutes of meeting the man that was currently hugging you close to him - crushing you against his sultry sweat-sticky abs - not in a gentle display of affection, but such a lecherous embrace. Tacking his toned pelvis against your ass. Letting his engorged tip push-push-push between your pussylips and sliiiiiiiide down all those tender innards. 

Toji keeps you from moving even a single inch as he shuffles you into doggy position. The bed whines just as you do. “S’this your favorite?” He watches from the corner of his eye as you nod. “Yeahhhh, mine fuckin’ too, girlie.”

And, in emphasis, he’s circling one roughened palm over your right ass cheek—giving just a brazen little smack. 

“Mine fuckin’ too, girlie.” 

“I mean, there’s a reason they matched us.” You huff at him.

“Yeah- and I’m about to find out.” Toji mutters. And you’re hearing him before anything else - the soft creaking! of that shitty love hotel bed, dipping, as he shuffles even closer—the sultry lil’ smooch of his wet tip kissing your hole. Thump-thump-thump—you can count every pulse. His or yours? “Bite the pillow.”

“Why would I need to- ohhhh, mpf-”

The answer to your question comes swift and merciless - because in one fluid motion Toji has his cocktip burgeoning inside, and his hips plastering to yours. 

He keeps both hands - warm and slightly gnarled with callouses from whatever shady line of business he was in - firmly upon either side of your waist. Using his massive strength to jerk you back—just a little…But it feels like Toji was pumping thoroughly into your deepest core.

He was usin’ the little flare underneath his tip to stretch that snug channel- stretching and stretching that first ring of muscle. And then bashing his cockhead in so roughly that you start to wonder whether he was having issues controlling himself—you’re feeling Toji let out a little cracked groan as he feels your walls quiver around him. And then he’s pushing his hot cock in aaaaaaall the way as deep as it could go- “Aaaaaaatta girl. That’s a good girl. Now for the fun part…” 

You furrow your brows half-heartedly. “This isn’t already the fun part?” Earning yourself the oh-so-lascivious punishment of yet another spank on your right cheek; and then a few more probin’ pushes of his cock. “I was just—oh-” Your toes curl as he hits a particularly good spot without even trying.

“It is.” Toji responds. “But it’s just about to get a whole lot more fun.”

You’re shivering as one of his fingertips paint the line down your spine, immediately followed by a string of kisses as far as he could go. But, of course, you never did expect Fushiguro Toji to be so gentle—did you? You never wanted him to be, did you?

Because his lips hover ‘round the soft skin of your right shoulder—and without warning, he’s biting. Your mouth opens in a soundless scream.

With a grunt that sounds as though it’s been dragged from the primal depths of his throat, Toji jerks your hips back into his with a plap! of skin-on-skin. And almost before that, he’s suddenly starting to pummel and pummel those rugged hips of his into yours, utterly molding his thick cock into your goopy insides- coating every inch with a layer of his slick—

“Because.” Toji gruffs out in an animalistic way - he angles his head and licks a long stripe up your neck. “Because- it took me a loooooooong time to get matched on that damn program. A long fuckin’ time.”

“Oh-” You’re yelping as he tugs your arms from underneath you- and you’re collapsing face-first into the soft strawberry-scented pillows. Collapsed doggy. 

And before you know it, Toji straightens up and lets the heel of one of his feet rest on the corner of your shoulder. “Tch- way too fucking long.” This angle lets his cock penetrate even deeper, and his bouldering tip pushes into every single slick-filled orifice inside. “How long should it take to find a pretty babe f’me who likes it rough—” And he fucks you rough. “-who likes it hard—” And he fucks you hard. “-who likes me disrespectin’ this pussy like she deserves. Now how hard should that be, hm?”

And you’re unsure whether he was genuinely expecting a response or not - but you’re letting out a blabber of something you hope is comprehensible either way. “I—mmm, notthathard-”

“Exactly.” Toji huffs out a short breath of laughter. Then his hands are on you—pushing on the base of your spine and arching you in ways you didn’t even know were possible.

“O-ohhhhhh, harder-”

“Thought you said it wasn’t that hard? And throw in a little manhandling-” Arching. “Just a little dumbification.” Making you drool. He reaches his foot - just a little, just softly - up to put pressure on near your neck n’ restrict your air flow—he leaves you gasping and choking with every thrust. “A little choking- heh.” He looks you over. “Maybe a few daddy issues-”

“Hey!”

“And then you’ve got it. Perfectly matching. Now that shouldn’t be so hard, hm?”

But you can’t quite answer.

Because Toji’s fucking you so good- he’s thrusting his cock into yours like he wants his pelvis melded to yours ass. He’s crushing and draaaagging your limp body down the bed and into his strong arms. 

It’s almost as if your bodies are communicating with a secret language, because whenever you’re bouncing back he’s angling juuuust right to swab into your g-spot, when you’re jerking forwards he’s chasin’ after that syrupy-sweet pussy of yours. Candied with glittering globs of his pre. 

Creating a swatting sound so loud, creating a pressure between your legs so hard, that your ears start ringing—“Oh, p-please…”

“And y’know the only difference between you and me?” Toji’s still steamrolling his dirty sentences- and you can barely blink your eyes open past all the pleasure he’s giving you. But you must manage to make some noise of question, because he continues. “That agency categorized me as a DILF. And you’re no MILF…yet.”

A shockwave runs down your spine.

“Th-that means…”

Toji leans in and huffs. Clammy breath. “So that profile said something about a breeding kink?”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 100.1% (?) MATCH!

“You’ve done it. I’m ah…not quite sure how- but you’ve done it.” Dr. Shoko breathes. And although the words are in her usual impervious tone of voice, there’s a quiver there at the end that, after weeks of appointments with the doctor, you’ve learned to pick out as foreign. 

Dr. Ieiri Shoko never wavers.

You’re leaning in and attempting to peek at your file. “Is there something wrong, doctor?”

“Not unless you count breaking the program’s metric wrong.” She slides over the file - face down as though the documents inside would snap at her if she wasn’t careful - and you’re immediately flipping it open. Your eyes widen as they’re immediately drawn to the bold, underlined number of a 100.1% match shown at the top of the first page—you’re then meeting Shoko’s own widened gaze.

“Huh?”

“That’s putting it lightly.” Shoko opens her drawer and takes out two caplets of Extra Strength Tylenol and chugs them down—no water. She closes her eyes for a second to let them pass down her slender throat, and once she opens them again she’s immediately looking down at the file - as if hoping it had disappeared in the time. 

But no such luck for Dr. Ieiri Shoko today.

She lets out a prolonged sigh and leans back in her chair. Enough time has passed that the two of you could forgo such formalities in the presence of the other, “I just…I just don’t know how that could happen. Mathematically and scientifically, it just doesn’t make sense. And yet, the program never makes a mistake- never.”

You understood her plight - you’d looked over (and passed on) your fair share of matches, and the highest you’d gotten was a 78% match with some guy called Atsumu Miya—you just had this nagging feeling that you’d find a greater match.

A stronger…chemistry with someone else.

And so you’d passed. And passed. And passed, until you were starting to feel that perhaps you’d never find a match greater than the 90% or even 80% statistics that the site often boasted. That is until…

Name: Nanami Kento

Age: 27

Occupation: Office worker

Category: Gentleman with a big D.

Primary likings: Service dom. Fitting. Milk him. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 9 onwards…)

Your eyes linger on those last two words of his Primary Likings section: milk him…

And immediately you’re feeling a thrill shoot up between your legs—causing them to squeeze together, causing Shoko’s eyes to quickly flicker down at the miniscule action. “Hm.” She types something on her keyboard - and you assume she’s shooting an email to one of the matchmakers in the program. “Maybe that’s what they mean by a match of 100.1%…”

White-hot embarrassment curls around your heart. “What? Oh, you’re incorrigible-”

“And you’re glad.” She smirks. “This is what you’re been waiting all this time for, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes…” You’re looking down at the passport-sized photo of Nanami on the front page. It was seemingly some sort of office photo he must’ve used in his resumes as well; and there he stood all sharp and aloof - almost bored - in a form-fitting suit and his blond hair pushed back smoothly, deep-set eyes almost piercing through the photocopied paper. Like an utter gentleman. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

.

.

.

“It’s okay, darling, you don’t have to take it all—”

“But I want to, Kento.”

There’s something so sensual - so utterly fucking erotic - about the way Nanami looks when he’s on the verge of pussydrunkness. Sprawled out on the love hotel mattress. Jawline dotted with your recently-made hickies. His thick thighs are tensing and untensing—just as you’re straddlin’ his hips just a little wider and taking in Nanami’s rock-hard, drippin’ wet cock.

A meek blush creeps up the man’s cheeks once you cup them.

You’re lifting Nanami’s handsome face up to meet yours, and keep such looong, loving eye contact as you’re sliding your hips down and gulping one more inch after inch. Thick inch after inch. 

The poor man’s breath catches and he’s letting out a little whimper as Nanami’s hot girth fills you up tantalizingly. “Oh sh-shit—”

Your body arches into his. “Mmm, with such a big, pretty cock like this - how could I not?”

“P-pretty…” He repeats. Those golden-hazel eyes of his widen behind his glasses, and you swear you see them welling up with tears as you take him. “But darling, what if it’s too big?”

“It could never be too big.” You cock your head with a sultry smile. “We’re a 100.1% match, remember? That means…”

In emphasis, you’re swervin’ your hips down in a semi-circular motion that makes him drive even deeper.

“-every part of us matches.”

And then poor Nanami Kento - overworked, underpaid, going off of nothing but instant coffee and the smell of freshly-baked bread from the bakery near the office - is being ridden to heaven by your devilish hips. Up and down. Up and down. The way you’re digging your nails into his shoulders…the way you’re pushing your nipples up against his pecs, rubbing…the way you’re clenchin’ around his tip - right where he was the reddest and hottest and most sensitive - every time he probes inside.

A too-loud moan erupts from his lips—and Nanami immediately attempts to clamp his mouth shut.

But there’s no use. You’re watching with a knowing smile as you’re fucking such lasvicious moans n’ ribbons of spittle out of him. With every single squeeze. 

Spit drips down the side of his mouth- and he shivers as you lean in and lick it away. “S-so that means…” He whispers. Almost to himself. Those pretty eyes of his keep starin’ down lovingly at the area you two were connected. “-this lovely lady is made for me?”

“If by ‘lovely lady’, you’re referring to my pussy…” You reply coyly. You throw your arms around him and tug on those precious golden curls at the nape of his neck. It makes a sexy grunt escape Nanami’s lips. “Then why don’t you find out?”

And Nanami doesn’t know why- he can’t help himself.

It’s just like…the more times he’s thrusting inside your cunt, semi-thrusts, the deeper he’s delving between those sweet pussylips, the more addicted he’s getting to it.

He’s reaching up and pressing down where he was fitting inside.

“Oh.” Nanami’s eyes grow heavy. Drunk on lust. A twinge of pain runs up your core as he squeezes a mere inch more, “Oh. I-is this okay?”

“Keep going.”

And he’s stretching you so much you can’t even begin to describe—

“Shiiiiit-”

“Does it hurt? I hope it doesn’t hurt-”

“No no- oh, more-”

“It’s true—” He spits. Beads of sweat plaster his temple, and his features twitch in pure carnal ecstasy as you squeeze your pretty legs tighter around him. A vein makes itself prominent on his neck. “Fuck, it’s true- she’s taking me so well-”

With a single thumb, he spreads apart your pussylips n’ watches his inches slip inside.

“And she’s so hungry for it, too.” Nanami looks up at you. “Do you think she’s been hungry for it all this time, my love? My cock?”

“Oh, I bet.” Throwing your head back—you’re practically plastered against Nanami’s surprisingly toned front. “Keep going, keep going, keep going, please- Kento—”

“Anything for you.”

And to be honest, Nanami Kento never saw himself as the wild type in bed. 

For starters, he was a busy man—spreedsheets were his regular partner, and powerpoints were his mistress. And perhaps that was the exact reason Shoko, his lifelong friend, had signed him up for this stupid program. As much as Nanami had howled and huffed about the ethics of signing one’s friend up for this and ‘but he needs to work that day so he doesn’t need to do overtime…’ lo and behold there he found you.

Well, more like you found him.

Showing up so pretty and perfect for your first meeting in Shoko’s office—and when he’d seen that match measurement of 100.1%…Nanami felt a sudden flare of madness: that perhaps this entire thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Your second meeting had been in this cramped love hotel. 

And Nanami had meant to wine and dine you- he’d meant to…but here he was. Hand clamoring to clasp either side of your hips - leaving crescent nail marks. Hips pushing off the mattress in animalistic little jerks—not even propery fucking inside, just yearning to feel the carnal squeeze of your cunt—

He hits that one spot. And he knows he does.

Because Nanami’s feeling his rotund cockhead push apart your pussylips n’ then slip somewhere deeeeep inside - one velvety bundle of nerves that makes you moan uncontrollably. Just a few inches more and he’d be hitting your coveted cervix…

And he does, but it feels like whiplash.

