Dior

You glance over at Shoko, next to you as you settle into class. Being miles ahead of schedule was always way better than being even a second behind. So walking into the small lecture room ten minutes before class plays in your favor even if it was Professor Yaga’s class, the same professor you’ve had for two past semesters already.

“You look a little annoyed,” Shoko comments while flipping through her notebook.

“Sorry—I had a bit of a fight last night with my Dad,” you sigh out, shaking your head. Your finger slides along the edge of your own notes. “And I guess I’m just a little stressed about everything. The JJ Tech guys are having me spend extra hours and I can hardly get an hour to myself in the day.”

“Well chin up, we’ve got a long lab ahead of us today,” Shoko tapped playfully against your chin, her eyes down on her papers.

“Hm, right,” you mumble, eyes drooping at the chalkboard. “Wonder how you’re getting through this lab by yourself.”

“Hey, Satoru is my lab partner. You shouldn’t worry too much about that,” she chides. Shoko has a habit of not looking at you when she’s in the middle of doing something while conversating. “You seem like you have something else on your mind. You wanna talk about your dad?”

You eyeball the warmup problem he has on the board, jotting it down in your notebook. Your mind races with that conversation you had with your father just last night. How he wanted to have an assigned detail with you on campus, safely getting you to and from class. You have enough to worry about with finally shifting to yours and Utahime’s new apartment in a few short weeks without having to think about your dad.

Your impending argument was scheduled to continue once you saw him again since you didn’t even have a fighting chance when he got a call about a high-profile criminal striking again. You wonder just what could have transpired last night, apparently there were witnesses that sighted him.

“Not really.”

His fingers trail down the side of his torso, eyes screwing shut when he grazes that sensitive expanse of skin. Throbbing mercilessly, he hisses through clenched teeth, opening his eyes and glancing at the banged-up mirror on his wall.

That skintight suit was still clinging to his body like glue. He tears his mask off his head, tousling his white locks in the process. His head tips back when his gloved fingers brush over that tender place on his side.

A series of slow, deliberate breaths travel past his lips. Mindlessly, he reaches for a vial of painkillers. He doesn’t even count how many he tips into his waiting palm before popping them into his mouth and chasing them down bitterly with a bottle of water.

The boy grunts out as he falls back onto his bed, hoping he could sleep the soreness off before class tomorrow.

RING! RING!

Those eyes of his that had just shut after eons of forcing himself to stay alert and prepared for any attack were cruelly wrenched open once more.

RING! RING!

Another blasted alarm sounded from across his room, an alarm clock he simply can’t punch to snooze as he’d already bought a new one after abusing his previous two.

Satoru sat up, wincing at the sting on his side.

He groaned, gruffly peeling that suit off his body. Thoughts of the day ahead warped his mind. He had spent all night traipsing rooftops, swinging through the streets in pursuit of a gang of sloppy bank robbers.

He usually had fun trailing and taking down thuggish rogues, picking them off and bringing them to justice ever so casually. He got to feel the rush of the midnight air as he swung from building to building, between the streets. Arms and legs easily stretching and freely moving without a care in the world.

He loves it.

Last night, he had run that stolen van off the road without much effort. Everything went swimmingly until he had foolishly been launched into a brick wall mid-chase.

That had caused him to lose a bit of coordination during the fight that ensued shortly after. After stringing them up with his webs, he had swung back home only to stop yet another mugger on the way.

Once he had finally returned the woman’s stolen purse and made sure she got home safely, he gave himself the same protocol.

He tries to rush out of the apartment as soon as possible. He had enough on his plate to worry about with school, he could hardly keep up with his nighttime activities.

No, not that. His work as a vigilante made it difficult to have even a moment to himself. Let alone the fact his internship at JJ Technologies started earlier this month as well. So yes, he has enough on his plate with no room to spare for the breakfast his conscience had suggested.

“Yo! Suguru!” Satoru calls. He is jolted out of his thoughts when he approaches his best friend right by the theology building.

“Oh, what’s up?” Suguru turned around. “You watch the game last night?”

“Wha—no,” Satoru shakes his head, pushing his glasses up. He sheepishly sighs, “You know I’ve been busy with the internship and with homework.”

“Oh right,” Suguru mumbles teasingly. “The internship? Speaking of, did you see the news? They’re saying the man who banged those guys up pretty good last night was the mysterious Spiderman.”

“Will you shut up?” Satoru gasps, almost slapping him.

Of course, Suguru knew. He found out in a freak accident only a week after Satoru had been bitten. The freak accident being Satoru forgot to lock his bedroom door while changing out of his costume and his best friend walking in.

“Relax. No one knows,” Suguru reassures, he takes a sip of his coffee. “Only a small population of the public are still choosing to be delusional.”

“Yeah, delusional enough to believe Spiderman doesn’t exist,” Satoru scoffs.

“No, delusional enough to believe he does,” Suguru corrects harshly. “If I didn’t walk in on you half naked with that suit on and saw how you shot out a web before you realized I was in the room, I would never have believed those photos I saw in the news either.”

“Spiderman is a household name now whether you like it or not,” Satoru self-righteously points at himself with his thumb. “You wouldn’t believe how big of a fan the ladies are.”

Suguru shakes his head as he eyes his student portal on his phone. “Fuck, I have a history quiz today.”

“Shit, me too,” Satoru grunts, shaking his head as he walks past yet another sorority bake sale on his way down the main streets of campus. “Wait—we’re in the same class.”

“Oh—yeah,” Suguru fumbles with his phone as he points at Satoru. “I think I might ask Nanami to let me cheat off him—Haiba won’t mind but let’s face it, he’s not the brightest—Wait, you never mentioned what exactly happened last night.”

“Toji Fushiguro’s on the run. There was a sighting of him last night and I went to track him down but no luck. Then there was a bank heist on West 7th, I wish I got to fucking sleep after. Being flung against a brick wall is not as fun as it sounds. Fuck—wait I have class!” Satoru interjects, darting off in the middle of the conversation, leaving Suguru with a look of disappointment on his face.

“I have the same class,” Suguru frowns.

Yaga has always been quite the authoritarian, he knows what to expect from one of his star pupils as he strolls into class with a lazy smile on his face, ten minutes late.

“How nice of you to join us, Satoru,” Yaga’s tone isn’t as sweet as his words. “I should count myself lucky you showed up at all today, no less right before we worked on our lab assignment.”

That hand you have your cheek resting on slides up to palm at your forehead, hoping to soothe the forthcoming headache once that boy settles into his seat.

“We’re switching lab partners today,” Yaga declares, pen in hand as he scribbles and crosses out names on his seating chart. “I know you must’ve been comfortable with your partners from last semester, but I’d like you to find your name on the board and sit accordingly. This partner is who you’ll be working with for the final project.”

Satoru was perfectly fine working with Shoko. Their scientific caliber was on par with one another and despite the fact they butted heads quite often, they somehow managed to do quite well on their labs.

His mind traps him in praying he doesn’t end up with Yuki that he almost doesn’t realize the fact you were his new partner. He whips his head to the right, seeing your brows raise as you glance back at him.

Seriously? Him?   

No one can relate to how brutal it is having Satoru Gojo of all people as your classmate in your organic chemistry class.

Yeah sure, give you an assignment of reporting the development and properties of organic photovoltaic cells for renewable energy applications or even deciphering the molar mass of your father’s whiskey collection, you could make sense of it.

You could never make sense of this kid, however.

Satoru Gojo.

The irritating kid you’ve been battling to beat out for the highest exam score since middle school. The kid that ran into class late and hardly seemed all that present but still landed a score almost as high as yours every time. The kid that sat at the back of class, dozing off during lab. The kid that spent a decent chunk of senior year playing Digimon on his phone and still antagonized you before every science test you had.

That kid you thought you wouldn’t have to worry about after high school but were proved severely wrong when you saw him on your campus your first semester. That kid you hoped you wouldn’t have to run into anywhere else but still did somehow where you had been interning.

If there was a chemical formula to understand why you couldn’t stand him, your list of grievances would have to be simplified to fit on one page.

You’re seriously contemplating on marching up to Yaga and demanding a switch in partners. Someone else. Anyone else.

Trying to change Yaga’s mind on anything though, was a feat greater than what any scientist could accomplish.

Heaving a sigh, you plop your books down on the table. There was this severity in your movements that wove seamlessly into propriety. He peeks over at your color-coordinated notes all lined out in neat handwriting.

Yeah, he’s been competing with you in school for years. It’s not like he meant to, he was just great at just about everything he did. It’s not his fault!

He knew you couldn’t stand him, and he enjoyed that for some reason. Getting under your skin with quick quips were designed to be much more fun because of that. Since he is on the clock every hour of the day, he needs to let out his stress somehow. Punching bad guys is not enough anymore.

“Look at your notes,” Satoru cheeses, flipping through your book. “All shiny and pretty. You know, if you put more effort in, you could look the same.”

You shove his arm, snatching your book back from him, “Shut up. Don’t make me mad. Words can’t explain how pissed I am already.”

“Aw, you know I’m kidding,” he grins mischievously. “You’re not that bad to look at.”

You press your lips together as you inhale heavily. Your eyes raise to look dead straight at the front of the class before you turn your head to face him.

He catches that fire in your gaze that he’s not even seen in the most vicious of criminals and mutants he’s gone up against.  

“I don’t get why Yaga didn’t call Suguru out for being late either,” Satoru frowns, facing forward.

“Because Suguru isn’t late every day,” you point. “You are. And half the time, you leave early. It baffles me how you still pass all your classes.”

“Is someone jealous?” Satoru smiles.

As you shake your head, you look down at your notes. You’ve known Satoru for many years, but he was always just a classmate. He was also always the classmate you would barely beat out to get the highest marks in science or any other class. The classmate that would get under your skin way too often.

There was something about him that made you pay close attention to him.

“Oh shit!” one of the students in class shouts out, eyes glued to his phone. Needless to say, he’s garnered the attention of the entire class. “There’s a robbery going on right now at the bank downtown! Six-gun men have all the customers and staff held hostage!”

This earns a series of nervous gasps and prayers from the students. The hair on the back of Satoru’s neck stands up and he’s still in his seat as his peers flock toward the lab table of the student watching the news live stream.

“Wonder when Spiderman’s going to show up,” one of his classmates ponder aloud.