Because soon enough Nanami’s flipped the two of you over so that the bed dips with your combined weight, with you being manhandled onto your back, and Nanami’s cock wedging deeper into your cunt than it’s ever gone before. Inch by inch. It’s a hypnotizing mix of pain and pleasure as he marks every nook, cranny, and crevice inside you with silky dollops of pre. 

He finally fits.

And Nanami lets out a massive gasp - several - as though he’d just finished a marathon once he does so. “100.1%” He throatily repeats - whilst it feels like you’re squeezing him strong enough to milk him. You’re letting out a botched moan as he nudges against your cervix with the top of his smooth tip, smearing sprays of gooey precum—as if he’d go even deeper if he could. 

“I wonder what the 0.1% is, my love?”

You’re not getting out of here alive.

♡ GETO SUGURU - 98% (UN)MATCH!

“This is so stupid- we have no bed chemistry.”

“Absolutely no chemistry.”

“Seriously no chemistry.” 

“Not even an ounce of chemistry.”

“Then why’re you inside me?”

“Why’d you ask me to be inside you?”

“I’m the one asking the questions here-” You scoff—but you know he’s got you cornered. And by the smug expression on Geto Suguru’s stupidly handsome face, he knows that too. 

Unfortunately for him - you’re never one to back down. And so you’re slightly lifting your hips off the sweat-sodden mattress, not giving the man a second of warning before you’re clamping your silken walls down haaaaard ‘round his cock—and you try to ignore just how good - and familiar - it feels to have him inside you.

There was the thickness of his cockhead - flared the most at the base and perfect to jostle apart your slutty channel like you wanted so badly. There was one- two- three of his most prominent veins, curved down the middle of his shaft and rubbing against your pulsating soft spots. There was the arch of his erection that meant he’d not only be pushed against your cervix- but also up at the roof of your cunt. 

His breath hitches, and he’s letting his head throw back. Cute. 

And you never did expect to be matched with your stupid ex on that stupid sexual matchmaking program.

Let alone actually have sex with him again.

Let alone this be your fourth round.

Name: Geto Suguru

Age: 28

Occupation: Prefers not to say

Category: Morally grey.

Primary likings: Degradation. Spitting. Choking. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 69 onwards…)

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Dr. Shoko had commented. “Maybe a little check-up-”

“No.” You’d responded. “I’m ah- fine. It’s just—what sort of a category is that?”

“You’d be surprised what our clients are into.” She looked at you with amusement. “And, it seems, you as well.”

You shrunk in the clinic seat in shame.

And the most infuriating part of all…was that the damn program had been correct. 

Geto managed to string your body n’ your pleasure along as if it took him no effort—he’d memorized all your sweetest spots inside and it seems he’d never forgotten, he’d never hesitate before spankin’ on your throbbing clit because he already knows it’s going to set your body alight, he’d thrash and thrash his hips into yours because he was fucking angry. And you were, too.

So why did the two of you break up in the first place? Ah, let’s just say…that plans of world domination and date nights don’t go together that well.

But Geto, it seems, was a changed man (or so he said).

He’d dissolved his cult that he always refused to call a cult (or so he said). He was back to self-studying and mending his relationships (or so he said) except, of course, his one with you…

“Stop thinking about what an asshat I am, you always get that look when you think about what an asshat I am.” You’re hearing Geto scoff from above you—and he has the audacity to lean down and prod your furrowed brow relaxed. “S’gonna make me soft.”

“Join the club, I’m already dry.”

With a single - perfectly shaped - brow raised, Geto creeps his right hand down your side—letting those soft fingertips of his just lightly caress the front of your cunt. Your utterly sodden cunt. “That’s not what this pussy’s telling me?”

You’re scrambling onto your elbows. “Communication issues for two years and suddenly you’re the pussy whisperer?”

“Yes. Good that you’re catching up-” That very hand comes up to push you down—“Down, gorgeous- let’s do it my favorite position, hm?”

You scoff. “I don’t remember your favorite position.”

“Oh yeah? Then why’re you halfway down to a full nelson?”

And it was true—ah, for all your supposed pride and dignity, and the pep talk that you’d given yourself before the agency-organized dinner date that you would totally not fuck Geto Suguru no matter how handsome he looked…

But dammit, he’d worn his long hair down.

Of course, the two of you argued over your romantic dinner. Squabbling. Bickering. Making the server hold in his laughter every time you (admittedly immaturely yet albeit justifiably) swiped something off of Geto’s plate when he wasn’t looking; whatever one wanted to call it.

Of course, the two of you ended up at the love hotel a few minutes away from the restaurant; whatever one wanted to call it.

And currently you’re basking in the saturated, sickly-sweet strawberry scent bursting out in plumes from the love hotel pillows. “Eugh- I hate this smell.”

“Oh shush, you’re underneath me.” Geto got himself settled in the full nelson underneath you- and he doesn’t waste a single second before collectin’ a few trickles of slick on his right palm. He then grabs himself and coats his shaft in all the gossamer substance—pushing his perky tip against your hole. And then inside.

“O-ohhhhh—” Your voice cracks.

“Shut up, you’ve taken me more.” Geto spits- and at that very moment, you’re embarrassed to say that a carnal part of you twitches. And soon enough, he’s getting absolutely slathered in all those dewy droplets of sap that he’s missed so much since the break-up—absolutely claiming him, is what Geto likes to think. “And heh- based on what I read on your profile…me telling you to shut up just made you wetter-”

“A coincidence.” You sputter. “S-surely a coincidence.”

“Hmmm? And is it a coincidence that almost all those cute kinks on your profile were ones that I got you into?” He purrs- purrs.

“Not all- hngh, of them-”

“Maybe, but let’s be real, gorgeous—” And then Geto trails off - and it’s never a good sign when Geto trails off. Because that means- smack! As expected, his fingertips come slammin’ down until your clit’s swelling just a bit more, and his hips don’t slow down for a single second. You’re wincing as he keeps steamrolling. “-this pussy learned most of her tactics from me.”

What arrogance. Although you couldn’t lie- seeing Geto so worked up sent pangs of pleasure searing through every fibre of your body. And your favorite method to get him to shut up was to-

“Clench.” He’s gritting his teeth—hissing his words out through them, as he bucks his hips upwards- meeting your flutterin’ walls head-on with a sudden thwack! at your cervix. “Yeah- don’t think I don’t know about your secret technique-” Geto sounds crazed as he whispers in your ear, tone hitching and warbling with every second. But he still keeps going. “-and who taught you that clenchin’ so hard- clenching with the force of your core- feels so good?”

“I-I…” Saliva seeps into your mouth twofold now that Geto’s increasing his pace. He reaches over n’ licks that little splatter- 

“I-I-I-I…” Geto mocks. “I don’t think you’re being truthful, girl~”

“It was you—” You’re yowling- attempting to stand upwards to perhaps get ahold of yourself - but the only thing you’re succeeding in doing is urging Geto to wrap his left arm around your neck and draaaaaaag you right back down. 

You gasp at the sensation of his thick biceps; the firmness and strength held within them; the curves and dips of his muscles. “And who taught you that getting choked like this feels good?”

You’re so woozy- fuck, your head’s throbbing and you’re feeling the wadded-up remnants of cum Geto’s left behind from previous rounds. Harder and harder. Rougher, his balls keep slapping against the front of your sodden folds. “You…”

“And who taught you that this pussy feels better when m’being mean?”

“You—”

“And who’s getting back together with you?”

“You- wait, what?”

“Heh.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 92% MATCH!

Name: Kamo (Itadori) Choso

Age: ?*

Occupation: Student

Category: Hey, hey, hey EMO BOY!

Primary likings: Subbing. Getting pussydrunk. Shooting blanks. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 14 onwards…)

*Client became nervous after seeing the diagrams of sexual positions in the following forms and could not answer (EDIT: Later confirmed 23 but spiritually 150 (?)).

“Him?”

Dr. Shoko sits statuesquely before you. No change in her expression. Not even the slightest twitch in her fingers as she flips through your documents one more time.

After a moment of silence, she takes a deep breath and asks. “Erm- my apologies, but would I be right in assuming that you’re not attracted to hi-”

“No—no, no, no, no, no-” 

“Ah- well, that’s one way to pass on a match-”

“No- that’s- that’s not what I meant.” Red-hot embarrassment, shot through with a spike of excitement once your eyes drop down to the profile of the man once more, curdles in your chest. And you’re sure you look quite frantic attempting to rescind…perhaps everything you’ve blurted out in the past five minutes. Dr. Shoko raises a brow. “Of course, I’m attracted to him.”

A knowing smile tugs at her lips. “Oh?”

“Yeah- of course.” You cough out. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Piercings glinting on his ears, snakebites on his lips, and a nervous - almost sheepish, but with a bring-your-daughter-home-at-2AM defiance - expression on his face. Just your type. “He’s perfect, actually.”

Dr. Shoko puts her documents down on the table and crosses her legs. “Then what seems to be the problem?”

“It’s just…I kinda know him?” You’re wincing. “We go to the same university- he does Japanese History, and I’ve seen him ‘round in the Anime Club.”

She hums. “Mm, you seem to know a lot about him.”

You almost sputter- “J-just as much as the average person would…But the thing is that on campus he just looks a little…different? I guess? Imagine your typical nerd—glasses, vests, knows one too many things about Tolkien, cute.” Dr. Shoko throws you a look—nerds were a close second on your list of types, okay?! And you’d always believed Choso was cute even before all this sprucing up.  “Anyways. That sort of thing.” And then you’re taking a second look at the photograph on his profile - maybe the distance would help you see him clearly? And nothing. “And now…”

Everything else matched up.

It was just in his photograph where he looked like he belonged in an early 2000’s emo band.

You let out a slight gasp. “Is he catfishing m-”

“No. Although that would be a little entertaining to see…” Dr. Shoko mutters that last part to herself- “However, Mr. Kamo has shown up to every appointment in exactly this style. Could it be that perhaps he prefers one style for university, and the other in private?”

“Probably.” You sigh. And you see that look on her face- you know that look on her face. “Oh, fine. We both know I want you to match us.”

.

.

.

“Fuh-fuck pleeeease—” Veins, reddened and irritated, snake down the expanse of Choso’s neck - and you’re not surprised. Not when Choso kept twitchin’ and bucking with every single fwop! of your cunt slamming down onto his hips, letting his cock rover deeeeeply inside.

Oh-so-deeply.

You’ve got the poor man sat up against the headboard of this crappy love hotel. You’ve got his face pushed between your tits, as you’re bouncing your hips up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Cute suctioning noises let off where he’s glued his mouth to one of your tits, letting his cheeks hollow as he suckles. “Please- ngh.” Unabashed tears roll down Choso’s cheeks, “Do you really think I can cum again?” Ending his sentence with a single jagged thrust inside your gooey depths.

“But of course.” You purr—purr. It’s enough to make Choso shudder, ravenous cock twitching. “Because I said so. And what did I say about me saying so?”

“M-mommy’s always right when she says so…” He responds- cheeks burning such a sweltering red. 

“Hah…” Leaning down you kiss him- at least, it starts off a kiss. But soon enough you have your tongue sliding across his bottom lip, playing with the sexy snake bites that pierce through the nerd’s lower lip. Always with his nose stuck in a book—you’re kicking yourself for not noticing the holes sooner. “Not so tough now, are you?”

You’ve been teasing him for what feels like eons - but in reality has been about two…maybe three…maybe seven rounds cooped-up inside this love hotel - now; and it’s enough to set Choso on all sorts of edges. Choso can’t speak. Choso can’t form a single thought. Choso can’t control his body- what the fuck he can’t…Unable to stop himself from constantly yearning that sweet pressure that comes from striking the flat surface of the back of your pussy—

His hips are stinging. But he’s still pushing and pushing and pushing. 

“Just one more, then?” He asks. Tears in his eyes.

“Awwww- you really are an emo boy. I can’t believe you had the entire campus fooled for years now.” You snicker- watching as his eyes narrow…first in exasperation, and then in ecstacy as you’re squeezing ‘round his cock. “Mhm. Just one more- mommy has to reward you for losing your virginity, doesn’t she?” You ask. Expectedly, Choso nods and nods.

That had been the entire reason for his participation in this program, it seems - the poor thing wanted to get some experience. And you couldn’t blame him—nor be nice to him. According to his profile, Choso liked it when he was fucked hard- no experience and already thinking like a freak, huh? He was definitely your type.

Tapping at your chin in an exaggerated display of thinking.

“But mommy’s wondering….where is my nerd gonna cum?”

His eyes go wide. Breath hitching, “Please-”

“I mean- maybe you could pull out and I could milk you onto the blanket—?” Dramatically, the other man’s lower lip quivers as a sob threatens to break through. So many rounds and he still hadn’t cum inside - you’d gotten him everywhere: on your stomach, on your tits, between your thighs, on your tongue. Everywhere but inside. “Hmmm. Nope.”

He perks up.

“How about my mouth again?”

Choso shakes his sweaty head.

“I wanted to- hngh—” It’s so tough for him to speak when he’s actively trying not to fall apart at the seams.

“Oh, what’s that?” Your eyes go wide. “Don’t feelin’ my mouth wrapped around your cock, Choso- is it?”