“Nah, he can’t do shit. You think a clown in tights is going to take down a fucking group of men with guns?” another kid snarks, causing Satoru to all but roll his eyes as he stands up.

Ah, the everlasting and everchanging debate as to whether the wall crawling vigilante was a menace or a savior of society.

If he wasted his time worrying so much about what people thought about him, he’d never get a single thing done. He drowns out their discussion as he strides to the door with his mission clear in his mind: Save those hostages.

“Alright boys! Glad we wrapped this up!” Satoru, or should one say, Spiderman dusts off his hands ever so casually.

He crouches down, leveling with the leader of the gang who happened to be tied up thanks to Satoru’s expertise webbing. He breathes freely with the knowledge that the hostages have rushed out of the bank, straight into the arms of their worried loved ones outside and the police.

When a vial of green in the pocket of one of the tattooed thug’s glints in the light, Satoru reaches to pull it out. He squints through his mask at the bottle of green, “What do we have here?”

As expected, the thug spits out, “None of your fucking business, you bug.”

“Quiet, will you?” Satoru harshly smacks the man’s forehead.

“Robbing a bank on a busy day like this for me?” Satoru tuts, a menacing lilt in his joke. “You should feel lucky I haven’t strung you upside down in your underwear out on the street lamps. But I’ve got somewhere to be unfortunately, so have fun in jail!”

With that, Satoru extends his arms out and a thick web sprouts out in the direction of the tall buildings lining the streets. If it was any other day, any other time of day, he would’ve stuck around. Spewed out some more quippy remarks, had a bit more fun with the goons.

But alas, he must get back in time before class ends. He knew the twenty minutes he had vanished for were going to raise questions.

He was absolutely correct.

“Satoru, where the hell were you?” Yaga all but yells at the boy stumbling back in. “Class is over.”

The entire class has their attention steering over to the late boy. He knew what he had to say, the lie didn’t need to be ridiculous but he knew regardless, he would still sound utterly stupid. He did not particularly give a fuck though.

“Little boy’s room,” Satoru casually responds, not a speck of shame in his rather comical answer.

This has the entire class locked in a deadly silence. That is before they split into a fit of boisterous laughter. Satoru revels in the fact he’s defused the tension he suspected he may experience.

You narrow your eyes, eyeing Satoru as he trudges over to his seat, tugging his collar into place. You let your eyes fall to the tabletop, looking over your work.

Typical. He leaves for God knows what and you’re stuck doing his work. If this isn’t precedent enough to request a new partner, you don’t know what is.

He’s not said a single word to you yet . . . How odd. You expect him to do no less than tease the living hell out of you or ask if you missed him.

All that swarms his mind however is what the hell is in this vial?

“What the hell is in this vial?” Suguru murmurs quietly as he inspects the glass tube.

“Beats me,” Satoru replies, swiping the bottle off him. “I need to figure that out.”

“Don’t you think that maybe you should’ve handed it over to the police?” Suguru asks, the sound of fellow classmates typing away on their laptops and chattering away in the campus library buzzes in the background.

“Police won’t do shit,” Satoru bites back, rolling his eyes. “If law enforcement was capable of anything, don’t you think that there wouldn’t be a need for Spiderman?”

“What about Spiderman?” Haiba butts in unannounced.

Satoru nearly jumps five feet in the air at the sudden intrusion. His six eyes that worked in his favor as a sixth sense to alert him of danger have helped him tremendously in combat time and time again, but not so much with nosy classmates.

Quickly pocketing the substance, he looks at Haiba, “None of your business.”

“Are you kidding? I spent all afternoon looking for footage from today’s robbery—I got nothing,” Haiba whines, flailing his arms in the air.

“I heard it was pretty cool,” Satoru boasts pridefully, earning a well-deserved elbow to the gut from Suguru.

Haiba trots off to go bother Nanami before Suguru faces his best friend again. “Oh fuck. Y/n is coming this way. Good luck.”

The vigilante’s eyes widen when he recognizes your stern, no-nonsense face and stride. Everyone is well aware of what that means, your kind and lighthearted behavior is put on hold in favor of your stern approach to your academics.

He half expects you to create a scene in the library but he knows you better than that. You never openly got angry, the worst he’s seen you do is roll your eyes. It’s one of the reasons he pokes fun at you as much as possible, hoping to see how he can make you crack.

Yet, you never do. You hold notebooks and files close to your chest as you march to a halt three feet away from him. Indifferently, you pull out a packet and hold it out for him.

“Since your bladder has never-ending issues, I did your part of the lab today,” you chide like you have a myriad of other things on your mind.

“Shit—you did not have to do any of this,” Satoru knows he should be frowning, but he’s not. A little leer spreads on his face, eyes wide and glimmering through the lens of those glasses he absolutely had no more use for since the day he was bit by that spider.

“Don’t bail on me again. Then I won’t have to do it,” you purse your lips at him before you turn around.

He is left there with nothing else to do but embarrassingly watch you walk away, clutching his lab report in his hand.

“Hold on,” Satoru mumbles to Suguru as he watches you sift between the aisles of shelves.

 Before either of them know it, he’s making his way to the aisle you are in. He’s eyeing you up and down almost skeptically, eyes lingering far longer than they should.

“Can I help you?” you quiz quite impertinently, your right hand pulling out a heavy book from the biochemistry section.

“Why did you do my part?” Satoru tips his chin down, a crease forming between his silver brows.

“Because you . . . didn’t do it,” you slowly iterate, grasping the book with both your hands as you flip through the pages. 

“Well, duh, but why?” Satoru repeats. “You didn’t have to do it. I ran out of class and left it all on you—you shouldn’t have done it.”

You take a deep breath, slamming the book shut, “If you really think I did it for you, you really don’t deserve to be in the same class as me at all. I did it so I don’t have to rely on you to get the work done. I’d rather have the work done right than have it half-assed. And here I thought you were much more clever than that.”

“I’m not stupid,” he smirks. “Just confused about a lot of the things you do sometimes.”

“Yeah, because you don’t know me,” you say, sliding that book back into the open slot on the shelf. You look up, reaching for another book that is placed well above your head.

“I know you. I know you’re your father’s daughter,” Satoru’s statement is playfully delivered yet it strikes you like a bus. His fingers stroke the spine of the book you were reaching for, relishing the fact you couldn’t reach it. He looks down at you, tugging the book out and holding it in his big hands. “You might just be stricter than the captain himself.”

“Why are you talking like you know my father?” you glare, folding your arms.

“Seen his interviews on the news. He’s one tough cookie—but it only makes sense when you’re a cop, huh?” he has a lilt in his head.

“Why are you saying stupid things?” you question, narrowing your eyes at him. “I already have enough on my mind, I don’t need you badgering me with nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, it’s my professional opinion as your partner,” Satoru holds the book out with a ridiculously charming smile.

“Lab partner,” you fix his statement, reaching for the book but he pulls it back out of your reach, stupid grin still on his face. “Don’t play games with me, I have to get to work now, and you have to get there too.”

You pry the book from his hands and stride off before he can annoy you further. Satoru’s head turns, following you march off. He’s not sure why he’s trapped in staring at you for so long.

“I’m guessing you plan on finding out on your own as to what’s in that bottle,” Suguru interjects in the middle of Satoru’s wandering mind, popping up in the aisle.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Satoru fishes in his pocket, hoping that the touch of his cool fingers on the glass will telepathically reveal its identity to him. “If I had the equipment to do it on my own . . . it would be so much fucking easier.”

Suguru gapes at him like he’s stupid, “Hello? You intern at the biggest scientific research facility in the city.”

Satoru’s brows raise and the corners of his mouth turn down, weighing the possible next route to his answer.

“Okay, you have to log the results in the system like this,” you instruct your team. “Then you move on to the next step. Trust me you don’t want to forget logging that data, it could entirely throw off the process.”

You’ve been interning at JJ Technologies since last summer which has done nothing short of drain you of any free time whatsoever. It’s only been several weeks since you were moved up to lead a fresh batch of young interns. Luckily, you haven’t had to deal with teaching them in the laboratory with the equipment, just basic information and note-taking thus far.

That unfortunately was only the first of four hours at the facility. The next three hours, you would be holed up in the lab, inspecting and experimenting with nanotechnology. As tiring as it is, it is just as rewarding.

Knowing the amount of good that can be done with this research and work was a brilliant means of motivation. Society has advanced already as it is—the world of medicine has benefited greatly—billions of lives have the chance to improve. How could anyone give up on that?

Thoughts of what homework assignments you have yet to submit reign your brain. Hours and hours of straining your mind to intake as much information and apply it all in the lab was making you want nothing more than to crawl under your covers and call it a week.

With a hefty breath, you take a well-deserved recess to the vending machine. Hoping that this little trip for a snack can hold a candle to the sleep you oh so desire.

Satoru knows his assigned place of work is four levels down. He also is aware that his group had been dismissed ten minutes ago and he should be swinging his merry way through the streets to scout for trouble.

He is also entirely aware that he should not be on the twenty-something floor that had a chance of having an empty lab right about now.

Swiping his boss’s ID card is far too easy, shooting an inconspicuous web at any cameras of interest is just as simple.

The hard part is deciphering what is in this damn vial. The lights are dim inside the particular lab he steps into. A breath of relief pushes out of his lungs as he pulls the small bottle from his pocket, circling the stations to get to the specific equipment he needs.

There’s a limited amount of liquid in the vial, so he knows he must handle this process with care and precision. The story would be different if he had another vial or two.

You watch almost lifelessly as a bar of candy and a canned coffee drop down, landing with a dull thud. Mindlessly, you reach through the bottom flap, hearing the faint hinge as you pull out your restitution for break-free work.

Closing and harshly forcing your eyes back open, you try to keep your mind alert as you march on back to the lab to clean up. When you open the door, you’re not expecting this boy to whip his head up at you like a deer in headlights.

“Gojo?” you furrow your brows, one hand still on the door and the other clutching your food.

Gojo is stunned into silence, a laughable silence. When he says nothing, you tip your head down, “What are you doing here?”

“I just had some work,” Satoru quickly lies. “My manager needed me to look at something. I know you’re pretty happy to see me—your face says it all.”

“Oh, does it? Aren’t you supposed to be on the 20th floor?” you quiz, left eye twitching.

In most situations, when Satoru’s backed into a corner, he can somehow flip his way out of there or even sweettalk whoever he needed to. But he can’t explain why he actually feels bad lying to you, it makes his head whirl. “Uh—yeah, but I had to use some of the equipment up here.”

Squinting skeptically, you near him slowly. As you do, Satoru can’t help but gulp. He’s not sure what it is he should focus on. The fact he needs to come up with a way to convince you to not report him? Or the fact you are only a couple inches to his left, looking over his shoulder? The fact you look so adorable in a lab coat?

“What is that?” you peer down at the vial, noticing he has already placed a drop of that substance down on a microscope slide.

“Not sure,” Satoru shrugs. “I haven’t got the faintest clue.”

You continue staring at the chemical concoction, you flick your gaze at him, “Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it,” Satoru shuffles a couple inches over, giving you enough room to peer into the eyepiece of the microscope.

He can’t help but tautly swallow, hardly able to pay attention because of how sweet you smell. He has to stop himself from telling you just that but he can’t let it get to your head. As effortlessly as he spins webs, he only hopes he’s half as graceful when feeding you some half-assed answer as to just what this chemical was and that his manager most definitely would give him such a compound.

“Hmm,” you hum, slowly turning the dial on the side of the instrument to lift and then focus what was in the slide. “Figuring out what is it shouldn’t be too tricky. I just need to measure the resonance frequency by breaking the substance down a bit more. Then determining the chemical properties shouldn’t be too tricky.”

Satoru’s brows lift and the edge of his lips turn down, amused clearly. “Wow.”

“What?” you blink.

“I always forget how smart you are,” he says airily. When you shoot him a look that seems to be a hybrid of threatening and offense, his nose crinkles and his glasses shift accordingly on his face, “That came out very wrong. I just meant—”

“So this is why you broke into my lab?” you cut him off, still squinting down at the substance.

“I didn’t break in,” Satoru defends himself. “I just figured no one would notice.”

“Why don’t you check over the logic in that again,” you suggest, eyes glancing up at him. “It’s hard to believe you’re the guy who almost beat me out for valedictorian.”

“And why’s that?” Gojo tilts his head, leaning his elbows on the table. It leaves you eyeing him from head to toe as inconspicuously as possible. Sometimes you forget how tall he is. The fact he towers over you serves as a friendly reminder he’s not just any old geeky kid from school.

Before you can give him an answer, his phone buzzes. He shoots a glance down at it, his pretty features sinking. The program he had compiled with Suguru to tune into the police’s radio communications to pick up on any crime alerts had pinged with notifications on his phone. There was a robbery currently taking place at a jewelry store three streets away.

“Shit—my aunt needs me to pick her up from her cooking class,” Satoru quickly lies, blinking unsteadily as he faces you. “It’s kind of far and not safe for her to ride the train by herself. I have to go. Sorry for bothering you—”

“Wait—” you hold a hand up, earning a wide-eyed look from him. It’s kind of endearing how earnest he sounds. “How about you go, and I’ll keep looking at this for you? Once I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

“You don’t have to,” Satoru frowns, sliding his backpack on, his Spiderman suit nestled neatly inside.

“It’s no problem. You go—don’t keep your aunt waiting,” you beckon him to get a move on. “I’ll see you at school.”

There you go again, being so incontestably kind yet being so severe while doing so. It’s when you crack a hint of a smile to ease him that he actually does as you say. That must be the first he’s seen you sincerely look at him.

Satoru rushes out the door and you glance down at the vial again, trying to understand what exactly the contents of it were.

Satoru has no time to think about how badly he feels leaving you with such a task. He’s too busy webbing his backpack up high on an alleyway wall after he’s changed into his suit.

Before he knows it, he’s already in the air, swinging loosely through the streets of New York. He feels the wind rush at him like it wishes to capture him, keep him in the sky with the moon. But with how quick he’s moving, he feels invincible—like nothing can touch him.

Satoru’s fallen into the same routine every night. Despite the fact he never gets the recognition in his personal life, he would not give up being Spiderman for the world.

Citizens walking the streets all gasp and point when they see the great Spiderman shoot past them like a comet. His white and blue suit makes him look like he was meant to be a part of a winter night sky, the sapphire blue spider emblem in the center of his chest casting a beautiful contrast in the ensemble.

He pays no mind as the silver meshy strings of his webs cling to buildings, aiding him in passing through the streets with ease. He also doesn’t stop himself from enjoying the occasional flips to impress the children out with their families and friends. Satoru insists it’s entirely necessary.

Once he spots the store mentioned on the police comms, he zips around the corner. Landing right above the entrance to the small jewelry shop, he pushes it open rather discreetly. It’s almost comical the way the goons inside haven’t the slightest clue that the Spiderman was crawling into the shop right above their very heads.

Thanks to Satoru’s wall crawling abilities, he’s able to cling to walls and ceilings with ease and without so much as breaking a sweat. So when he casually gawks down at the masked thieves, he tilts his head in amusement at how panicked the men look shouting orders to one another.

“Quick! Before Spiderman gets here!” one spits, stripping a diamond chain straight from the display case. When his friend breaks the glass case all together, he screams, “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“The Spider’s not gonna come. He’s too chicken,” the other responds. “I’d like to see him try.”

“Cute,” Satoru chuckles above them.

This causes all four to whip their heads up at the masked vigilante. Satoru is only able to see their eyes through the cutouts but he can tell by the way their pupils dilate that they are downright terrified.

In the papers and in the news, Satoru is privy to the fact the general public is split on whether they see a need in all the flips and tricks that come along with Spiderman.

Satoru couldn’t care less though, he is wholeheartedly prepared to stand trial to attest to the fact that the flair is entirely necessary. He displays the testimony by the very way he does a backflip and lands with both feet and a palm planted to the ground.

“Y’know I left a really pretty girl all alone just so I could stop you?” Satoru teases lightly, straightening up and flexing his arms by crossing one over the other. “But hey, if that’s what you think, we can make this a lot more fun.”

One of the men reached for his gun, pulling it out and pointing it at Satoru. All he huffs out is a displeased and underwhelmed breath as he shoots out a web, yanking the gun back.

“Come on. Show a bit more effort. You’re killing me,” Satoru drawls like a six-year-old. His six-eyes alert him of an impending punch hurtling his way from his left, making him duck and grab the very goon’s fist in the process. “Missed me!”

The goon let out a threatening growl as he swung again, only to miss Satoru. . . over and over again. Satoru laughs childishly as he doges and parries off swings one after the other. Two of the others manage to finally point their guns at the arachnid hero, clicking the safeties with a string of snaps that causes the shop owner to gasp and cower further into the corner he was in.

Satoru rolls his eyes, delivering an unruly kick to one of the men that dominos into him clashing into his friend, knocking them both to the ground.

The hero giggles at the pathetic exhibition before him. He hardly bats an eye when one of the men throws something that resembles a marble to the ground. A cloud of smoke emits from the impact of the small pellet on the shiny limestone floor.

Satoru’s eyes widen behind his white and black mask. He moves to leap back but inadvertently breathes in far more than he intends to.

His head spins, or maybe it’s the room that is spinning, he can’t tell. All he knows is that his head is suddenly throbbing in pain, every nerve ending feels like it’s thrumming to burst within his very skull. Like they are conspiring against him and hoping to flee the purgatory of his mind.

His ears tune in and out like his head has been dunked underwater. Vision beginning to blur, he tries his best to plant his feet firm on the ground but to no avail. He’s hit with a great wave of despondency when he envisions his uncle’s dead body before him.

That and flashes of him in a beautiful house overlooking a balmy little coastal town, the sound of his laughter blends in with a girl’s and he cannot distinguish whose.

He hardly gets the chance to decipher the strange blend of images when he is suddenly hit in the back of the head with a crowbar.

Once again, the poor boy’s head rings and his head snaps down from the impact of the weapon to his skull. He lets out a pained groan, doing his best to gather himself and seize control of his sense again.

His vision begins to clear and all of a sudden, his six eyes begin to tingle and flash in his mind. INCOMING.

He listens to his instincts and ducks straight away, successfully dodging another deadly swing of that damned crowbar.

“Alright, party’s over,” Satoru scowls under his mask and flips back, snaking a well-aimed and well-timed web sticking to the man and tugging him back.

He punches him quite harshly in the face that it all but knocks him out. Satoru quickly lunges for the two goons in the midst of aiming their guns at him. The thieves don’t even process how quickly they are disarmed because Spiderman has already smashed their heads together.

They drop to the ground, leaving one more thug, quivering in terror. He points his gun at Satoru with a shaky hand, only to find that weapon of his leaving his very hands when Satoru tugs it at towards himself with the help of his webs.

“Last one, huh?” Satoru smugly says. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

The thug fumes as he charges at the vigilante, “I’ll fucking kill you. If not me, then the others!”

He throws a fist at Satoru, but he whips his head to the side, “Others?”

He then lands a punch of his own at the criminal before successfully dodging yet another hit. As Satoru’s third punch causes the thief to lose balance, he’s already in the middle of stringing the man upside down from the ceiling.

“Who are your friends—” Satoru stares at the tangled man, readying his fist to intimidate the thug. “And I advise you talk.”

“I’m not saying shit!” The thug spits, trying to wriggle free.

“You’ll be here for god knows how long. All that blood rushing to your brain, oof, must hurt a little.” Satoru threatens playfully. “And it’ll hurt like hell when I actually beat you to a pulp!”

“Shit! Okay! Okay!” the thief cries, panic-stricken sweat dripping down his forehead into his hairline. “I—I work for a guy named Jogo! He’s this freaky looking guy that wears this mask on his face—I’ve never seen him but he’s big in the group, works with some other guy—I don’t know his name.”

“Jogo,” Satoru mumbles wracking his brain to see if he has had a run in with him. “What is he up to?”

“I’ve got no clue! I swear!” the man attests frightenedly. “All I know is that they needed us to look for a specific relic—You see my partner you knocked out right there? He’s got a picture in his back pocket. Jogo sent a bunch of us on heists in banks and jewelry stores to see if we can find it but there’s no sign of it anywhere.”

Satoru steps back and grabs the photo from the pocket of the man the other thief had indicated. He pulls back the photo, glossing over it briefly.