He shudders at the mere imagery of that. Every single thrust had him threatening to spill inside—those gossamer ribbons were flooding your entrance n’ starting to drip down your thighs. “No-”

“No?”

“No, no, no, no—I love your mouth-” He sputters. “-m-mommy…” And even though it’s already been so long, Choso was still wearing those chunky rings depicting skulls and such on- gliding them up and down your back soothingly. “I love every part of you. But I just really…really…really wanted to cum inside this time-” Peeking up at you through tear-stained lashes. “…if that’s okay with you?”

He looked so pretty, it was hard not to cave in then and there.

But you had to stand firm. “Nuh uh…I don’t know.” Tapping at your chin once more. “M’honestly a little hurt that you’d hide this emo side of yourself, Choso.” Leaning down to whisper into his ear- his silver studs glint. “Especially when emo boys with big dicks just make me sooooooo fuckin’ wet—”

Choso startles as though he’d been electrocuted. “I-if I’d known that then I would’ve told you in a heartbeat, mommy-”

“Ah, sweet-talking me now?” You wave. “What other secrets are you hiding, Mr. Kamo Choso?”

And it’d been a rhetorical question, something to make your poor boy squirm—honestly! But perhaps you should’ve expected that with Choso’s fried, pussydrunken brain he wouldn’t have caught onto the toying tone of your voice. That he would’ve blushed- and confessed.

“A-actually the only reason I joined was to get experience-” You raise a brow as you’d already known that. “-so that if- when I actually found the courage to ask someone out, then I’d be less likely to disappoint them in bed…”

Your lips quiver. “Oh, Cho.”

And then you’re wrapping your arms around Choso’s head - pushing his face deeper into your clammy tits, skin-against-skin - you’re running your fingers through his hair, soothing, as Choso keeps fuckin’ away into you.

You whisper against his clammy forehead, “Cum inside, baby.”

And he does with a broken groan—long, lengthy ribbons of cum decorating the interior of your cunt. “Th-thank you, mommy.” He whimpers.  They cling onto the outer ring of your entrance- which Choso has to push inside with a flicker of his thumb. The heat floods you instantly - bursts and bubbles of warmth spreading from your core, every single time that Choso twitches with another pang of pleasure- and his cockhead bursts out in cum.

Choso might be an utter sweetheart, but his cock was not-

He thwacks! out a few more creamy wads, and when he’s finally done and shooting blanks- Choso accumulates those dollops on the tip of his cock all to smear them at the bottom of your pussy. That sweet, sweet cervix.

“C-can I tell you another secret, baby?” He sobs.

“Of course, Choso.”

“You. It’s you.”

You free him from your embrace to look at him properly.

“It’s you that I’ve been wanting to ask out.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - HE MATCHED?!

“Wait- who…?”

“The King of Curses.” Dr. Shoko responds with a straight face. Too straight. You needed her to crack a smile- you needed her to tell you that this was a joke. “At least—that’s what he calls himself, and we did have to track down his records to find out his actual name.”

Name: ITADORI (RYOMEN) SUKUNA

Age: 32

Occupation: ‘It’s complicated’.

Category: Rough n’ tough

Primary likings: ROUGH. Partners in lingerie. DP. (For a more detailed report on sexual proclivities and medical assessment, please see Page 55 onwards…)

“What does he mean by his occupation being…‘it’s complicated’?” You squint at the man’s profile.

“He wanted to put ‘King of Curses’ for that, too.” Dr. Shoko takes a long swig of her coffee. “Goodness knows I couldn’t figure that out even with a PhD. But it’s a lot more flattering than putting ‘Loitering’, isn’t it?”

“He loiters.” You ask.

“Hopefully a forgivable crime.” She nods.

And, sure, you didn’t give a shit about the loitering—what instead caught your attention was the little matchmaking measurement that was on the top of the page. Or at least supposed to be. Instead of a percentage like all your previous passes had, this time was greeted you instead was a simple note: MATCH MADE!

And underneath it was a few semi-erased notes from who you assume to be the matchmakers spelling out- ‘Thank goodness.’ ‘We thought the day would never come-’ ‘Take him off our hands, please!!’

Dr. Shoko catches you staring at them and promptly shuts your file for you. “It’s just ah- your match seems to have a bit of a…reputation here, you see?”

You ask, “A reputation? Is he some weirdo?”

“Well that’s one way of putting it…” She mutters to herself-

“What was that-”

“Nothing!” Dr. Shoko clears her throat, and smooths her mask of professionalism. “To be quite frank with you, Sukuna was one of our first clients—and we’ve been operational for quite some time now, and yet Sukuna never matched with anyone. If it wasn’t an extremely low percentage, then a match didn’t get past the interview stage- especially because Sukuna himself can be a little…intimidating. At one point we just started showing him the profiles first, expecting pass after pass.” She gives you a meaningful look. “But for the first time, it seems, the King of Curses has found himself interested.”

You don’t know how to interpret the little quirk of a smirk on her lips. “I see.” Flipping the file back open, you’re taking in those smoldering crimson eyes, that pink hair. He was handsome, that was for sure- and he sounded like such a character.

You can’t help but find yourself, perhaps, a little interested as well.

“But of course, it’s completely up to you. And I can pass this one and get some more matches lined up if-”

“Nah. No need to pass, Dr. Shoko.”

.

.

.

“Now do a little spin f’me- atta girl.”

Just about three dates - and you’d discovered that the pink-haired man honestly wasn’t too bad. A little eccentric- alright, very eccentric. He spoke in extremely old-fashioned Japanese and knew far too much about cannibalism, but other than that you thought him to be just fine. Handsome, too.

Just an hour into your romantic dinner at that one fancy French restaurant downtown. Just a glance at the nearby love hotel before you’re both huddling inside one cramped room, Sukuna tugging off his coat before he bore you with a strappy black lingerie set.

It barely covered…well, anything.

And that seemed to be just how he liked it.

Not even needing to tug those panties of yours to the side before he’s pressin’ his plump tip against your pussylips. Both so sensitive that the contact makes you hiss—and your eyes are rolling to the back of your head as soon as he starts to enter. “O-ohhh-”

“Hey- hey—” Of course, it’s not long before you’re feeling one of his roughened hands come and lightly tap your cheeks. It makes you snap out of your little daze and discover that Sukuna had entered a few inches - barely halfway through - but it still felt like he was touching your deepest throat. “Ya have the King of Curses right before you and you’re not even looking at him? Tch-”

Without warning, he pummels just a little deeper. Just a tender caress of his zig-zagging veins along your wet channel-

“C’mon, woman—” Sukuna grumbles. “Literally what could be so interesting inside the back of yer skull? Look at me- look at how well m’fucking you.”

“S-so good…”  You’re blabbering out, as soon as your senses are returning. Because the stark sensation of Sukuna streaking your insides was mind-numbing - you don’t think you’ve ever taken anyone this big before. 

“Never?” Fuck- you said that out loud?! His smirk makes your heart race- honed canines all on display. “Well buck up, brat.” He taps the side of your hips - and too late does it register as a signal to fuck your hips back down onto his pummeling ones. Funneling your cunt so fucking tight with all his inches. “Because if it takes you this long ta take me regularly, then we might just be here all night trying to get you to take…heh-”

The hairs on your body raise. 

You bite down on your lower lip. “Your…second one?”

Sukuna chuckles. “No.” Reaching upwards - not caring if it’s making your hamstrings scream so deliciously at the stretch - Sukuna leans his sticky forehead against yours n’ kisses your lips. Tongue and all. He finally whispers as he parts, “It’ll be yours.”

And just a few more thrusts, a few more whack-whack-whacks! of his thickened cock reaching your deepest depths possible. He was just so big and his thrusts were just so vicious—you’re floating through a haze of pleasure when you feel it…that cold press of silicone against your precious orifice.

You’re jerking up with a yelp. “Shit- hngh, you’re putting it in now?”

“Hah? Duh.” Sukuna scoffs. “Why? Unless you don’t wish to-”

“I’m just wondering what took you so long.”

Sukuna seems stunned for one second- two. Before the King quickly snaps out of it to pleasure the sopping line of your cunt with his silicone dildo—“Dirty girl.”

Because what’d intrigued you the most on his profile was one thing: double penetration. And Ryomen Sukuna took it seriously—he’d slathered that impressive size - molded after himself, he’d told you - with a passion fruit-scented lube before starting to crown it at your entrance. The very same pussy he was stuffed in, too.

His cock throbs away wildly inside you as Sukuna squeezes- and squeezes. And you wince at the mixture of pain and pleasure - that utterly wiiiiiild stretch making your mind dazed. “Keep going.” You beg. “P-please- keep going, Kuna—”

“Kuna?” You can’t tell if he’s feigning outrage or he’s serious. He tugs your body into his- using one of your lingerie straps. “How ridiculous- fuck, and just for that- don’t expect me to go easy on ya, brat.”

And then it’s both. At the same time.

He started off nicely—surprisingly. He started off just shuffling his thick, throbbing cock behind and stuffing the orifice of your cunt with the purple-colored dildo. He started off so-

And then you’d gotten just a tad too mouthy and Sukuna’s letting the globular, slick-glazed edge of the dildo rover all over - aaaaaall around the first ring of your entrance, and then smearing apart your channel to search for your sweet spots inside. Competing - fucking competing - with his own cock to massage your spots the best. It takes one hand clawed onto your hip n’ pinning you down with all his weight to actually squirm the dildo inside you.

Shivers run down Sukuna’s spine as he feels his sensitive shaft rub against the firm silicone. Uuuuuuup rubbin’ his skin against the material. And down. Uuuuup and down. Uuuuup and down. 

Fucking you twice over. 

Such looooong and lecherous slides of your overstuffed pussy- “Look at her go.” The King drags you back using a strappy ribbon from your lingerie, glances down and snickers. “She’s just so hungry, huh?”

“C-can feel you all the way in my throat.” You whimper.

“That’s nothing, wait till you feel me in your cervix.”

And he’s bottoming out. Twice. 

“Fuck, how I’m glad you found me.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - INFINITY% MATCH?!

Dr. Ieiri Shoko sits before you in her office, and she looks as though she wished she was doing anything but.

Now, you’re sure this wasn’t anything personal - after all, you’ve met with Dr. Shoko for numerous appointments prior, and each time she’d been cordial if not nice. You’ve filled out all your forms. You haven’t been late to an appointment. You made sure during each appointment to be open-minded and thoughtful about your potential matches.

So…what?

What could have happened in the thirty-six hours between your last appointment (six passes that day) and the sudden frantic phone call you’d gotten this morning regarding the BIG BANG THEORY PROJECT? You’d rushed over - still half-asleep and attempting to tug on your pants - as soon as you could, sure that perhaps today would be the day you find your perfect match and-

“Ehem- today is the day you’ll be looking over your perfect match.” Ah- what? Still jolted by Dr. Shoko’s sudden change in demeanor, it takes a second for the excitement to hit you. 

You gasp. “Seriously? A perfect match?”

“Well…perfect would be overselling it…” She mutters to herself- and then catches your look of confusion. “Ah- mathematically and scientifically, the numbers are perfect of course. A 99.99% match.”

“Then, what seems to be…”

“It just seems that your match is a little-” Dr. Shoko waves her hands in the air, searching for the word. 

“Eccentric?”

“No.”

“Odd?”

“No.”

“Crazy.”

“Almost.” She sighs, looking far more exhausted than the last time you saw her. Far more exhausted. The bluish splotches beneath her eyes crinkle as she grimaces, “Apologies. I’m not that good at describing Lovecraftian monsters.”

You chuckle- before you realize. “Wait, what?”

“But—onto the profiles, we don’t have all day and I have about thirty more appointments.” She shoots you a look. “And none of them above 60%, I fear.” Then turning towards her second door - the one connecting her office to one of the building’s laboratories - she calls. “You can come out now!”

The door clicks open immediately- as if whoever was on the other side had been waiting impatiently to be called, fidgeting, hand already on the door handle.

And in walks a tall, white-haired man—although he couldn’t have been more than thirty or so, wearing a sterile white scientist’s coat and thin-rimmed glasses. There were a few Digimon stickers on his shoes, and his name tag read: PROF. GOJO SATORU.

He was cute- you had to give him that.

Dr. Shoko takes one look at your face and sighs.

You’re immediately straightening up. “E-erm, hello.” And the man bows rapidly- sputtering out greetings and introductions a mile a minute, that you don’t even catch them. “Ah…I believe you have my match profile?”

The other woman smacks her forehead. “He is your match profile.”

You gape. “What?”

Gojo practically beams- fuck, he really was too cute. He immediately reaches over and grasps your hand—then unabashedly kisses the back of it. Such a loud mwah! “Your pleasure to meet me, sweetheart.”

From the corner of your vision, you see Dr. Shoko download a resignation letter template. “Please…you’re all he’s been talking about for the past two days-”

“Like a true romantic~” Gojo trills.

“-pass on him and put us all out of our misery…please. I beg of you.”

You look at the miserable Shoko- and then you look at Gojo.

.

.

.

“So…” Gojo’s breath sticks to the side of your neck, utterly syrupy, and his cock sticks to the goopy insides of your cunt. 