It was a photograph of a box. Made of some sort of coppery-silver metal with engraved eyes on the sides of it. The irises though, were made of jewels—rubies.

“Going through a whole lot for this freaky looking thing,” Satoru waves the photo with a dexterous flip of his fingers. “Why are they going through all that trouble for this? And what’s in it for you?”

“Wish I knew why those guys want that thing,” the man shakes his head, eyes still wide. “They told us they’d give each of us a cut in all that we returned from the heists—Jogo is not someone to be messed with—he’d track us down and kill us if we went back on our deal.”

“Tch. You’re scared of the wrong people,” Satoru tuts, stowing away the photo for safekeeping. “Tell me what that thing was that your friend threw on the ground. That little ball.”

“That? I have no idea. The boss just gave my partner a few—I think that was the last one. He didn’t tell us what it was or what it did,” the felon explains.

Satoru feels his own fingers twitching in irritation, “Think again. Remember what it was and I’ll go easy on you.”

The criminal’s eyes widen, “I don’t know anything! I swear! Please don’t hurt me!”

“Goodnight,” Satoru grunts out, ramming his elbow into the man’s nose, putting him to sleep.

It’s a matter of seconds before Satoru is watching from a few rooftops over as the cops arrive on scene. The flashing blue and red lights flashing into the back of his very skull. He’s running through what the thug he interrogated said, trying to make sense of it.

Speaking of making sense, you’re lugging yourself out of the lab after finally making sense of just what that vial Satoru had given you contains.

The worry on your face embeds itself into your features as you stash the chemical in your bag. Why would his manager hand this to him?

You glance over your phone, seeing your father calling you as you’re walking towards the train platform. Taking a beat to answer, you speak into the receiver, “Hey, Dad.”

“Hi, sweetheart, are you on your way back? It’s getting late,” your dad says, chatter in the back cause your ears to perk. Radios and police codes being tossed around in dialogue.

“Yeah, I’m waiting for the train,” you reply, looking up and down the tracks. “Are you still working?”

“Yeah, captain duties, dear,” your father responds calmly, yet you can hear the annoyed strain in his voice. “That spider’s strung up a few men in a jewelry store downtown. Taking care of what’s left of this place.”

“Oh—you saw Spiderman?” you ask, watching the train stop in front of you, bracing yourself as the lashes of wind whipped at you full speed.

“No, he’s left his webs all over the place,” your dad grunts dishearteningly. “Damage control is going to have lots of fun with that . . . Mom’s going to be pretty mad at us tonight for missing dinner, huh?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” you nod like it’s obvious, sitting down and making eye contact with a gruff pair of men before quickly averting your gaze. “Maybe you should bring her flowers. She always likes that.”

“Yeah, maybe I will,” your father says. “Alright, honey, get home safe. I’ll see you in a bit.”

You think over what he says. Your father always mentions the elusive Spiderman. How none of his men have gotten even close to cracking the case on who the wallcrawler is. How Spiderman is somehow everywhere and takes care of crimes of all scales.

How could a man find the time to even do all that?

The desire to study a man like him plagues your mind far much more than you would like to admit. Who would pass up such an opportunity?

But more of what’s spinning in your mind like a deadly train is why Gojo has a vial like this?

Speaking of trains, when yours comes to a stop, you stand up to get off. It’s unfortunate that the subway stop couldn’t be closer to the next one you are supposed to take.

As you drag on down the street, you mull over what you plan to say to your dad when you try convincing him to simply leave you be once you move out because your safety is put more at risk from the distant and late commutes after classes and your internship.

There’s something in your gut telling you to rush, like you’re being chased or watched at the very least.

You toss a look over your shoulder, seeing those two rugged men about fifteen feet behind you. It’s well past dark and your heart hammers louder against your ribcage, a prisoner demanding release.

Facing forward again, you try to hurry as fast as you can but you feel helpless when you enter a scarcely populated street.

Fuck.

That’s when you break into a full speed run. You hear the footsteps behind you pick up. Your hand slips into your bag’s pocket to grab your mace or taser, but when your fingers only skim the glass of that substance Satoru gave you, you know you’re doomed.

You glance back again, thundering heartbeat blaring just as loud as your footsteps against rough pavement.

“Hey, pretty!” one of the leering men shout. They are far too close to you now. “We just want to have some fun!”

You reach for your phone to send an SOS message to your dad—but that’s exactly the moment the man grabs your arm. You scream in horror, trying to keep going but the other one grabs you too.

Against your will, they drag you into the deserted alleyway nearby. You’re still wriggling in their hold, hoping to free yourself. Thrashing, kicking, screaming, you try it all.

“Let go of me!” you scream. “My dad’s a cop and he’s on his way right now!”

“Shut up,” his friend spits. “You’re full of shit.”

“I’m not,” you grit your teeth. “Captain L/n—badge number 103—”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” the first man says. “You look better when you’re not talking. We gotta do something about that.”

Your eyes widen, and you try pushing, screaming as loud as your lungs can take. The elbow you throw against the jaw of one of the men seem to have done some damage. His head whips to the side but surprisingly his body shoots back about five feet, striking against the brick wall.

Your big eyes follow the man, seeing that wasn’t your doing at all. Of course, it wasn’t. How could a girl like you simply cause a man to fly across an alley and slam against a wall?

That’s when he appears like a fallen angel. In black and white, a glowing blue in the core of his chest, a symbol of hope.

Spiderman.

He’s against the wall the man had flown into, but you have to crane your neck a fair amount to look up at where he’s clinging to. You can hardly blink at the fact he’s against the brick wall with no reinforcements whatsoever, just his fingers and soles of his feet keeping him afloat, defying physics, logic, and gravity.

“You gotta be at least a little attractive to hit on a girl like that,” Spiderman tilts his head, voice light yet husky, young.

“Fuck,” the man closest to you now was backing away. “I didn’t do nothing! I’m—I’m sorry—”

“Ugh, shut up,” the vigilante drawls, dragging out his syllables childishly.

He drops down with the most impressive of flips you haven’t even seen gold medalist gymnasts do. After he effortlessly sticks his landing, he wastes absolutely no time in lunging at your assailant.

He punches him square in the side of the jaw, the pop loud enough that you gasp, stepping back.

The man lets out a frightened cry, and right when you almost feel bad, you’re reminded of how you screamed a few moments prior. Yeah, this terror is well deserved.

Spiderman delivers a seamless kick to the side of his opponent’s abdomen. The entrancement you’re trapped in doesn’t let you avert your eyes at all. His movements are like water, like a choreographed dance even Broadway level performers can never imitate.

A scientific miracle. Something inhuman. Someone untouchable.

The man falls to the ground after taking a quite deadly strike to the face. Your eyes go from the attacker on the ground to his attacker.

The superhero stands there, his back to you, silhouetted by the dingy light from the end of the alley. He turns his head to the right, and you’re guessing he sees you from his peripheral because he’s still not looking directly at you.

You want to watch him for much longer, the superhuman that saved you. The superhuman in a well fitted suit, defining every inch of his body—his muscles, his perfect height.

“You okay, miss?” Spiderman asks, turning to you.

“Y-yeah,” you rasp. “Is—he . . .”

“Dead?” he finishes, snickering. “No. Just sleeping peacefully till the cops get here. Which should be in about five minutes.”

You nod, humming in the little frozen state of yourself. Behind the mask, Satoru wants to do a million things. Ask you a million things. But he knows he needs to keep up the persona of the wall-crawler he his.

“You don’t want to get caught in the lengthy questioning the police are going to do, right?” Spiderman (Satoru) crosses his arms, leaning against the wall.

“Not really, no,” you hardly move at all as you speak.

“See? That’s why I like my way of business. Less paperwork,” the web slinger jokes. “I can get you where you need to be in a matter of minutes. Tell me where you were headed.”

You gulp, “Home. But what do you mean? I don’t think you have a car—wait a second.” That’s when the reality of the situation hits you. “You’re real?”

Satoru chuckles, “We’ve been talking for almost a minute now, lady.”

“I know, but,” you’re looking him up and down. “I thought those news reports were based on just pranks. Seriously—no one has seen much of you—I thought these criminals were just leaving webs everywhere as a sign of loyalty to their gangs.”

This gets the man to laugh again, his head is facing down, and he shakes his head. You’re staring again, it’s hard not to.

“Alright, miss,” Satoru looks at you, making sure he doesn’t accidently slip up and call you by your name. “Where were you headed? Home?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching him push himself off the wall and hold a hand out to you. You glance down at his hand, then up at his face. His mask is covered in synthetic fibers stitched to imitate webs.

“I know you’re shaken up by those guys and what just happened but please trust me,” he sounds inexplicably genuine, unaccountably sincere. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Your eyes soften, so does the rest of you as you place your hand in his. There’s a level of trust you don’t understand the strength of when you do so. It’s borderline undermined when he tugs you toward him quickly, eliciting a gasp from you.

“You might want to hold on tight,” Spiderman suggests, snugly sliding his arm around your waist, pressing you against him.

“What are you—,” you don’t have the opportunity to finish your question when you find that your feet have left the ground.

You grasp on tighter to him, heeding his suggestion without so much as a second thought. You look down, feeling the wind whipping in your hair. The sight below you is enough to draw a yelp. Well, anyone that is being swung through the streets of New York would. It’s only natural.

“Oh my god!” you scream when you feel yourself hurtling towards the ground.

He shoots another web in the nick of time before you hit the concrete, and you’re in the air again. You bury your face in his neck, clamping your eyes shut. Satoru holds you close, tightening his grip on you. This feels nice.

A part of him doesn’t want this little swinging spree to end. Maybe it doesn’t have to.

“Sorry. No seatbelts,” Satoru laughs. “Should’ve mentioned that!”

“You think?” you quiz, half gasping with the rush of the wind. “Wait! Where are you even taking me? I didn’t tell you where I live!”

“Just trust me!” he yells back.

You open your eyes, looking over his shoulder at the city. The lights don’t blur like you expect them to. You feel like you’re flying, like the moon was waiting for you to join with the stars.

Cars seem smaller suddenly. People look smaller. New York, though, looks just as vast as it always has been.

Once the initial fear shakes out of you, you stare at the city, “Woah.”

You turn to look at him—at Spiderman. He’s still focused on swinging you through the city with one arm. Studying his mask, you can see the fibers of fabric, polyester or something similar. There can’t be many people that can say they’ve seen Spiderman, let alone been this close to him.

You’re amazed, in awe of the impossible. Peace consumes you as you continue to gaze at the wonderous city you love.

Another swoop over rooftops and you feel him lowering towards one. You hold on again, hoping the landing isn’t so rough. Luckily, it isn’t.

You look around, realizing you aren’t on just any rooftop. You’re one of the rooftops of the building you live in.

“How’d you know I live here?” you quiz, brows furrowed and jaw slack.

Satoru has a bit of an oh fuck moment. Words almost fail him but he’s easy to recuperate.

“Well, your dad lives here, doesn’t he?” he points at the ground. “The captain?”

Your mouth that was agape slowly closes and your eyes drift to the edge of the building, “Oh. You know who I am.”

“I know who your dad is,” the man replies. “Seen him a bunch of times. So I’ve seen your face around the main precinct a lot and on the news.”

“You have?” you cock a brow.

“Yeah—hey, don’t worry about those guys. Just try not to be alone at night,” he advises, gesturing with his hands. “Guys see a pretty girl and don’t know how to act a lot of the time.”

You can’t help the slight brow raise when you realize he called you pretty. Satoru pays it no mind however as he scratches the back of his neck.

“Where were you coming from anyway?” he asks, pretending not to know.

“JJ Tech headquarters,” you answer, licking your lips discreetly to tame yourself from gawking at his lean yet muscular figure. Eyes lingering far too long on how the skintight suit fit him, accentuating everything.

Satoru catches this, smirking to himself, “JJ Tech, huh? You must be pretty smart.”

“Pretty smart would be an understatement,” you say. “I wasn’t even supposed to be there this late anyway. I should’ve been home two hours ago.”

Satoru’s ears perk up, he takes this as his opportunity to pry, “How come you stayed longer?”

“Just this guy—he ran in and asked me to help him with an assignment,” you grumble, rolling your eyes.

“Just a guy? He your friend or something?” he asks, leaning his back against the wall to the stairs.

“Or something,” you mumble.

“Oh?” Satoru pipes. This is the perfect moment to see what you think about him. To even flirt with you without any repercussions. “Does that mean he’s your boyfriend?”

“What?” you squeak, voice all high pitched. “God, no. No. He’s just a classmate. He pisses me off most the time—I can hardly stand him at all.”

Satoru scowls beneath his mask, not what I was hoping for.

“I still can’t wrap my head around the fact you exist,” disbelief clings to your tone. “You know you’re a scientific marvel, right? Scientists would kill to study you.”

He laughs, it’s a pretty laugh, one that feels hauntingly familiar, “You want to cut me open or something?”

“Oh, I’m not qualified enough to do something like that,” you wave your hands. “Who’s to say I can’t study your body in other ways?”

Satoru can’t help but smile, he sees that glimmer in your eye and you sound so innocent despite how inviting you phrased that. You don’t even realize it, but he smiles wider.

“You’re funny,” he laughs, shaking his head.

There’s a bunch of things on your bucket list, a lot of things you aren’t sure you’ll get to even accomplish. One of them being making thee Spiderman laugh was definitely not one of them.

“Thank you for saving me,” you say, pulling him from his little fit of amusement. “I thought I was . . . I thought they were going to get away with what they wanted to do.”

Satoru raises his head again, straightening up. It dawns on him that he’s responsible for you being out on that street this late. That if he had hurried up, he could’ve gotten back in time like he planned. He just feels lucky that he made it in time.

He made it just in time, and he’s thankful for that. But he truly hates the fact you almost got seriously hurt because of him. He’s at fault and he knows this will haunt you for a long time.

“Don’t thank me. It’s nothing any normal human being wouldn’t do,” Spiderman tells you, walking over to the edge of the building. “Just stay safe. And know you can depend on your friendly neighborhood Spiderman anytime.”

And with that, he dives off the side of the building. You suck in a harsh breath, rushing and leaning over the elevated stone along the perimeter. Looking down, you find that you have to follow the black and white blur swing up again.

You smile breathlessly, watching the amazing Spiderman soaring off.

“Suguru, it was all my fault,” Satoru paces his apartment . . . ceiling?

 He’s walking in circles upside down, feet sticking to the ceiling like it isn’t scientifically impossible. His mask off but his suit remains on.

“If I hadn’t left her there for so long working on that freaking solution, she wouldn’t have left so late. If I was even a second off, I don’t even know what could’ve happened,” Satoru’s white locks are swaying as he walks. Although he defies gravity, his hair doesn’t.

“You saved her though, that’s all that matters,” Suguru assured, stuffing the chopsticks with a mouthful of noodles in his mouth. “But how did she not recognize you? There’s no way you talked to her.”

“I did,” Satoru drops to the ground. He makes his way over to where Suguru sits on the couch, picking up a box of takeout. “Maybe she’s not as smart as she thinks she is.”

“Please,” Suguru eyes Satoru, handing him a pair of chopsticks. “Don’t underestimate that girl, she’s smarter than half the tri-state.”

“Sure, she’s cute and happens to be smart,” Satoru shrugs. “She’s just a girl though, not a threat.”

“Why did you bring up her being cute?” Suguru narrows his eyes, lowering his food. “That had nothing to do with the conversation.”

“What?” Satoru mutters, chewing on his noodles. “She’s beautiful—there’s no denying that.”

“Beautiful?” Suguru laughs.

“What?”

“You just took it one step further,” Suguru teases, laughing again. “You have a crush on her!”

“What? No, I don’t!” Satoru snaps.

“Now it all makes sense,” Suguru has a wide grin. “Teasing her nonstop, annoying her to get her to yell at you. Wow, you can just ask her out, y’know.”

“Okay, you’re on drugs,” Satoru squints at his best friend.

“Yeah, yeah,” Suguru dismissively says. “So did you get that vial back from her?”

“Obviously not, I’m not supposed to know about that as Spiderman. Only Satoru Gojo knows that,” Satoru states, pointedly gesturing with his utensils. “I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

“Hm, what are you going to do now though?” Suguru asks. “I mean about this Jogo guy that thug told you about.”

“I’m not sure,” Satoru mumbles. “I’ll have to look into that.”

“Shoko, you know I wouldn’t make up something like that.”

“I know! That’s not what I said, it just sounds insane. Like, Spiderman? The Spiderman?”

You stare at her flatly and Utahime rubs your shoulders, “That sounds terrifying. Did you tell your dad?”

“What? Are you kidding? No,” you quickly spit. “If I tell my dad that he’s going to station two cops to follow me twenty-four seven. I can’t have that.”

“Y/n, that could’ve ended very badly,” Shoko frowns dejectedly. “What if Spiderman didn’t show up?”

“But he did,” you say. “If he didn’t, I’d be dead, and all my stupid little worries would be gone. But you don’t understand—that man . . . wow.”

Shoko and Utahime pause to look at one another, the former quizzing, “You—you don’t have a crush on Spiderman, do you?”

“Not a crush, no,” you chuckle, sipping your coffee before you look down at Shoko from where you’re sitting on the picnic table. “Fascination, yes, I have that. But to be honest, he was incredible to look at—his body was . . . ugh, I don’t have anything appropriate to say.”

“Now, this is how I know you need to get laid,” Shoko chuckles. “Having a crush on a spandex wearing spider is insanity.”

“Is it?” you look at where she sits on the bench. “You experience what I did, and I’d love to hear your opinion.”

Shoko frowns at you, then at Utahime. That’s when the latter says to you, “Wait, didn’t you need to talk to Gojo?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, sparing a cautious glance to your bag containing that mix. “Got to go over that stupid project before class. Would it kill him to be on time? He’s always late.”

There’s no need to tell your friends what the fuck Satoru had given you to configure on your own. Not until you at least talk to him and get the full story. You have enough on your mind as it is, having Shoko and Utahime’s thoughts thrown into the mix would only rattle and confuse you further. It doesn’t help that one of them grew up with Satoru and knows his aunt and the other loathes him almost more than you do.

“I’m going to grab a croissant before class,” Shoko rubs her stomach. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

You hop off the bench and head on down towards where your Orgo class is. There’s still about twenty minutes left till class and Shoko falls behind to grab her baked good.  

Those memories of last night carry you where you need to be. You strut along the path with a purpose, your hair is effortlessly styled, makeup barely there, yet it somehow masks just how disheveled you truly feel.

“Gojo!” you call as you spot him by the bottom of the steps in one of the University’s vast courtyards, he just so happens to be in the midst of discussing something Digimon related with Haiba.

Haiba and Suguru’s eyes widen as they realize it’s you storming towards Gojo and not just any other girl.

Satoru flicks his gaze over as you walk over, stopping in front of him. He’s not sure what to say, he knows he should probably address the task he stupidly left for you to do but he hardly strings a solid greeting together without sounding stupid, “Hey.”

“Can I talk to you—in private?” you ask, your face gave away an austere look, like you were about to scold a child.

How can he say no?

He nods, standing up and following you down the side of the building. The two of you are supposed to be heading down to class that happens to be the other way but he doesn’t even question you when he’s whisked onto the school grounds.

His mind fumbles through the events of last night. He had two conversations with you. One as your savior and one as the guy you got stuck with for science class. He’s racking his brain enough to decide how to behave although the answer should be obvious.

The boy follows you behind the bleachers, looking around with an incredulous quirk in his brow when you step into the dark underside of them.

“Is everything okay?” Satoru blinks as you stop.

“Gojo.” You sternly face him, not saying anything else.

“That’s my name, yeah,” he sassily retorts. “Doesn’t answer my question though.”

“Don’t test me,” you hold up your index finger threateningly.

Cute, he thinks.

“Where did you get this?” you hold up the small vial. “And the truth this time.”

Satoru’s eyes lock onto the green liquid, unsure what lie he should curate this time. He could simply insist on the same lie as before, convince you that you were overthinking. Or he could tell you the truth, ultimately putting your life and his secret in danger, but hey, it’ll save him from looking entirely idiotic.

“I told you, my manager,” he states, reaching out to take it.

You pull it back, further from his reach and he wants to laugh at how easy it would be to take it from your hands in the blink of an eye.

“How stupid do you think I am?” you quiz.

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” he says, a smile goes with that shake of his head, his hair falling over his bespectacled blue eyes. “Just a little scary.”