They wouldn’t have been able to pull him out with a wrench, he can tell you that much-

Because you were swallowing him up whole—little mewls leaving the gap between your lips, little dribbles of slick going down the corners of your mouth - ones he’s nearing towards and licking right off your face. Gojo’s chunky glasses crush against the side of your temple. His fingers dig deeper into your soft flesh. “-it seems I have fallen victim to my own creation.”

Gojo Satoru had you pushed against his clinical desk; it’d been long since Dr. Shoko had wrapped-up your first meeting (and gone to take a lay-down on her examination bed). Meanwhile Gojo had valiantly volunteered to give you ‘an insightful and educational’ tour around the laboratories.

The first place he took you to was his private office.

…The first place he took you to, neither of you could keep your hands off each other.

“Th-the program?” You’re babbling. Your hands grasp the edge of his desk- a plumage of documents soar upwards as you’re struggling and failing a few times- he was just fucking you so good. “How are you falling victim—”

“Because when I wanted to figure out a way to lose my virginity, I didn’t expect it to be this good—!” Gojo bursts out in confession. And you’re feeling the full impact of his statement- and the rough slam of his cockhead against the back of your pussy.

“S-so this was all…” Your mouth gapes - and you’re not quite sure whether it was because of the sudden confession, or the increasing force of his hips. “-a scheme to pop your cherry?!”

“Erm, actually- I wouldn’t say scheme—” Gojo huffs. Those thick-framed glasses of his kept sliding down his nose due to the force of his thrusts, and he was smearing his pretty face against your shoulder to keep pushing it up. “I am- was a virgin, heh…”

He takes a glance down at where the two of you were sloppily connected - those swollen folds of yours spread so wiiiiiide open around his long cock - and instantly, he’s hypnotized.

For a beat.

Two.

“—Satoru.” Honestly- you have to give him a good clench to snap him back to his senses. Otherwise you’re sure he would’ve kept funneling you full of his cock until one or both of your bodies gave out—he just seemed addicted. Tingling with desire. He wanted you. He needed you. 

Every single second he was reeling his hips back- Gojo was angry just until he could rover his thickened inches back inside n’ bash your very cervix. Again. And again. And again and again. 

And Gojo’s pushing his glasses up with a huff. “What if I was having a telepathic conversation with your pussy?”

You gape. “Shoko’s right, you’re crazy-”

“Yeah yeah-” He sighs as if he’s heard that one before. Many, many times. With a roll of those blue eyes, Gojo keeps explaining - not slowing down for a single split-second. “I was a virgin with too much time between my extra credits and three honors degrees, okay? So instead of being a lunatic and going out to actually meet people, I did what any sane person would do…” 

“Create the BIG BANG THEORY PROJECT-”

“I created the BIG BANG THEORY PROJECT!” It was almost…cute just how passionate he was getting. And it certainly helped that the more excited he got, the more his twitchin’ tip splurged out precum. Flinching it into all sorts of little hidden spots inside you—“A cutting-edge matchmaking system that pairs partners’ sexual proclivities-”

He leans against you- and it feels like a furnace, in the best way. Gojo’s blushing cheek against yours. Gojo’s aching cock against your cunt. 

He’s scouring the silken depths of your cunt and ramming into that one spot- “The Gräfenberg spot.” Gojo titters to himself. “Erm- I did my reading…” By now he wasn’t even pulling his hips off of yours- glued to those stinging ass cheeks of yours, he’s plasterin’ every nook inside you with his precum. “And the fact that we’re a near-100% match must mean one thing—” 

Gojo cums from pure excitement.

He cums from pure excitement. White-hot pouring into the depths of your cunt, slathering it in an oily layer of his cum.

You almost don’t dare to ask. “And wh-what does that mean?”

“That next I must make a pregnancy program!”

Too caught up in the moment; the two of you don’t register the light buzz of your phone.

A text from Shoko.

A/N. IDK why working on their profiles was so unserious shsdhsd-

You spend your entire shift staring at the wall in your cubicle where you’d pinned a picture of you, Ned, and MJ from high school. By twelve, you’re one hundred percent certain that there had been someone else there. Someone next to you, arm around your shoulder, a smile that makes you feel jittery just thinking about it. You know what that smile looks like. You know.

Peter Parker, a constant mantra in your head. You’d written it on sticky notes you’d slapped on twenty different things in your room, filled an entire page of your work notebook with it. You would not forget again.

You couldn’t.

By two, you remember his Aunt May and her warmth, the way she’d always feed you and always treat you like one of her own. How she’d always teased Peter but never, ever hesitated to protect him. 

By two-thirty, you remember that she’s dead. You look up her obituary on your work computer—screw it—and read through it, sniffling and aching and destroyed when there’s no mention of a nephew anywhere on it. 

Peter Parker, you write again on a sticky note, then under it, Aunt May. 

By four, your memories of high school have reshaped, the blurry remnants of them you’d had remolding like wet clay, and Peter is everywhere. 

The first day of freshman year, debating with you on the subway about who was going to be more popular (neither of you).  

Laid across your bed with chemistry textbooks open, wearing sweats and a hoodie and looking so soft. You remember wanting to kiss him, feeling ashamed because of it. 

All the times he’d started disappearing, missing classes. When you’d invite him over for dinner and he’d never show. When your study sessions turned from the two of you laughing and not really getting any work done, to just you. Alone. 

Following him after school, knowing something was up, wanting to be there for him. Watching him strip to his boxers in an alleyway, tug on Spider-man’s suit and launch himself onto the rooftops. 

Sneaking into his window and waiting in his bedroom, so angry he’d never told you. Deflating immediately when he’d slipped in later that night, wide and pleading brown eyes, a bruise on the apple of his cheek, looking so vulnerable in a suit that meant anything but. 

Your first kiss. The pink of Peter’s cheeks, the way his breath caught, stuttering through telling you it’d always been you. That he couldn’t imagine another day where you didn’t know. How couldn’t you have known? 

Sitting on rooftops, going to dances, learning the ways his body responded to your touch, looking up how to do stitches for when Spider-man would come tumbling through your bedroom window, scaring you to death—that’s how you knew how to do stitches! Dates where he’d hold you to his chest and take you swinging around Manhattan, wind in your hair and laughter in your throat. 

God, you’d loved him. You’d loved him more than anything else in the world. 

More than anything. 

And you still did. Still had, all these years. Felt it in your chest, curled up and ever-present. Felt it expand when you’d seen him again, light you up from the inside without warning. 

But how had you forgotten? 

By five, when you’re on the subway home, you know. 

The memory bleeds against your eyelids. Peter, beaten and bloodied, eyes red from crying and busted blood veins. Your Peter, telling you that you would forget everything, wiping your tears and promising that he’d come find you. That he’d come get you and make you remember. 

You telling him you would never forget. 

But you had. 

And he’d let you.

You’re so angry at the thought that you have to take a lap around your block before you enter your apartment. So angry that you end up going to your favorite bodega on the corner and getting your favorite sandwich even though you're supposed to be saving money. And then you get annoyed on top of that because the second your order leaves your lips you suddenly remember that it had been Peter’s favorite too. 

That you both used to split one from Delmar’s on Wednesdays and eat it on the roof of your parent’s apartment. 

You must look downright furious, because Jay, the cashier that’s been there every time you’ve come since you moved in, slides you a chocolate bar on top of your finished sandwich and doesn’t charge you for it. 

You eat the whole thing while you take the stairs up to your apartment, muttering to yourself. 

Then you see all your sticky notes. Peter Parker on your lamp, your closet door, on the coat hanging from your bed frame, on your window and pillow, where you’d scattered a handful of them at 3am. 

You were mad. You were pissed. 

But you wanted to be mad at him to his face. To see him and yell at him until you lost your voice. To watch the way his eyes would change from your words, so easy to read. To hug him and kiss him and touch him. To throw things and watch him dodge them effortlessly, to let him calm you down, to let him. 

You wanted to know if he still had the same sandwich order. 

Did he even want you to remember?

You think about the look on his face the night before—he’d been right there next to you after all that time, and you’d let him slip away. The way he’d looked at you when he’d knocked on your door, how he’d held your hand when he’d helped you up, how he’d let you talk to him about the dreams you’d already shared with him in the dark with this calm, serene look on his face. 

And you didn’t care if he wanted you to remember him or not.

You were going to find him. 

The next day, after a night filled with dreams about calloused hands and hushed whispers, after waking up with tingling lips and a hollowness to your chest, you start your search with a sudden kind of desperation. 

Ned had gone to visit his grandma for the weekend, so you plant yourself in his chair and spend hours searching the internet for any trace of Peter Parker. 

You even search for Maynard—absolutely ridiculous name—and then spend ten minutes crying over how Peter it was to use a dumb fake name, and how you miss him so much. 

You find nothing. 

The spell had worked. Peter Parker was nowhere. No one.  

You sit back in the chair and try to breathe through your disappointment. 

How were you going to find a ghost? How would he ever know that you remembered? 

A notification sounds through the computer. Discord, from Ned’s Spidey Tracker server. You silence it absentmindedly. 

Then you sit up. 

Peter Parker was nowhere. 

But Spider-man…Spider-man was everywhere. 

And you knew how to track him. 

You move so fast you hit your knee on the underside of the desk, and curse your way through pulling up the app files. You’d helped Ned code the app, so you knew it was based entirely on community sightings of Spider-man, constantly taking in reported locations and spitting them back out for the users. 

Which meant you knew how to compile a list of his most common locations. Maybe if you could narrow it down enough, you could figure out where he could be.  

You make a mental note to talk to Ned about how dangerous this app could actually be, and then you get to work. 

You can’t believe how many people have been using the app. There are hundreds of thousands of sightings and photos and videos to sort through. It takes you hours. 

Which is definitely attributed to you constantly getting distracted by videos of Spider-man after fights, heaving chest and weak knees, swinging off all alone. 

How many wounds had he had to treat by himself? 

How lonely he must be. 

You don’t narrow it down to a few specific locations until close to midnight. Queens (of course), a five block radius of sightings going back to when Ned officially published the app. You compile the time stamps. 

Most of them are in the middle of the night, into early morning. 

“God, Peter, when do you sleep?” You mutter to the screen as your code spits the times back at you. You’re almost sick with how much you want to hold him. 

It’s late. It’s late and you should wait until tomorrow. At least until the sun comes up. But you dismiss the thought as soon as you have it. You feel like you’ll die if you wait any longer to find him. Plus, it’s the perfect time. The app said so. 

And you’ve never been a very patient person. 

So you go to your room to get ready, and you hesitate. Should you…look nice? What if you don’t even find him? What if you find him and he says he doesn’t want you—

No. You’re not going there. This is Peter. Yes, you’d forgotten him. You’d forgotten him and the guilt was eating away at you for it. But you knew him. Even through the haze, you know him. 

As angry as you are, you know why he did what he did, self-sacrificing idiot. 

You hated that it made you love him even more. 

In an effort to be quick, you just throw on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. You grab your mace and make sure your keys are poking through your fingers, just in case. Small crimes have practically disappeared over the past four years, but you were going to a part of Queens your mom and even Peter had once warned you about, so you weren’t going to take any chances. 

Plus, a crazy part of your brain whispered, if you get mugged, maybe he’ll come save you.

Yep. Definitely losing your mind a little. 

You ride the subway with tunnel vision. Mapping where you’ll go, how long you’ll look, how much it’ll take before you give up. It’s quiet on the subway, only the occasional sleepy passenger and drunk college kids going home in crowds. But once you get to your stop in Queens, you exit alone. 

You take a deep breath, and you start walking. Eyeing alleyways and rooftops, ears perked for any movement. Keys in one hand, Spidey Tracker open in the other, map devoid of any spider symbols. 

You loop the blocks slowly, one direction then the next. It’s probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, being out so late on your own, but you had that feeling. The only one you’d trusted since college  Since, now you knew, you’d forgotten everything. 

The feeling of being right. Of being sure. 

So you keep walking, holding on to hope that the stragglers you avoid on the sidewalks will see something you don’t and set off the app. You keep staring at the screen, at the void of streets with no red icons, urging one to pop up. 

Which, in the end, was the thing that actually took first place for the stupidest thing you’d ever done. 

Because you hadn’t been paying attention. If you had, you’d have heard the footsteps. You’d have heard the schlick of the pocket knife being cracked open. 

You would have been able to close your hand around the mace on your keychain before you’d been pushed into an alley, face pressed hard into the brick wall, until it stung. 

The man holding you grunts as he slams your wrist against the wall to get you to drop your phone. You try not to cry out at the pain, to not show them how scared you are as it clatters to the ground. 

Your mind goes somewhere very, very far from your body. 

Another pair of hands wretches your keys from your grip, and then there you are, defenseless. The one holding your wrist yanks you back around and slams your back against the brick. He keeps one hand firmly on your shoulder and brings the other up to your throat. You feel the prick of the knife against the underside of your jaw, and grind your teeth against the whimper that wants to escape. 

You can barely see the man’s face under his hood in this darkness, barely make out the shape of his eyes. He must see the screen of your phone on the ground, because he snorts. “Looking for Spider-man?” 

His friend chuckles. 

“He’s not here,” He continues, his tone mocking. He runs a finger down the side of your face, and you think you’re going to throw up. “It’s just you. And us.” 

Your phone vibrates from where it’d fallen, still open to Spidey Tracker. A notification brightens the screen, then:

New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens.  

The one holding you freezes a second before a web wraps around the knife he’s holding against you and drags it up into the darkness. 

“I’m sorry,” A voice calls from somewhere above, hiding where the light doesn’t touch. “Were you using that for something?” 

Your body crumples against the brick in relief. It’s him. 

The man doesn’t even have time to move before he’s getting jerked back, so hard his body goes flying into the adjacent wall. Before you can even blink he’s encompassed completely in webs, eyes and mouth obscured. 

The other one starts running immediately, but a figure swings from the shadows, kicking him straight in the chest and sending him sprawling against a dumpster with a deep clang. You have one second to let out a breath before he’s enveloped, too. 

It all happens so fast. Them getting webbed, Spider-man talking through the mask like he’s on a phone call, saying the words mugging and two males, early 20s, she’s safe. Then picking up your phone and keys, pressing a gentle hand into your upper back, and guiding you back out onto the street. The glow of the lights almost blind you, and you blink. 

You’re…okay. 

You look back into the alley, your attackers groaning into the dark. 

Wow, you think. 

“Are you okay?” Spider-man—Peter—asks, keeping his distance now that you're safely in the street and can see him fully. Cloaked in red and blue, the white eyes of the suit expanding and contracting as he takes you in. As he, no doubt, realizes who you are. 

You know exactly when he does, because his entire body tenses up and goes still, easy to see under the material that hugs every single muscle that has only grown bigger since you’d last seen him this close. You watch, slowly, as his free hand clenches into a fist, and then he’s crossing over towards you, fast. 

Fingers on your chin, turning you to face the light, to check for damage. A small, choked off sound when he must see something there. Now that your adrenaline is fading, you can feel the pain against your cheek, the way your knees are shaking, the other hand he’s put against your side to hold you up. He’s so warm, is your first coherent thought, so warm and here. 

“I’m okay,” You manage. Your voice sounds breathless, scared. 

Spider-man’s fingers leave your jaw, move up as if he means to press them against what you assume is a cut on your face, but then stop. You feel him take a breath, so close to you, then pull away. He takes a step back, two. Your body goes cold.  “What are you doing here?” He asks you, his voice desperate and wounded under the mask. You don’t have to see him to know the quiver in his lip, the worry that has to be shining in his eyes. But he clears his throat and backs up even more, almost completely out of the light now. “I mean…uh…why are you out here this late? Alone?” 

There’s a roughness on the alone, an anger you know from when you’d tried to help him stop a car jacker in junior year and gotten thrown to the ground, hard. The memories come easier now, a constant stream of pieces that leave you disbelieving that this man loved you. That he’d cared for you and you’d cared for him. Peter Parker. Spider-man. 

You hadn’t planned what to say. You sure as hell hadn’t actually planned on getting mugged, despite the real possibility. Your mouth feels dry and your body is buzzing with nerves, battling with the need to touch him. You open your mouth, not even sure what will come out—

New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens. 

You both jump. 

Across the street, you see a flash, and a voice yells, “Spider-man!” Your phone vibrates and sounds another notification, and you see the spider icons start popping up, reflecting against the material of his suit where he’s still holding your phone. “Spider-man, could I get a picture?” 

Spider-man looks at the person starting to cross the street, then looks at you, then back. The eyes of his suit are impossible to see through, but you can see the indecision in every line of his body.  

Whether he should leave you for the police. Whether you want him to. 

You think back to the other night, the urge to tell him wait for me despite not knowing him. What had happened when you didn’t do it. 

You’re desperate. You have this feeling that if you let him walk away now, you won’t have another chance. That he’ll swing away or the cops will come and you’ll lose him, anyway. You grab at his arm, the hard line of his bicep, and all you can say, all you can whisper, is, “Peter.” 

His head whips over to you. Those eyes contract in, out, in, out. He goes utterly, completely still. You wish you could see his face, see what he was thinking. How he was looking at you. 

There’s a whoosh of breath from under the mask. He takes a step closer to you and your heart has enough time to jump into your throat by the time he hands you your things, wraps one arm around your waist, and tells you lowly, “Hold on to me.” 

So you do. Hands around his neck, so close to the line of his mask, as he shoots the two of you up and away from the pedestrian who throws his hands up, away from the incoming police sirens, and across the rooftops. You feel the wind in your hair for just a moment, enough time for you to smile, to let the part of you that’d forgotten everything remember what it had been like, before you’re on concrete again, however many stories up. 

Spider-man lets you go like he’s been burned, pacing a few steps away and running his hands over his mask, where you know he’d be pulling at his curls if he could get to them. 

All at once, he turns to you. “What did you say?” 

Quiet, nervous, as if he’d heard wrong. 

It’s a slow thing, dropping your things to the ground and walking over to him. He tracks your every movement carefully. Tracks it as you bring your hands up, across his shoulders, up to where the mask meets the neck of his suit. You run the pads of your fingers under the material, finally finally against his skin, and he shivers against you. 

You wait to see if he’ll stop you, but he’s practically swaying on his feet under your touch. You don’t think he’s breathing, don’t think he lets out a breath until you pull off the mask and your eyes meet. 

There’s a scratch across his forehead, right over his eyebrow. A bruise on his jaw. His eyes are glistening as they take you in, running over and over your face, searching. Hopeful. 

Perfect. 

The mask thudding to the ground sounds like it’s miles away.

“Peter,” you murmur. You press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it, melts into it. 

He laughs, a disbelieving thing. A tear falls from his eye and curls around your thumb as he loops his fingers around your wrist, loose and distracting.  “You remember.” 

You feel like there are a thousand little stars in your chest, shining and imploding. You nod, and with a sniffle, realize you’re crying, too. Smiling, too. So hard you feel the strain of it. “I remember.” 

You look at each other, twin tear-stained cheeks, and then Peter is pulling you close, into his chest. You throw your arms over his shoulders, run a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders, ducks his head into your collarbone, and bunches his hands into the fabric at your waist as if he’s scared you're going to disappear. 

You stand there for what feels like hours, breathing each other in. The smell of the wind on him, so familiar to you, so similar to how it was before everything happened. Like nothing had changed, like you hadn’t spent four years feeling his absence without knowing why. 

But he pulls away from you, sudden. Far enough to look into your eyes. “Tell me you’re okay.” His hand lifts to run against the cut on your cheek.  Moves down to your arms, the redness of your wrists. You feel his touch rattle into your bones.  “I hate that this happened to you.” 

“I’m okay, Peter. Promise.” You can’t stop saying his name, marveling at the feel of it on your tongue after not saying it for so long. 

The look he gives you is so pained. “Let me fix this for you.” 

You shake your head, even as your stomach twists pleasantly at the tone of his voice. “It’s nothing.” 

He grips your chin, and you wish you could feel his fingers without the suit. He makes you look at him, to see the emotion in his eyes. He says your name, low and sweet, and you feel like breaking apart. “Please.” 

“Okay.” 

You would’ve gotten mugged a thousand times—hell, you’re scared of what you’d be willing to go through—if it meant it would end with you right here, with Peter leading you down into his apartment. 

It’s a mess of tech: a line of monitors on a large desk, a fancy-looking printer lasering up something you can’t see, a treadmill shoved into a corner. The bed is a mess of threadbare sheets, and the kitchenette is bare, just a couple of chip bags and protein powder sitting on a shelf by the fridge. 

It’s…honestly, it makes you feel unbearably sad. 

You’d been going to college, learning about computers and SQL and Python, meeting Ned and MJ to study on the quad, making friends and new memories. 

And he’d been here. 

“Here,” Peter says, tugging you over to sit at the edge of his bed. He leaves you there, taking off his mask and throwing it haphazardly onto his keyboard, bending to tug out a giant first aid kit from underneath the desk. When he returns, he kneels between your legs, still in his suit, thigh muscles rippling and bulging against the fabric. 

A secret you hadn’t even told MJ and Ned: you’d had a crush on Spider-man. Crush sounded ridiculous, but it was the only way you could describe it. Even at MIT, you’d watched any video you could of him swinging around New York, thinking about the man under the mask. Could you be blamed, seeing how he filled out that suit? 

It’d made a lot more sense in the past couple of days. Maybe you didn’t remember Peter Parker, but your body sure as hell remembered Spider-man. 

It’s a little overwhelming, Peter looking up at you tenderly through his lashes, clad in something almost obscene. Two sides of the same coin. 

Very overwhelming, actually. 

He gets to work cleaning your cut, standing between your knees. He holds one hand against your jaw, fingers reaching into your hair, as he gently dabs it with alcohol. You sigh into the touch, and wait until he’s finished putting tape on it to say, “I missed you, you know. I might have forgotten you, but I don’t think my body ever stopped wondering where you were.” 

He must have been waiting for you to say something first, because he lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He tilts your head up with the hand still in your hair, and with the other, traces the line of your bottom lip. You feel like you’re on fire, hot under the touch. He’s looking at you like he had the other night, like he’s scared you’re going to disappear from right under his hands. “I missed you, too. So much. Every day.” 

You want to ask, then why? Why did you let me forget? 

But you’ve spent so much of the last forty eight hours angry, and right now, you want to be relieved.

The anger can come later. It will come later. 

Peter is doing this half-smile, gaze still caught on your face. “I was always—“ a huff, another graze against your lip that leaves you reeling. “I was always thinking about you. It was distracting. I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything.” 

You run your hand up his abdomen, clad in red. It pulses under your touch, and Peter’s breath hitches like he’s in pain. You stop at the spider on his chest, drag a finger across the surface. “You seemed like you were doing just fine.” 

He sighs and shakes his head. “There’s so much to tell you. But I don’t want to drag you back—“ 

“Do not finish that sentence.” 

Suddenly you’re standing, finger pointed at his chest. You clench your teeth against the anger that hits you, white-hot. You’d been doing so good, forgetting it. You try to breathe, breathe through the reality that he’s trying to do this to you again. “Peter,” the way his face crumples under you saying his name again almost gives you pause. “I’ve lived without you for four years. And I’m so pissed at you for doing that to me. Thinking about you in this shithole—sorry—all alone for all that time makes me so angry. Thinking about you leaving me and Ned and MJ in a world where we think you don’t exist is—is so—“ 

You have to break off to breathe. Peter is following every word you’re saying, even as his eyes grow red with tears again. 

“I’m mad, Peter. I’m heartbroken that you did this to me. But now I can tell you that I do know what it’s like to live without you. Whatever life you wanted for me, away from you, from all of this, I got it.

“And I hated it. I spent every second feeling like something was missing. You know the first date I tried to go on, I puked twice before I even made it out the door and had to cancel? Everything was so wrong all the time. You said you were always thinking about me? Well I was always thinking about you and I didn’t even know why.

“Peter.” You touch his face, and you feel your expression shift, recognize it from your dreams. The soft slant of your mouth, the warmth of your eyes. “I’d rather be in danger every day of my life, every second, than to keep living it without you. I can’t do it anymore, and I won’t do it.” 

And Peter, through his tears, through the lump in his throat starts to say, “I don’t—“ 

You cut him off. “Do you love me? Still?” 

Even though you’d known the answer, known it since he’d knocked on your door as a stranger, it’s a relief when he immediately nods his head. “Yeah. Yes. You know I—yes, of course. Always.” 

Always. 

“Do you want to be with me? I’m talking about Peter Parker. No Spider-man, no multiverse bullshit. You.”

You watch, transfixed, as his defenses lower. As he’s left deflated, nothing but messy curls and sad eyes. “Yes.”

“Then be with me.” 

“I can’t—“

“If you want me out of your life, you’re gonna have to get Doctor Strange to make me forget again. I mean that. I love Peter Parker, and there is no Spider-man without Peter Parker. And if Peter Parker loves me, and Peter Parker wants to be with me, I’m gonna let him.” For good measure, you add, “Fuck Spider-man.” 

It gets a surprised laugh out of him, as watery as it is. The smile stays after, too. Even through it, through how much you’re sure he’s heard you, you know you haven’t completely convinced him. You see the hesitation behind his eyes. 

Stubborn, stubborn man. You could get him to change what kind of candy he wanted at the store, but when he came to what he thought protected you, it was like talking to a wall. 

And unsurprisingly, you were failing. 

“Just,” you touch his hand, revel in how it immediately envelopes yours like second nature. “Be with me. At least for tonight. No Spider-man, no memory curse that I’ll definitely need to talk to you about later, just Peter. You and me.”

He squeezes your hand once. “You and me.” 

Your chest feels like it could cave in with the relief. You’d do it. You’d convince him, some way. 

For now, you just wanted to see him. 

“You want to change out of the suit?” You ask him, “I wanna…feel you.” 

It comes out…not how you intended it. You just meant you wanted to feel the skin of his hand when he touched your face, the jut of his collarbone under your touch, the stretch of his bicep. 

But he gulps, hard. “I, uh—Yeah. Yeah, I can go—“ He throws a thumb over his shoulder, looking panicked, and honest to God stumbles over his feet. “I have—clothes, bathroom. Yeah. Be right back.” 