“Listen, I know your manager didn’t give you this because he wouldn’t give you this.” You pointedly flash the vial in his face. “Do you realize what’s in here?”

“Wait,” Satoru’s smile fades. “You’re telling me you actually found out what’s in it?”

You nod haphazardly, more confused than skeptical, “You don’t know?”

“No—I don’t, what is it?” he asks, nearing you too closely without meaning to.

You lower your hand, “It’s a highly concentrated blend of hallucinogens and anesthetics. One sip could send a man into cardiac arrest—or worse, kill him.”

Your eyes are on his, but his eyes aren’t on yours. His are on the bottle of chartreuse in between your fingers.

“Satoru,” you murmur quietly, lowering the bottle into his indecisive palm, his fingers edging closer to yours but pulling back ever so gently before they attempt to muster the courage once more. You glance down at his long pale fingers, his skin glows sweeter than the moon itself.

Your gaze dips to your skin grazing his as you place the bottle into his hand. You let your hand linger against his, not sure why you don’t think of retracting.

Why are you just realizing how pretty he is?

The rims of his glasses glint as he looks at your face, studying your features like he’ll never get the chance to ever again. You blink yourself into snapping out of it, pulling your arm back and swallowing dryly.

“Sorry about the trouble,” Satoru quietly says, stowing away the vial.

“It’s okay,” you reply, voice rasping. While his eyes are focused on tucking the bottle safely, you say, “I don’t know what it is you’re hiding—I won’t ask, but please be careful.”

Satoru can’t help the grin he cracks, “I’m tougher than I look.”

And when he walks away, there’s a strange feeling that stirs in your gut. A feeling that tells you he may be right.

You aren’t sure why you’re still thinking about why he had that chemical in the first place. Did he make it himself? Did he buy it off someone? What was it intended for?

The rest of your organic chemistry class, you’re left there wondering what that boy is up to. You’re left wondering why he is missing class again today after you just saw him. And you’re left wondering whether Satoru thanks Yaga for never marking him late or absent at all. Call it favoritism, you suppose.

He thanks any deity that he can think of when he arrives on time to JJ Technologies before his manager questions him.

He finds some time to slip away, sneak up to your floor while you’re instructing your latest interns. He smiles, watching you scribble something down on your clipboard while you walk.

“Okay, this right here is just a sketch of one of our current studies,” you point at a holographic, digitized image that appears above a table. “This is a paradigm for a new discovery of nanoparticles. They’re commonly used to reduce the number of catalytic materials within chemical reactions. There are two fields within certain industries that they are applied to. Can anyone tell me what they are?”

The students all flip restlessly through their notepads, struggling to look for the answer to your question.

Satoru can’t hide the snicker he lets out. Half the student look back at him and you peer through the batch of preppy kids to see him.

“Petroleum refining and automotive catalytic converters,” Satoru replies, still smirking complacently.

You have a bit of a curl to your lips, eyes locked on his as you say, “Yes. That’s correct.”

Seeing him appear within your mix of pupils almost throws you off, but you know you have a certain image before the students so you keep yourself composed. You quickly instruct the students to write the answer down and head to their stations with their teams.

When the interns disperse, you cross your arms, face to face with Gojo.

“What do you want?” you ask, a sickly-sweet smile on your face.

“Oof, would it kill you to talk nice to me?” Satoru acts like a wounded soldier, palm across his abdomen.

“I feel like it might, so I’d rather not take the risk,” you say pointedly.

“Hm, right,” Satoru scoffs, he looks down. “You’re going to be alone now in the lab, right?”

“No, I’ll be in the lab but not alone,” you say. “My colleagues are going to be in there with me. You need something?”

“No, I wanted to ask you something,” his brows tense.

An odd sensation stirs in your stomach, “Ask me what?”

It’s been a while since either of you actually began interacting with one another somewhat civilly. You don’t know what it is that will come out of his mouth but you’re suddenly hopeful.

He grabs your hand, leading you off to the side, causing you to jerk your head around in case anyone’s looking.

Once you are beneath the mosaic mural of DNA helixes on one wall, Satoru stops, letting go of you. You try not to let the idea of his hand staying in yours distract you from what’s to come.

He tries not to focus on how soft your hand is, and once again how the fragrance of your perfume feels like candy on a summer day.

“You didn’t tell anyone about that bottle, did you?” he whispers, eyes darting between yours and the rest of the busy facility.

“No,” you shake your head. “Of course, not. I had a feeling you wanted to keep it private.”

Satoru looks at you, his smile reaching his ears, “Aw, how sweet. You care about me.”

You smack the back of his hand, causing him to hold it close to him possessively and rub it gently from the very slight sting of your slap.

“Shut up,” you snap, catching the way his blue eyes gleam behind his glasses. “Is that all?”

“No,” he states, straightening up and switching his tone from light and playful to serious. “You said it was deadly to take a single sip. That the properties within it were so overly saturated it could do serious damage. But let’s say . . . you needed to use it in combat . . . could you?”

The nature of his question startles you, “Combat? Like if soldiers were fighting?”

“Yeah, sure, like that.”

You’re blinking heavily, looking towards the place where the wall meets the floor, “Well, I suppose it could be used in a vaporous form. Like gas or something. That could do enough damage too.”

“Ugh,” Satoru closes his eyes and pinches his nose. “I was afraid of that.”

“What is it?” you peer up at him through your lashes. “You’re hiding something.”

“No—I’m not,” Satoru groans. He notices the suspicion on your face, “You got time for a snack in the cafeteria?”

Flaring your eyes over his, you glance discreetly at the time, “Fine.”

You begin to walk away.

“That was a yes or no question! Not a secret third response,” he trails behind.

“You got your answer, didn’t you?” you gesture to yourself.

“Yeah, but you seem entirely unenthusiastic about it,” Satoru grumbles. “A little energy may do you good.”

You hit the elevator button, crossing your arms, “I’m not here to appease you.”

“Appease me? Oh, god,” he lets out a baffled scoff.

“What?” you furrow your brows. “Poor choice of words?”

“Not exactly,” Satoru replies, loosely shifting to get into the elevator. “It might be nicer, I guess, to know if you actually wanted to get a snack with me and not as if I’m holding you at gunpoint.”

You roll your eyes, “You brought up a snack and I happen to be hungry. Where does gunpoint come in the mix? You really want me to do cheer like you came to my rescue?”

He almost laughs from the irony but he knows not to. He knows just as well that things could have gone extremely wrong the other night if he had not gone about everything carefully. There’s another sort of irony to him, a different form of saving.

“Mhm, but you like coming to my rescue pretty often,” he responds, a lopsided smile on his lips as he leans against the wall with folded arms.

You squint at him, the word rescue coming out of his mouth reminding you strangely of the danger you were in right in that alleyway.

“What does that mean?” you say with tightening eyes.

“You did my part of the lab report to save my ass, you helped me with that liquid, you kept that secret for me,” Satoru breaks eye contact, looking at the ground. “And that time in freshman year of high school.”

His final reminder steers your heart to a slow pace, your shoulders untense. You remember that event all too well.

“I’m a decent human being,” you explain as if it’s a scientifically proven, immutable fact. “It’s less about enjoying something but more of the fact I would be miserable and angry with myself if I didn’t help someone that needed it.”

Satoru lifts his head to level with you, his eyes are wide in a blank stare. That is right before he suddenly blurts a short chuckle. “Spoken like a true hero.”

Your eyes flit upwards as the doors to the elevator open. He leads you out into the hall, his strides are much longer than yours.

“Wait up! I can’t walk that fast!” you snap breathlessly.

His gaze flicks over to you, his eyes close behind his lens, laughing again. Bustling closely to him, you quiz, “Okay, well you still have a lot of explaining to do. Like where you got that green thing from.”

Satoru stops by the line of sandwiches. His head turns to face you, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Absolutely not,” you’re quick to counter. He throws his head back as you grab a saran wrapped sandwich from the stall and face it at him strictly, “You’re not normal. That’s what I’m realizing.”

Satoru grabs a sandwich and a sugary soda too and he’s about to follow you as you walk off to a table but is interrupted when the employee behind the register curtly clears his throat. A nonverbal cue to pay for you both.

Satoru lets out a throaty groan, fishing deep in his pockets for a crisp ten dollar note. He rounds the table to the other side, sitting down with you.

“You’re having all these revelations pretty late into our lives, aren’t you?” Satoru picks up the conversation as if there was no gap in between. “I’m a little surprised you just came to the conclusion I’m not normal.”

“Hm, I’ve known for a while,” you hum, turning focus to your sandwich.

Memories are thrust upon you from high school. When you first met him, he hardly spoke. He was short with his interactions and would hardly have the grace to offer more than five words. He clearly didn’t enjoy being around people.

Suguru seemed to help him out of this at some point because in your sophomore year of high school, he came to school as a completely brand-new person. His personality shown more, and he only then began pissing you off.

In a way, it was better than seeing him so down like he was before. Because of that, you have been more inclined to tolerate his shit a lot of the time.

“Listen, Satoru,” you sigh, not even noticing the way his body electrocutes at the fact you called him by his first name and not his last. “I’m very serious about my future. It means everything to me and to my parents. There’s only a certain amount of shit I can tolerate. And I can’t tolerate you slacking off at my expense.”

Towards the end of your warning, you look at him. He lowers his drink from his mouth, eyes straight ahead.

“Fair enough,” Satoru says. His head falls loosely between his shoulders, his hair glistening in the fluorescent lights. “It’s important for your parents too, that’s something I respect.”

Your brows uncinch.

“It’s important I get home on time for my parents too,” you sigh, looking at the time.

“You have an hour,” Satoru asks. “Why are you worried?”

Now he knows why you are worried. He still has to act oblivious, that’s all.

He sees the faltering blinks, eyes dancing here and there, mouth parted without a word ready to fly out.

Satoru takes another bite from his sandwich, talking with a full mouth, “Is your dad strict or something?”

Those anxious eyes morph into a revolted side eye, “You know who my dad is. You know what my dad is.”

“Yeah, he’s just the captain. Not some flesh-eating monster,” Satoru makes himself giggle.

You set your forearm on the surface of the table, rotating your body to turn to him, “My dad is a great man. He’s all law and order and then there’s my mom, also law and order. If I didn’t have enough on my mind, now my dad wants to assign a detail to me.”