You laugh into the dark, and you think the lightness of your chest could fill the entire room. The entire city. 

When Peter returns in a hoodie and sweatpants—looking so much more like the boy you fell in love with—his cheeks are still red. He comes to stand close to you, chest to chest, and lets out a breath like it'd been hard to be so far from you for that small time. 

This was your Peter. Say all you want about Spider-man, but Peter would always be yours, tucked against your ribcage like a secret just for yourself. Whether he liked it or not. 

He leans his forehead against yours. Already, being out of the suit has made him softer. More honest. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’m scared I’m dreaming.” 

You do what you’ve been dying to do since two nights ago, even if you’d been avoiding the feeling. Run your hands under the bottom of his hoodie, splay them against his lower back. He’s so warm, and just touching him makes you feel too full, a soda can shaken too much just before opening. His content sigh, the way his body slackens the smallest bit, the heavy blink he gives you.

“Me too. It’s how I remembered you—a dream.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Us on the roof. I was saying your name. I was happier than I’d been in years. When I woke up I just…kept remembering. Stole Ned’s computer to try and find you.”

“Spidey Tracker…you coded it, didn’t you?”

You nod against him, pleased he’d noticed. “Totally dangerous, by the way. Someone could track you down easily.”

“Someone did.” He smiles at you, not at all threatened by someone using it to hurt him, not afraid.

You roll your eyes, and his crinkle at the corners, running over your face, catching on your lips.

Staying there.

“Hey, Peter?”

He makes a humming sound, distracted.

“When are you gonna kiss me?”

There’s a soft, startled gasp in the back of his throat. He looks back at you, eyes a little wide. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“I’ve been waiting four years to kiss you.”

He licks his lips, blushing at your words. He brings his hand to cradle the back of your head, just how you like it, and keeps the other under your chin to angle you so all you see are his eyes. “Can you say my name again?”

You wonder how long it’d been since he’d heard it. His name, meant for him.

“Kiss me, Peter.”

And he does, groaning softly against your mouth, tightening his grip on your hair just enough to have you sighing into him. He breaks away, tilts your face just the slightest bit, and meets you again, devouring.

This had been one of your favorite things, when Peter shucked off the awkwardness and became a mix of demanding, gentle, and eager.

It’s one of the last memories that come to you, how your body responds to him. Where to touch him so that his breath stutters, his fingers flex against your jaw. You run your hands up the notches of his spine and suck on his bottom lip, knowing the low groan that will come after. Trace your thumbs up the ridge of his abs, knowing his hips will twitch towards yours, knowing it makes him pull your head back to lick deeper into your mouth.

But he knows you too. Knows to put a hand on your lower back to arch you into him. Knows to, when your kisses start to get sloppy, spin you so that he can sit on the bed and pull you with him. Your knees on either side of his hips, him looking up at you.

Kiss-swollen. Dazed.

“I love you,” Hands teasing under the hem of your sweatshirt, he kisses your cheeks, your forehead. His thumbs are white-against the skin of your stomach as he presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

He tells you twice more, hugging you to him, sucking spots into your neck, the underside of your jaw.

“Peter,” You say his name again just to feel him sigh into your neck. Card your fingers through his curls and tug him where you want him. “I’ll always love you.”

You sound so much like the girl in your dream. The past, happy version of you, with no missing pieces in your brain. This time, just a little breathless.

Feeling Peter’s lips lift into a smile against your skin.

When he pulls back, all heavy lidded eyes looking up at you, hands halfway up your sweatshirt, splayed over your bare ribs possessively, you have an all-encompassing fear that you are dreaming. That there’s no way this is happening, this beautiful man pliant beneath you, absolutely lovely.

But he’s so solid under you, under your mouth. The small sucked and bitten marks on your neck feel real, the coiling warmth in your stomach that spikes the longer he looks at you with those dark eyes, as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, feels real.

The fondness, the relief threatening to rip you apart feels real.

You put your palm over his heart, just to feel it racing.

The both of you breathe in the dark.

He tucks your hair behind your ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. Then, absently, like he doesn’t really mean to say it, “You said you couldn’t live without me.”

“I said I don’t want to live without you.”

He shrugs a shoulder, smirking now. “Same thing.”

You pretend to think. “On second thought—“

He makes a noise that sounds a lot like nu-uh, rolling you onto your back in the bed and blowing air into your neck. It makes you laugh and completely stops you from finishing your sentence. You’re so, blindingly, happy.

He looms over you, arms bracketed on each side of your head. Smiling. “Stay here tonight.”

“Um, was that a question, or?”

He says your name again, slow. Savoring it. “Stay here with me tonight, please?”

And it really hadn’t been a question because obviously you would do it. You didn’t want to let him out of your sight. “I would love to,” you answer. “But I have a question for you, too.”

“Okay.”

You grin at how attentive he becomes, eyes curious.

“Who the hell is Maynard?”

Peter buries his head into your shoulder with a groan.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Either way, you’d started trying to avoid that gnawing feeling in your chest. Besides, you were growing out of the phase where going to every party and meeting every person you could fascinated you. Maybe one day that deep, dreadful sinking would go away. Maybe it would stop appearing at parties, on every birthday you turned a year older, on the small amount of dates you’d gone on where the feeling got so strong it made you nauseous.

Today, though, was an exception. You’d graduated this past summer and moved back to New York with MJ and Ned, and they were determined to throw one last party with all the college friends that had wound up back in the city, too. 

Well, Ned was determined. You and MJ were lukewarm about the whole thing. 

Which is why you were in your—abysmally small—bedroom, working through this line of code that you were pretty sure was going to get you fired from your shiny new job if you didn’t figure out why it wasn’t working, with your door open to the noise beyond. It was to keep an eye on MJ and Ned, you told yourself, even as you eyed all the swaying people around the TV you’d just spent fifty dollars on from Facebook Marketplace. Ugh, you should have moved it before. If they broke it, you were totally making Ned buy you takeout for a week.

You went back to work, thankful everyone seemed to be too preoccupied with the party to worry about the weird girl staring at her computer screen on her bedroom floor. You couldn’t figure this out. It was driving you crazy. You were sure it had worked yesterday evening, and then when you’d come into work this morning it was all wrong and every single test you did didn’t fix it and you were going to throw your computer—

A knock on your open door. A cleared throat. “Um, hey.” 

You looked up.

A guy around your age stood in your doorway. The first thing you noticed about him were his eyes, wide and expressive, looking at you as if you were the one who’d shown up in his bedroom. But…reverent too, almost in disbelief. He was looking at you like he’d never seen a girl before. 

But he was cute. And something about him…

He seemed familiar. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you. His gaze starts to bounce around the room the second you meet it, avoiding your eyes. “You looked, um, mad?”

“Oh!” You laugh a little at yourself. “I’m just doing some work. I’ve been told I look mad when I can’t figure something out. I don’t even realize it.” But who had told you that? It wasn’t your family, or Ned or MJ. But someone had told you. Who had it been?

The guy shifts on his feet. You realize he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, which is a weird thing to bring to a party, but you find it charming. He squints his eyes at you, but the corner of his mouth is lifting like he wants to smile. It makes something in your chest flutter. “You’re doing work during a party?”

He’s teasing you. You feel yourself smiling back. “Yes, I am. Super important work, I might add.”

“Oh, yeah?” He leans a shoulder against your doorframe, eyes on yours now. 

You can’t look away. 

“Yep. Keep an eye out because I’m gonna dethrone Spider-Man from the first page of the Daily Bugle tomorrow with my amazing work on debugging this finance app that only has three hundred downloads. Really groundbreaking stuff.” 

He smiles fully, now. It makes you feel triumphant, nervous, and warm. “That’s awesome because I love—What’s the name of the app?”

“Financipply” Stupid name. From the doubtful look he sends you, he agrees.

“That’s perfect because I love Finacnipply. Can’t wait to see you on the front page.” You roll your eyes, but you laugh. You both do, his shy and small, as if he hasn’t done it in a long, long time. As if he shouldn’t be laughing at all. But his eyes are bright. They turn towards the floor as your laughter dies, shy.  “So what can’t you figure out?”

And you just can’t stop looking at him. You motion towards your computer screen vaguely. “Just this code. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s just not working.” 

He takes a small step forward. “Do you think…Can I…look at it?”

“For real? You code?”

He shrugs, one hand in his pocket. Adorable. “I…dabble?”

“Are you sure about that?” 

Another flash of a smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Alright then. Knock yourself out.”

He comes to sit next to you on the rug you found at the thrift store a couple blocks away, rubbing his palms over his jeans and looking intently at your computer screen. He smells like clean laundry and the rain the city had earlier in the day, and he’s looking at your code like he actually understands it. “Oh wow. Cool.” He scrolls through it a couple times, up, down. You’re entranced by his profile, so close.  He stops to type. “Did you try this?” 

You blink. Look at the screen. “Oh my gosh, no.” A simple line edit. You know when you see it that it’ll work. “Holy shit. You did it. Holy crap. Thank you. You’re, like, awesome.” 

“It was nothing.” But he's ducking his head with a blush.  “Seriously.” 

“What’s your name, anyway? Since you saved me from getting fired.”

“Um, May..nard.” 

“Maynard.” It sounds wrong. You’ve never had that thought before—that someone’s name is wrong. But it’s a sure feeling in your chest. The one you have when you know your code tests are going to work, and when you decided you wanted to move back to the city. It’s really the only feeling you trust anymore. 

“Yep.” He leans back on his palms, and your eyes run down his arms unconsciously, tracking muscles and veins. You have a brief, overwhelming urge to curl closer to him, to run your hands down his biceps, to take his hands into yours and trace the lines of his palms. And it feels normal, to have that feeling. So normal, your body almost starts moving on its own accord. But his voice breaks you out of it. “So, is this what you want to do? Program apps?” 

You tell him that your dream is to work on developing video games, and he nods like it makes complete sense and gets you to tell him that you’d love to make a game based off of Star Wars, which makes his eyes light up in a way that has your breath catching. 

And that’s how you end up talking to a cute boy on the floor of your bedroom for an hour, about Star Wars and your favorite video games and what got you into them in the first place. He makes you laugh, and talking to him is so easy. It’s hard to believe you just met him now and not in high school. He would fit right in with MJ and Ned. You can almost see it for a moment; the four of you hanging around the diner MJ used to work at before college, laughing and teasing and studying. The image is so visceral that for a moment it feels real. 

You’re just about to invite him over sometime because you’re so sure that they’d love him and that you want to get to know him better, when there’s a crash from the living room. 

Both of you turn, and your face immediately drops. That better not have been your TV. 

You sigh. “I need to go make sure nothing important is broken.” You almost add on a desperate wait for me, but he’s already standing up and holding out a hand for you. 

That would have been too weird to ask for, anyway. Right? 

You let him pull you up. When your hands touch, it’s almost as if the warmth radiates from his calloused fingers, grips your heart, and drags it all the way down to your toes. He lets go quickly, as soon as you’re on your feet, but you stand there for a moment, disoriented. Feeling like…feeling like you’re right where you need to be. But also like you’ve forgotten to do something. It pulls at your brain like a grocery item list you know you were thinking about five minutes ago, but no matter how far you reach, you can never remember what it was. 

It shouldn’t bother you this much—you’ve been feeling it since you went to college. It hung over you during orientation, and move-in day, and every visit home. It reaches you in dreams, and weirdly, whenever Ned shows you the thousands of videos he gets of Spider-Man swinging across the city. 

But you’d never felt this close to grasping it before. You can almost see an image in your brain, faded around the edges like an old photograph, a word floating just on the edge of your consciousness. 

“You okay?” He’s asking you. Maynard. God, why does that name sound so wrong to think?

He looks about a second away from grabbing your hand again. 

You want to let him. 

But you hear MJ’s voice from the living room, firm in the way she only uses when she’s annoyed, and you know that your TV is probably done for. Maynard seems to be able to sense it too, because he urges you to go. 

And your TV is broken, thanks to some idiot and his friend who decided to start play-fighting for no reason. He gives you a twenty from his pocket, but you can’t even focus. Your mind is too busy playing back your night. Warm brown eyes, messy curls, soft smiles. You end up just waving it off—but you keep that twenty—and rushing back to your room to find Maynard. 

Only, he’s not there when you return. 

Your laptop is closed and placed at the foot of your bed. On top, the bouquet he showed up with. 

You stand there, in the middle of your tiny room, touching your fingertips to the carnations and grieving. 

Grieving for what? You keep asking yourself. Why do I feel this way?

But you can’t figure it out. It stays, stays, stays. 

Later that night, his face comes to you in your dreams. It’s younger, unburdened with the sadness you’d seen lying underneath. He’s laughing, bright and beautiful, and he’s looking at you. You’re on a rooftop somewhere, both of you golden in the sun, and he’s saying your name with a fondness that notches into your spine. 

I love you, he says, and he means it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his expression melts into softness, in the way he traces his fingers across your shoulder and pulls you into him. 

Peter, your voice sounds just as yours does now, weighed down by adulthood. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and there’s a peacefulness in your body that you know you haven’t felt in years, even through the haze of the dream. I’ll always love you.

You feel the press of his lips to your hair, the curve of them as he smiles.

You wake up. Gasping, gripping the thin sheets of your bed, sweat gleaming on your collarbone. 

Peter, your mind whispers to you in the dark.

“Peter.” You murmur it into the moonlight shining across your floor, to your heart beating against your ribcage, to the knot in your stomach that finally releases. 

“Peter.” You say again. Taste it on your tongue, certain you’ve said it a thousand times, in a million different ways.

you really did think he was joking, but the way you're stuffed to the brim with dick, ready to be bred, you're wholly wrong.

"'m—fuck!— sorry!" brain hazy, you babble apologies endlessly. there's no telling if he's actually listening to (or cares) about them; he's too busy thrusting impossibly deep, fucking like he wants twins.

if it weren't for your current mental state, embarrassment would be charging through you. exposed is an understatement for your soul-bearing position. you're completely entwined, bodies moving in effortless synchronicity.

the worst part is how he's fucking you: firm and deep, hips snapping, yet not rough or unnecessarily fast. though he's trying to control himself, you can't help but feel how desperately he wants to fill you with his seed.

"need me to fill you up, don't you?"

you moan whorishly at his words. "yes, ken, yesyesyes!"

no man but nanami can fuck you like this, break you into fine pieces with his body alone, then put you back together again with affection worthy of endless praise.

"open up for me," he murmurs, strained voice bouncing around in your empty head. he says it innocently as can be, at least, as innocently as he can while buried inside of you.

you oblige quickly, but not quick enough for nanami.

a strong hand hoists your legs up, hips aching slightly from the new angle. maneuvered into a mating press, you're caged by nothing but sweaty, entangled limbs.

the new angle has him massaging your sweet spots on every down stroke. your poor ass jiggles from the force of his precise thrusts. he feels how you clench around him so tightly, wondering if you'll do the same while carrying his child.

your blissed out look has his balls tightening and his mind racing. just as your head rolls for the nth time, his hand grips your jaw to face him.

"which is better? me, or the game?"

the question comes from left field. delirious, your face crinkles into confusion. he picks up on it easily, leaning down to whisper directly into your ear.

"which is better, baby? our kids, or the fake ones?" his voice is even, but you can still hear the uptick in his voice at the mention of the reason you're folded up in the first place.

"o-ours," you mumble.

"perfect answer, gorgeous." he places a tender kiss on your forehead, cradling it in his warm hands.

you don't notice the humour of the situation, too hungry to care about anything but cumming or being cummed in. fortunately for you, nanami is still committed to finishing both of you off.

for every nudge of his head against your deepest corners, you're an inch closer to that sweet release. he could cum anytime now, yet he holds himself back, and for good reason— giving you the first taste of heaven will assure that his seed takes.

thankfully, he won't need to hold back much longer.

"kento," you mewl, "it's close!"

"what's close, baby?"

you mewl again, fumbling around the question. "i need to cum, ken!"

nanami's thrusts suddenly turn unbearable. he takes on a new angle, hips shifted just right. god, it's so overstimulating, has you gripping his arms for dear life. he pushes you right to that edge, nearly makes you finish early. his head throws back at the vice of your cunt, pussy squeezing so hard in hopes of not disobeying your lover.

on the edge of his own orgasm, he pauses for the first time in what feels like hours. fully seated inside, he grants you that sweet, sweet, permission.

"cum for me, mama."

and you do, so fucking hard.

your body reacts before you can. eyes fully rolled back, legs locked and walls clamped, you cum harder than ever. pleasure has taken hold of you and there's no stopping it. a small "i'm cumming" is caught in your throat on a silent scream.

"theeere, you go. just cum for me." he lowers his forehead to yours in unbearable ecstasy. his eyes gulp down every twitch of your face with need. the exact start, peak, and drawn out end of your earth shattering orgasm is tattooed to the back of his eyelids.

the sight sends him over the edge. he finishes with a painful groan against your quivering lips. overstimulated, he can't bear the pleasure of his orgasm, either. he nearly collapses on top of you.

the mattress rocks under the force of him, his jerking hips shaking it. he stays buried deep, afraid that if he pulls out too far, precious seed will spill; an insult to your shared hard work.

both of you take a long moment to fully come down from your highs. nanami doesn't get off of you immediately despite being covered in sweat from golden crown to toe.

you stay slotted together for a while—legs spread lazily, slick and filled to the brim with cum.

"see," he whispers against your skin, "our kids are better than that lurid game's."

"we don't have any kids, dummy," you argue with the last of your strength. he huffs a laugh, warm air tickling your skin.

"in 40 weeks, we will. dummy."

masterlist | @orangethecarrotcoloredpaperred @tojisgdgirl @mimicosmos8

a/n: wait why did i cook this

masterlist | @orangethecarrotcoloredpaperred

a/n: smut ver coming soon i hope

You had heard everything about him from relatives who seemed almost eager to frighten you, that he was difficult, that he was severe, that his patience was thin and his expectations were impossible, that even the older members of the clan measured their words around him, that servants hurried when they heard his footsteps and sorcerers who had served him for years still became rigid whenever he entered a room, and, perhaps most humiliatingly, that his beauty had made him something of a notorious playboy before marriage, a man surrounded by women wherever he went, a man who had never needed to ask for affection because it had always been offered to him freely.

Your cousins had told you not to expect miracles from marriage, had sat beside you while your bridal robes were being prepared and spoken of husbands as though infidelity were simply another inconvenience a woman learned to endure, telling you that strong men from powerful clans rarely changed their habits simply because a wife had been placed beside them, that your duty would be to remain graceful, to keep your husband’s household peaceful, to look away from whatever happened outside the walls of your home and never give him a reason to become displeased with you. You had listened because there had never been much else you could do. You had wished, secretly and painfully, that you possessed even a fraction of Maki’s courage, that you could simply turn your back on the clan and walk away from every expectation that had been placed upon you since childhood, but you had no cursed technique, no extraordinary reserves of cursed energy, no weapon in your hands with which to carve your own path through the world, and so you had done what you had always been taught to do, you had lowered your head and stepped forward.

The Gojo estate had been transformed for the wedding, the garden dressed in pale ivory and deep crimson until it resembled something painted by a person who had never known anything ugly, with flowering branches bowing gently over stone pathways, crimson camellias scattered among white blossoms, silk banners stirring beneath the summer breeze and hundreds of small lanterns glowing softly beneath the trees as the afternoon faded toward gold. You remember thinking that it was almost cruel for something so beautiful to surround a girl who was trying not to tremble. Beneath your sleeves, your fingers had been curled tightly around the stems of your flowers, while the immaculate layers of your shiromuku rested heavily around you, the white silk embroidered with delicate branches and blossoms so fine that they seemed almost invisible until the light touched them, revealing threads of gold and silver hidden within the fabric.

Your hair had been arranged carefully, every strand placed exactly where it belonged, adorned with traditional ornaments that caught the light whenever you moved, and beneath the heavy bridal hood you could hear your own heartbeat as clearly as though someone were striking a drum beside your ear. Five steps remained, then four, then three, and with every step you became increasingly aware that the stranger waiting at the end of the garden was about to become your husband. Two steps. One….

You finally raised your eyes, and the first thing you saw was white, a sweep of snowy hair framing a face far too beautiful for the terrifying stories you had been told, and then you saw his eyes, impossibly blue, clear and luminous beneath the afternoon light, fixed upon you with such complete attention that for a moment you forgot the entire gathering existed. Satoru stood in formal black montsuki and hakama, the Gojo crest embroidered upon his clothing, tall enough that the difference between your heights became immediately apparent, broad-shouldered and elegant without seeming to make any effort at all, surrounded by members of his clan and people who had probably known him far longer than you ever would, yet when your eyes met his, he did something that confused you more than anything else could have. He smiled, and then he bowed his head slightly toward you. You almost looked behind yourself to see whether someone else was standing there. Why was the clan head bowing to you? Why was the strongest man at the gathering looking at you as though you were the person he had been waiting for? You did not have an answer, and perhaps you never would, but when he reached for your hand, his fingers closing around yours with an unexpected gentleness, something inside your chest loosened.

His lips touched yours in a brief, warm kiss, barely more than a tender greeting, and yet the sensation stayed with you long after the applause began, long after the congratulations filled the garden, long after someone announced that the union had been formally sealed. You were Mrs. Gojo now, and the frightened nineteen-year-old girl who had walked down that aisle had no idea that the man standing beside her would eventually become the safest place she had ever known.

The strangest part was that you discovered almost immediately that everyone had been telling you the truth and lying to you at the same time, because Satoru Gojo really was strict, really was intimidating, really did possess the sort of presence that could turn an entire room silent without him needing to raise his voice, and when something was genuinely mishandled in the clan, there was a coldness in his expression that made even seasoned sorcerers straighten their backs and reconsider their choices, but none of that man ever followed him home to you.

The moment the doors closed behind him, he became someone else entirely, or perhaps, more accurately, he became the version of himself that nobody else had ever been permitted to see. He could walk out of a meeting after reducing a room full of senior clan members to absolute silence and then find you sitting in the garden with a book, immediately cross the courtyard to press a kiss against your temple and ask whether you had eaten lunch, his voice softening as though the woman in front of him were not merely his wife but the centre around which his entire day had begun to revolve. You began to understand why the household staff would sometimes hide their smiles when they saw him following you from room to room, because the terrifying clan head who supposedly tolerated no weakness had become absurdly dependent upon his wife for the smallest things, refusing to get dressed properly until you had fixed his collar, refusing to leave the bedroom until you had brushed his hair into place, sitting patiently at your vanity every morning while you worked through your skincare routine with the bewildered fascination of a man witnessing forbidden sorcery.

He would watch you cleanse your face, moisturize, apply serum and sunscreen, asking what every little bottle did, and when you explained that sunscreen protected your skin, he would stare at you for several seconds before solemnly asking whether his skin needed protecting too, and then, once you laughed, he would hold out his face with such shameless expectation that you eventually began applying everything to him as well. He never learned the names of half the products, but he knew exactly which one you reached for first, which one you used beneath your eyes, which one you insisted he wear before stepping outside, and if you ever attempted to skip a step because you were in a hurry, he would remind you of it with an expression of such ridiculous satisfaction that you would wonder when your husband had become the one policing your skincare routine.

He was like that about everything, really, helplessly affectionate in a way that would have been almost embarrassing if you did not secretly adore it, because Satoru could command a clan with a single look but could not resist dropping his head into your lap while you were reading, could not walk past you without touching you somehow, could not sit beside you without eventually taking your hand and threading his fingers through yours.

He liked your hands most of all, perhaps because they were the hands that adjusted his collar in the morning, prepared his meals, brushed his hair, straightened his clothes and touched his face when you thought he looked tired. He would sometimes take one of your hands between both of his and kiss your knuckles one after another, lingering over your fingertips with such reverence that you would become shy beneath his attention, and if you asked him what he was doing, he would simply smile and tell you that he was appreciating his wife.

You learned his favorite foods with the same devotion with which he learned yours, memorizing the things he craved after long meetings, the meals he preferred before missions, the sweets he pretended he could take or leave but always finished when they appeared on the table, while he somehow remembered the pastry you liked from a tiny shop you had visited once, the exact tea you preferred, the fruit you always reached for first and the dishes that made you happiest on difficult days.

You would prepare his breakfast according to the kind of day he had ahead of him, making sure he ate properly before meetings even when he claimed he wasn’t hungry, and he would rearrange his entire schedule before he allowed anyone to take breakfast away from you. He could postpone a meeting, reschedule an appointment, make half the clan wait outside his study, but he would not surrender the quiet hour he had claimed as yours, the two of you sitting across from one another while sunlight filtered through the windows, his hand occasionally reaching across the table simply to touch yours.

Sometimes he would arrive home carrying something wrapped in paper and place it beside your plate without explanation, and when you looked at him questioningly he would shrug and say that he had seen it and thought of you, as though remembering his wife’s favorite things were not acts of devotion but ordinary facts he had committed to memory without even trying.

Your marriage settled into these little rituals until they became the language the two of you spoke most fluently. You would choose his clothes for important occasions, laying everything out before he woke, and he would return the favour by leaving your favourite dress hanging beside the wardrobe whenever he wanted to take you somewhere special. You would stand on a small wooden stool in the mornings to arrange his hair because he was too tall for you to reach comfortably, and he would deliberately bend his head lower than necessary just to make you laugh. He would sit through your attempts to paint his nails even though he insisted he had no interest in the process, then stare at his finished fingers with an absurd amount of pride, while every other week he would sit at your feet and carefully paint your toenails in whichever colour you had chosen, concentrating so intensely that you would have to bite back a smile.

On quiet nights, when the household had finally fallen asleep, the two of you would retreat to the bath, the room clouded with warm steam and the surface of the water disturbed only by the slow movement of your bodies as you settled together, your back against his chest while his arms rested loosely around your waist. Sometimes you talked until the water cooled, sometimes you simply sat together in comfortable silence, and sometimes his mouth would find your temple, your cheek, the curve beneath your jaw, each kiss slow enough to make your eyes flutter closed, his voice lowering whenever he told you how beautiful you were.