“Assign . . .” Satoru shifts in his seat, lowering his meal. “You mean have a pair of cops following you around all the time?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

Satoru’s eyes travel over your face while you’re not looking at him. If the captain does sign cops to tail you, that means that there’d be cops around him. Background checks, tailing him to get a sense of who he is . . . that could lead them to him being Spiderman . . .

“That—he can’t do that,” Satoru pipes, jolting you out of your little trance of eating. “That isn’t fair to you. You wouldn’t be able to hang around me—hell, they’d be standing right behind us listening to every word you say.”

Your lips turn down and brows raise, “I had no idea you cared so much.”

“Sure, why not?” Satoru dials down his emotion.

He supposes he’d have to stay away from you if your father went through with that after all. And he finds his heart twisting and turning from the very idea of doing that.

“He’s pretty stressed because of those string of bank robberies,” you exhale, Satoru’s eyes refuse to move from your face. “So my safety has gotten to his head too.”

Satoru’s blinks were slow, something that could be confused with lethargy, “Does he have any leads?”

“Not really. He just knows they’re all linked. He thinks Spiderman’s involvement is fucking everything up,” you say, remembering your encounter from last night.

“Hm,” and he can’t help but ask. “What do you think about him?”

“Spiderman?”

“Yes,” Satoru’s heart teetering on the edge.

“I think,” you begin, “he’s what our city needs. As a medical miracle, you decide to help others—that shows what kind of man you are.”

He has nothing to say for once. No quick quip, no fast remark. His mouth falls open, unsure how to respond. You were talking about his alter ego, but it felt like you were telling him.

“He’s pretty cool,” you nod, thinking about the vigilante.

He watches as you get up, saying, “I’ve got to get going, I’ve got to get work done before my dad picks me up.”

He feels like he has much left unsaid, but he still watches as you make your way out on your own.

Satoru is rooftop hopping, rushing back after he hit a dead end on a potential jewelry store he believed a heist may occur. That has been his routine that past week on top of annoying you in class and sitting with Haiba and Suguru in the library.

“Hm, okay. I just need to get a minimum of a C on this next exam to maintain my A,” Suguru mumbles aloud. “Satoru, you should maybe focus on your philosophy paper, you don’t want to get called out by the professor again—"

Suguru continues talking but Satoru is on a completely different planet. His gaze had flicked over to you walking through the maze of tables, and it was like an angel had stepped onto Earth.

The dim library of the university had mysteriously brightened tenfold. The incessant chatter of students around you crashes to a muffled halt as the faces begin to lose definition. All he can focus on is your pretty face. Your graceful smile. Your beautiful existence.

He feels his heart caper at the very sight of you laughing, the honeyed sound of it. His heart twists a bit more at the fact that it’s because of another guy.

“Hello!? Earth to Satoru,” Suguru breaks into Satoru’s eyeline. He looks back at whatever could have grasped his attention so unapologetically. He groans in frustration, “When are you going to tell her you want her?”

“I—what? I don’t want her,” Satoru snaps his head over at Suguru.

“It’s pretty obvious you want her, bud,” Haiba says with wide eyes and all Satoru can do is roll his own.

The sleep deprivation is catching up to him and he’s not sure how to remedy it. Those brief hours he does get to sleep he can hardly do so, he’s too busy trying to figure everything out. Where is Jogo hiding? Where is the next hit going to be? Why does he need that relic?

What could you be wearing tonight?

He has to shake his head like a wet dog, screw his eyes shut and bury his ears with his pillow. What is going on with him?

The next lab you have together, you spend most of it trying to figure out how to get through it working together and not competing against one another.

Afterwards, he wants to trail behind you, talk more to you but you’re tugged away by Shoko without fail.

 Every time.

Every time you sit on some staircase out on campus, step through the winding aisles of bookcases in the library, sit at some table in one of the cafes, Shoko or Utahime are always there.

He figures he’ll get the chance at JJ Tech but he’s barely seen you with how busy both of your schedules have been. His last resort is waiting for a perfect moment to get you alone. 

Satoru manages to catch up to you somehow once again in the library, studying for midterms.

“Here,” he places a bottle of chilled coffee in front of you on the table, it sat before your notebooks and thick textbooks like an almighty divinity.

Your eyes pierce through the coffee, then up at him, “How’d you know this is the flavor I like?”

You look tired, usually you can put yourself together enough to not seem so, but tonight it’s apparent. Your pens and highlighters are spread across the desk in a crazed frenzy.

“That’s the one you usually get at work, I don’t know. Thought you might need it,” he shrugs nonchalantly, sitting down.

You straighten up, wanting to smile but holding that feeling back, tying it down, “Oh, thanks.”

“I see you’re studying for . . .” Satoru tries guessing but squints at the papers you have strewn across the table, “what class?”

“Neuroscience,” you sigh, chewing on the end cap of your highlighter.

“Stop doing that,” he lowers you hand, essentially pulling the highlighter away from your mouth. He then opens the bottle of chilled coffee, handing it to you, “Here.”

You take it from him, eyes on his as you pull it towards your mouth, taking a sip. He leans back in his seat, his eyes roaming the papers you have laid out.

“Looks fun,” he drawls, looking through everything. “Have you had something to eat yet?”

“No, not yet. I’ll eat when I’m home,” you answer. “Have you?”

“No, me neither,” he says.

“Oh,” you ponder over what the situation is. “If you aren’t doing anything, we can go get something to eat right now.”

Satoru nearly stops breathing, he has every reason to frantically say yes. One: he happens to be starving. Two: he knows he’s going to be busy all night with studying and with his Spiderman duties. Three: he can sit and relax with you. Four: It’s you.

But he needs to get going, a potential lead came up in relation to Jogo he needs to check out right now.

“I can’t,” he wants to punch himself. “I have to help my aunt with something.”

Disappointment prickles through your body, a feeling you weren’t expecting in the least in a situation like this.

“Oh, that’s okay,” you gather your belongings.

“Wait—where are you going?” his eyes go wide, watching you pack your bag.

“Uh, home,” you say as if it were obvious. “Did you forget what we talked about that one time? Dad—security detail—never letting me breathe?”

“You can’t actually be worried about that,” Satoru says as you sling on your bag. “I highly doubt the captain will go through with that.”

“Just make sure you’re on time tomorrow for class, we have to work on that lab,” you tell him, flipping your hair as you adjust your bag on your shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“I have an issue with losing track of time,” Satoru frowns. “It’s not my fault.”

“Maybe use your glasses to keep an eye on the time. Are four eyes not enough? Do you seriously need six of them?” you challenge with a look over your shoulder before turning back to the exit.

He wants to laugh at the sheer irony of your question.

Satoru’s on a rooftop again. Another sleepless night is sure to pass him by. He follows lead after lead, suspect after suspect, but nothing.

That tip he got led him to nothing. Led him to nothing but missing class the next morning.

He’s thinking only about how guilty he feels, how he should apologize for bailing on you again during lab. Especially when you told him not to.

You count your lucky stars that you are sitting at home today worrying about your midterm exams approaching and not worrying in the lab.

Your father shows up at your door with a cup of hot cocoa, settling it down beside you. He has a cup of his own, a rare to see smile on his face as he sits down next to you.

“Thanks, Dad,” you beam, taking the cup.

“How’s studying going?” he asks.

“It’s okay,” you sigh. “How’s that heist case coming along?”

“It’s stressful,” he huffs out as well. “Got a bunch of different stories coming from the witnesses and that Spiderman jackass isn’t helping with my peace right now.”

“He’s not so bad,” you chuckle, taking a sip.

Your dad cocks a disgruntled brow, “That guy’s a menace. Just like that one news guy keeps saying.”

“That guy is crazy, Dad, and you know it,” this time you scoff.

“You calling me crazy, too?” your dad quizzes.

“No,” you set down your cup, “That’s not what I meant. I just meant that Spiderman has saved a lot of people. A lot of his good deeds go unnoticed because there are so many little things he does that don’t get broadcasted. Whatever—anyway, what are the witnesses saying?”

Your dad slowly lowers his offended brow and explains, “Witnesses from each location are saying they were knocked unconscious. Then there are witnesses who are also saying that the suspects dropped some sort of spray on them, then there are others saying it may have been a gas they inhaled.”

“Gas?” your nose scrunches.

“Hm,” your dad nods. “After they either inhaled or felt it on them, they started hallucinating. Some saw flashes of things they feared in their life, or of traumatic moments, or they were close to being driven to sleep by pictures of nice dreams. It all is difficult to figure out what it is. Our forensics team is having a shit time with narrowing it down since it may flush out of their system quick.”

You gawk at him, lost for words. It’s a highly concentrated blend of hallucinogens and anesthetics. One sip could send a man into cardiac arrest—or worse, kill him.

Your own voice rings in your head but his face is what appears before you. Those sparkling blue eyes and that silvery white hair. A flash of that green vial struck in an instant too.

“It’s all pretty confusing,” your dad exhales, taking a sip from his foamy drink. There’s a ring at the bell, steering his attention to it. He looks over at you, ruffling your hair, “You get back to it kiddo, I’ll see who it is.”

He walks out, closing your door and you look over that video about the fundamentals of chemistry, your notes splayed open with highlighters and sticky notes littering your desk.

But you can hardly focus—now that you’re thinking about Gojo all over again. This all has to be a coincidence, right? There’s no way Satoru Gojo of all people is affiliated with a high crime gang and drugging people to rob banks. There’s just no way.

But his voice rings in your mind once more—a memory of your conversation when he asked about that liquid being able to be used as a gas in combat. . . ‘I was afraid of that.’

The little three tapped choreographed knock on your door tells you that your father is on the other side.

“Sweetheart, there’s a . . . boy from your class here to see you,” your dad awkwardly says.

You blink the tiredness away, getting up and heading to the foyer of your penthouse apartment. Your hand rests on the railing as you descend down the stairs, only to stop halfway when your eyes land on snowy hair and silver framed glasses.

His sky-blue eyes lock onto yours, his blinks are restless, and his pretty lips are parted. You see him visibly gulp, like he was nervous to face you.

“What’re you doing here?” you finally say, remembering the fact he abandoned you once more today.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Satoru waits a beat till his heart tries to settle down. “Is that okay?”