He knew exactly how to make you blush, murmuring that he loved your hair, that he adored your eyes, that the shape of your lips drove him mad, that he loved the softness of your body against his and the curves that belonged only to him, his affection occasionally slipping into teasing compliments that made you bury your face against his shoulder while he laughed quietly and held you closer. There was always something warm and unhurried about the way he touched you, something that made you feel cherished rather than merely desired, and on nights when the two of you disappeared behind closed doors, the rest of the estate might as well have ceased to exist, because Satoru had a way of making intimacy feel like another conversation between the two of you, another place where he could remind you that you were wanted, treasured and loved.

He was equally tender after, perhaps even more so, because Satoru never seemed satisfied with simply holding you for a moment before turning away to sleep. He would pull you against his chest, tuck the blankets around you, kiss your shoulder and run his fingers slowly through your hair while you drifted toward sleep, and there were nights when you would wake with your body aching from the day only to find him massaging your calves beneath the blankets, his expression sleepy but determined as though your comfort were some task he had personally sworn to complete. When your period came and cramps left you curled beneath the blankets, he became almost unbearably gentle, brushing your hair back with his fingers, pressing warm kisses against your forehead and temples, bringing you water, adjusting the pillows behind your back and staying beside you until you finally fell asleep.

He never treated your pain as an inconvenience. He never made you feel dramatic for needing comfort. If anything, he seemed offended that your body could hurt at all when he could not immediately fix it. When you were angry with him, he became even more affectionate, trailing after you through the house until you finally stopped pretending you could ignore him, apologizing with a sincerity that made it difficult to remain furious, pressing kisses to your cheek, your forehead, the corner of your jaw until your expression softened despite yourself. When you were sad, he did not always ask you to explain.

Sometimes he simply sat beside you and held you, his hand moving slowly along your back while you rested your head against his shoulder, and when you were happy, he wanted to know exactly why, because your happiness had somehow become one of his favorite things to witness.

You soon understood, however, that the man you knew at home had not replaced the clan head everyone feared. Both men existed within him, and you were perhaps the only person privileged enough to see where one ended and the other began. He could enter a meeting with an expression so severe that the room would become silent before he spoke, could dismiss a senior sorcerer with a few clipped sentences and make decisions that altered the future of the clan without hesitation, yet the moment he returned home and found you waiting, that severity would disappear from his face as though someone had turned off a light.

He would ask whether you had eaten, whether you were tired, whether the children had been troublesome, and if anyone had caused you inconvenience during his absence, his entire expression would change again, because there were few things Satoru Gojo hated more than discovering that someone had made his wife unhappy. He would tell you that he could tolerate almost anything from the world, but he would not tolerate anyone treating you carelessly, and although you sometimes teased him for being overprotective, there was something deeply reassuring about knowing that no matter how powerful the people surrounding you became, your husband would always stand between you and anything that threatened your peace.

Travelling with him became one of your favourite things because Satoru refused to make his work entirely separate from his life with you. If he needed to travel for the clan, you often went with him, and if he had several hours of paperwork waiting at the end of the day, you would sit in his study while he worked, sometimes curled sideways across his lap with a book while one of his hands rested around your waist. The first few times, you had worried that you were distracting him, but he had only looked down at you with a smile and told you that he worked better when you were close.

You began to realize that his need for you was not childish dependence but something far more profound, because Satoru had spent most of his life being treated as though his strength meant he required nothing from anyone, and perhaps he had never before been given permission to need another person. With you, he could be tired. He could be spoiled. He could put his head in your lap after a difficult day and close his eyes while your fingers moved through his hair. He could complain about meetings, mock the elders, steal food from your plate, demand kisses when you were trying to work and fall asleep with his face tucked against your neck. He could be the strongest man alive and still allow himself to be held.

Years passed almost without either of you noticing, and the house that had once felt enormous gradually became filled with the sounds of your life together, the clatter of tiny feet racing across wooden floors, children’s laughter echoing through the corridors, little hands tugging at Satoru’s clothes while he attempted to finish a meeting, small voices calling for Mama and Papa from different rooms. Your first child inherited his father’s impossible white hair, your second possessed the same luminous blue eyes, and Satoru became almost comically helpless whenever either of them wanted his attention. The man who could silence a council of elders would abandon an important document the moment one of his children came running into the room, lifting them into his arms and kissing their cheeks until they squealed with laughter.

You would watch from the doorway, one hand resting over the curve of your stomach as your third child grew quietly beneath your heart, and you would sometimes think back to the frightened girl who had walked down the aisle at nineteen, wondering what she would think if she could see you now. She had believed she was being given away to a stranger. She had believed marriage meant obedience, endurance and learning to survive whatever kind of man had been placed beside her. She could never have imagined that the man waiting at the end of that garden would learn every expression on her face, every preference on her tongue, every ache in her body and every quiet wish in her heart, that he would remember the foods she loved, brush her hair when she was hurting, carry her shopping bags, warm her side of the bed, kiss her hands when she was anxious, pull her into his lap while he worked and still look at her years later as though he had somehow been given something precious that he was terrified of taking for granted.

One evening, when the children had finally fallen asleep and the estate had become quiet, you found Satoru sitting on the balcony with his sleeves rolled up, his white hair slightly dishevelled from the day. You slipped behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back, and he immediately covered your hands with his own, turning his head enough to press his lips against your fingers. You asked him what he was thinking, and for once he did not answer with a joke. Instead, he turned around, drew you between his knees and rested his hands gently against your waist, looking at you with that same impossible blue gaze that had frightened you on the day you first met him and now felt more familiar than your own reflection.

He told you that once, before meeting you, he had genuinely believed he would regret the marriage, that he had resented the idea of having the elders decide such an important part of his life, that he had assumed he would spend years wondering what it would have been like to choose someone for himself, but then he smiled and told you that the strangest thing was that the woman they had chosen for him had become the woman he would have chosen anyway. He had never expected to fall in love, he admitted, and certainly never expected love to feel like this, so ordinary in its rituals and yet so enormous that he could not imagine his life without it, and then he kissed your forehead and whispered that if he had been given the chance to choose from the beginning, he would still have chosen you.

Your eyes stung, and you laughed softly because you could never quite understand how the man who had once seemed so distant could now make you cry with a single sentence. You rested your head against his chest while his arms closed around you, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, and somewhere beyond the balcony your children stirred in their sleep, their little voices murmuring from the nursery before becoming quiet again. Your third child moved beneath your hand, and Satoru immediately placed his palm over yours, his expression softening when he felt the faint movement. He bent to kiss your stomach, then your hand, then your cheek, lingering for a moment against your skin before drawing you close again, and you realized that perhaps this was what you had been searching for without knowing how to name it.

Not a grand marriage arranged by two powerful clans, not the prestige of becoming the wife of the strongest sorcerer in Japan, not the beautiful estate or the expensive gifts or the extravagant journeys, but this. His hand finding yours beneath the table. His favorite meal waiting for him after a long day. Your favorite pastry appearing beside your tea without you asking. His head in your lap while you read. Your fingers in his hair while he fell asleep. Warm baths shared after exhausting days. Quiet mornings spent fixing his collar. His lips against your temple when you were half asleep. Your children running through the garden with his white hair and your laughter in their voices. The knowledge that somewhere in this enormous world, there was one person who knew every version of you and loved every one of them.

And perhaps that was why, years after the wedding, when you looked back at the nineteen-year-old girl walking timidly toward the man she believed she should fear, you could not help but smile at the irony of it all, because she had thought she was walking toward the strongest man in the world, when in truth she had been walking toward the man who would spend the rest of his life making sure she never had to be strong alone. She had thought she was becoming the wife of the Gojo clan head, but somewhere between the morning skincare rituals, shared breakfasts, whispered confessions, warm baths, quiet journeys, late-night conversations, stolen kisses, sleepy embraces, children’s laughter and countless ordinary acts of devotion, she had simply become Satoru’s wife, and he had become hers. Loving him had not been the surrender she had once feared.

It had been the most complete kind of home, the kind that followed her wherever she went, the kind she could feel whenever his fingers slipped between hers, the kind that existed in every kiss pressed to her forehead and every sleepy “good morning, wife” whispered against her hair, and when Satoru pulled her closer that night, his palm resting protectively over their unborn child while his lips brushed her temple, you finally understood that marrying the head of the Gojo clan had never been the burden you once imagined it would be.

It had been the most precious gift your life had ever given you.

I was reading a reallyyyyyyy long and angsty fic and my bad that I didn’t read the warnings and tags properly but I’m so heartbroken of the fact that I (Y/N) got cheated again and again in that fic and almost married someone else later (cries) and I started absolutely hating Gojo so I wanted to redeem him for myself by writing this T-T . Gojo my love, I would always be in love with you. Also, this concept and a draft of this was sitting in my docs so I hope you enjoy.

I really can’t stop yapping now can I?

Reblogs appreciated!

he sat on one of the beds, his wounds getting treated and for a second he felt like crawling out of his skin. because it felt wrong, having someone else see him like this after his matches, dressing his wounds, a job that was once dearly yours, watching them move their hands on him, he could feel pits forming in his stomach.

he wanted to bite something—yell, scream, shove the nurse off of him, absolutely anything to have her stop touching his skin. 

and it was unfair—it'd been months since he talked to you so why was getting bad now? he ruined this in the first place, avoiding you, trying to recklessly ruin the relationship because he didn't think he deserved you. it was his fucking fault to begin with.

and it only started to flood his brain now, how his entire world revolved around you, how you were basically everywhere—in the seat that you always sat at when he fought, in the ward when he finished a fight, and in the corner of the room, talking to his friends, laughing with a drink in hand like tomorrow was always promised to the two of you.

"fuck."

"sorry, did that sting, sir?" the nurse was sitting up, moving the cotton swab away from his face, her eyes filled with concern, and for a second if sukuna shut his eyes he could've pretended it was you. 

he simply grunted in response, holding onto the wall and pulling himself together.

"we're done here, right?" he could barely get the words out, his heart starting to beat a mile a minute while he tried to push through, making a beeline for his car before jamming his keys in and driving back home.

he barely acknowledged yuji on the couch, collapsing in his room the second he walked in, trying to level his breathing desperately while the room started to close in on him.

your presence still lingered—it always did, the way you'd dim the lights, the way the smell of your shampoo would stay on the pillows, now the place smelled too clean. his life was scrubbed clean of you, the sheets were white, your books and figurines were no longer littered around his place and all of it felt so wrong.

his brain was running a mile a minute, trying to reach for any remnants of your presence in the room, barely noticing yuji walk into his room.

"uncle are you okay..?" it sounded like he was walking on ice, and sukuna's breath hitched in his throat, choking on his own words while trying to answer.

"i'm fine, yuji, get out of my room." 

it's almost as if he was helpless without you. because, you, oh you always knew what to do—pulling him closer to your chest, wrapping your arms around him while he forgot about the outside world, but now he was by himself.

stuck in a room that was barebones, tangled in sheets where you once lay, choking on his own saliva while the walls of the massive room moved closer, his lungs barely working, his skin itching in the exact spots the nurse had treated, tempting him to itch them until they bled, just anything to get his body to stop trembling like a leaf.

he tried to stop dissociating, holding onto the sheets, trying to execute the things his therapist had taught him, but fuck, it was harder to focus the more his vision blurred and blacked out, he could barely overhear yuji dialing your number.

—

"hey y/n?" yuji sounded panicked, it'd been months since he tried to call you, ever since sukuna.

"yeah, yuji what's wrong?" you asked, because yuji only ever called when sukuna was in trouble.

"it's sukuna again, do you think you could—."

"i'm on my way."

because no matter what happened, some things never changed, and the only person who could drag sukuna's mind back was you, it always had been you. and that would never change.

—

you were there in a flurry, speeding through the roads before barging in, still holding onto the copy of the keys you had to his place.

"where is he."

yuji pointed in the direction of his room, watching you almost sprint there.

"ryo."

you could see him snap out of it, jolting up almost immediately the second he heard you, staring at you with his pupils dialating like a prey animal while you inched closer to him.

"it's been a while, huh?" you tried to make things seem lighthearted, seating yourself at the edge of your bed before he moved you closer to him, moving you onto his lap and crushing you in his arms, wrapping them around your waist until it was almost suffocating but after months, sukuna felt safe.

his eyes were already brimming with tears, with your hands reaching to run your fingers through your hair, with his head rested on the crook of your neck, flipping you over until he was laying on top of you.

his mind was still a fucked up mess, his wounds barely treated his mind just fixated on how he lost you—he could barely believe you were here with him now, holding him like you used you, your expression kind and calm, he had to hold onto you tight enough to make sure you were real. that you were actually here.

he was sniffling against you, clinging to you like a child, the choked sobs leaving his throat while he held onto you.

"i guess some things don't change, ryo."

"don't leave."

"w—what?"

"don't leave again. i'll be good this time, i swear. i'll do everything right, i can't risk losing you again."

and in all the time you'd known sukuna, that was the most genuine he'd ever been. and that scared the living shit out of you. but, there was nothing to lose, right?

did i lose my edge u guys. guys.