You should yell at him, and you truly want to but for some reason you can’t. You huff out a sigh, beckoning him to follow you. As you turn around to lead him up the stairs, he’s once again scattering his field of vision everywhere.

He’s paying attention to the extravagance of your home. The chandelier in the foyer, the numerous potted bonsais and lilies, the expensive stonework polished floors, the ornamental china vases and molded ceiling. He shouldn’t expect any less from the daughter of the veteran police captain of the city and the successful assistant district attorney. Your parents were clear overachievers, mother and father both, it is no less than obvious you would be on a similar path of greatness yourself.

He eyes you rather shamelessly, it’s not like you have eyes on the back of your head. You glance over your shoulder at him.

Or maybe you do.

Satoru already felt scrutinized at the door when your father opened it. He should care a little more but finds that he doesn’t care one bit about the police captain’s protective gaze on him following his daughter up to her room.

You open your door, unveiling your bedroom to the boy. Suguru and Haiba would go nuts if he were to tell them he was standing in your room with you right now. Nanami would hardly believe him at all.

Your room is neat, that’s the first thing he notices. And it’s exactly how he pictured it. Furniture white, minimalistic and clean. The bed had four posts, sheer curtains draping down the top. You had white boards, bulletin boards, filled with excessive diagrams and notes. You had bookshelves in a corner of the room, lined with chemistry and medical textbooks where your desk was.

There was a wall of windows that overlooked the city, a balcony that had a set of Parisian doors to it. He wonders how much time you spent out there with your thoughts and what they could possibly be.

While he’s observing every element of your room, you face him. He has this wondrous look in those frosted eyes of his, a look that makes them look even wider. His lips part and when you look at him in the dim lighting from your study lamp, you notice the way his top lip prods out slightly over his bottom. That they have a pouted yet subtle curve to them that came to life when he smiled. That there was a soft pinkish sheen to them.

You wonder why you’re suddenly paying such close attention to him these days.  

“Here,” you speak, ringing yourself out of wherever your mind was going.

He cocks a brow, gawking at you rifling through your school bag. His puzzled expression deepens when you press a packet of paper against his chest. “What’s this?”

“Your part of the lab report,” you grumble, eyes cold yet thwarted. “Just memorize the material by next Friday before our presentation. I’ll make sure the rest of what’s left throughout the week gets done.”

Satoru’s entirely taken aback. You have every right to be mad but he wasn’t expecting you to still want to help him. His arm shoots out to grab yours before you can walk away. Your halted against your will, shocked as you gape at him trapped in the lamplight as it clings to his skin.

“Wait—that’s not why I came here,” he sighs begrudgingly. “I came to apologize. I’m sorry I missed class and bailed on you.”

“Twice,” you correct with furrowed brows.

“Twice,” he revises. “It was a shitty thing to do. And it won’t happen again.”

He swallows dryly as he stares at that cynical look on your face. He looks like a lost pet, waiting to be scolded by its owner.

“Promise?” you tip your head to the side.

“Promise,” he answers, he feels his heart tearing through his chest at how you’ve suddenly acquired a childlike disposition, one he’s never had the chance to witness before. And all because of him.

“Okay,” you smally smile, flashing your pearly teeth at him. “But if you bail on me again, I’m telling Yaga to give you a zero.”

“Got it—but how come you’re so sure he’ll give your word priority over mine?” Satoru challenges.

“Because you were the second smartest kid in high school, and I was the first,” you pointedly say. “I have a higher GPA than you, I have won three more academic awards than you have—and let’s face it, my attendance record outranks yours in an embarrassing way.”

Satoru presses his lips firmly and raises his brows in hilarity, trying to contain that laughter wanting to blurt out of him. He fails though, laughing anyway.

Your lips part as you stare at him, suddenly you’re so aware of how tall he is again, how he’s not as lanky as he used to be in high school.

“At least I’m not stupid,” Satoru tells you knowingly. “You could’ve ended up with a lot worse than me.”

“Really? Like who?” you cross our arms.

“Yuki—Haiba—Need I go on?” he speaks with a teasing tone.

“God, no. I got your point,” you hold your hands up in defense. Your nose twitches as you let your hands slowly fall to your sides. “You didn’t have to come all this way to apologize, you know. You could’ve just apologized tomorrow or over text, you have my number.”

“You wouldn’t have thought twice about forgiving me,” he puts his hands in his pockets. “Or murdering me.”

This evokes a laugh from you, cheeky and bright, this cold light of the moon suddenly feels like beams of sunlight embracing him, warm and comforting.

Then you point a finger at him, “But you have to tell me why you have that green liquid.”

Satoru can’t flip his way out of this corner. Another lie must suffice, “One of my friends from my neighborhood gave it to me—said he swiped it off some kid in his school. He wanted me to find out what was in it.”

“Oh,” you frown, all doe-eyed and innocent. “You should get rid of that thing. It’s dangerous.”

“Will do,” Satoru salutes with his middle and index fingers. He catches that little sideways twitch of your mouth, as you stare at him from the bottom up but stop halfway. “What is it?”

“I’m just a little shocked you’re not really how I thought you’d be,” you say. “Is that bad?”

“Depends,” Satoru eyes the room shamelessly, glancing at you before he sits down uninvited on your bed. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. We’ve known each other for like over half a decade—and we hardly ever really talked. I always thought you were some nerdy guy that had a bad attitude. I guess I thought you never really liked me.” You circle around the bed post to get closer to him.

Satoru’s brows are raised so far up high that they are practically skimming his hairline. He was talkative, just not with you at first. He feels like he might’ve been a bit blunt overall—but that changed for him when he became Spiderman years ago.

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Satoru says the unexpected. “I guess I just found you intimidating.”

“Me?” you point at yourself, sitting down. “Why? You’re, like, one of the most talented kids I know.”

“Because you’re crazy smart,” he blurts out, smiling as he can’t even maintain eye contact with you. He feels your body heat, just a few measly inches to his left. You’re in reach and he’s scared he’ll do something to cause you to slip away.

Your eyes widen at his words, and he seems to not be done yet with the way he sucks in a breath, hands resting either side of him on the comforter.

“You’re insanely clever and nice and it doesn’t help much that you’re pretty,” Satoru is shaking his head, meeting your gaze once again. Once again, gorgeous eyes stare back at him.

You furrow your brows, not remembering an instance in your life where you had seen him look so vulnerable for even a moment. Your eyes flick down to his pouted lips then back up to his eyes.

“You think I’m pretty?” you whisper.

“Is that even a question?” Satoru breathes.

You lean close, his icy blue eyes contrast his half lidded warm look behind his glasses. He inches closer, your noses brushing against each other.

Your lips are half a centimeter away from his. He can smell the scent of your lotion, the sweet scent of your lip balm. He’s so close to tasting it that he feels like he’s the closest he’ll ever be.

That tingling sensation shot up his spine and straight to his ears, not because of this tension.

It’s his six eyes telling him there’s an incoming threat. Footsteps. They’re faint, but he feels them coming this way.

He suddenly jumps up, grabbing the lab report and rifling through it, “Your dad.”

“What?” you’re taken aback, your face crinkling.

“He’s coming,” he says.

You blink at him, wondering if he’s just scared or if he didn’t want to kiss you in the first place.

“Listen, Satoru, if you don’t want to—”

Your door swings open, revealing your father. One hand rests on the knob and one on the door frame. The way he opened it indicated a sense of urgency, or a sense of wanting to catch Satoru in the act. The act being the boy making a move on you.

“Hey, sweetie, everything alright in here?” he eyes you quickly at the term of endearment but then keeps his razor-sharp cop stare on Satoru. He’s not doing anything to ring alarm bells, simply just thumbing through report papers like he gave the impression of initially.

“Yes, Dad!” You glare at your father. “I thought we talked about knocking.”

“Oh, sorry—I was just—” he attempts defending himself but your eyes widen as you tilt your head at him and he ushers himself out of your room.

“Jeez. You’d hardly believe I’m nineteen years old with a dad like that. What is he going to do after I move out,” you grumble. Your eyes slowly dance over to the boy who was standing up, “How’d you know he was coming?”

“I could hear his footsteps,” he says.

“Yeah, you told me like a whole minute before he actually was at the door,” you stand up, nearing him. “I know your eyes suck, but no one has that good a sense of hearing.”

“I told you that’s what I heard,” he defends himself.

You tighten your lips, watching him set the papers down with his eyes fixed on the door. His eyes are still but his mind runs a mile a minute. He’s ruminating on the fact he almost kissed you and that your father could have walked in. What’s worse right now though is the fact he is still standing in the wake of your missed moment.

“Satoru, something is up with you,” you stand up, taking a daring step forward. Your shoulders square in assertion, “I’m not sure what it is. But I promise you can trust me.”

He slowly turns his head to you, thinking about what to say but his breath stops short when you place your palms over his chest, gazing up at him.

He gulps, and he hopes you don’t see how his nerves are clearly rattling, shaking his very bones. His phone buzzes with the soft four chimed ring he’s all too familiar with and he curses himself and every other wrong doer in the whole city of New York.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” he grabs yours wrists. “I have to go.”

He goes around you, passing you without so much as another glance. You watch him leave your room and in the simplest of terms, you felt like shit.

You begin walking to your door to slam it shut when your father runs past you, frantically pushing his limbs through his police jacket, his other hand on his phone.

“Dad—what is it?” you question breathlessly.

“Sorry, honey, have to go in. There’s another theft in progress in the upper east,” your father explains in two quick breaths.

Your eyes follow him as you hear the front door shutting after he leaves, only a minute or so after Satoru did.

You can’t help that scowl you toss at your microscope on your desk, or how you sprint towards it to inspect the elements once again.

Satoru is thinking only about you. Only you, only you.

His cognizance on the fact he should focus on this heist is hardly doing him favors from how much he regrets not kissing you. If being caught by your father was a repercussion anyway, how bad could that have possibly been? Yeah, so what. Mild embarrassment, maybe a few threats here and there.

His hand wraps around the web he shoots at the side of the building, swinging straight through the shattered window. He has no time for histrionics, he just wants to get to the bottom of this case.

When the thugs turn to face the man that flew in through the window, they all drop what they are doing, scowling menacingly at the boy.

“Okay,” Satoru cracks his knuckles, tweaking his neck to the side. “Let’s wrap this up.”

That’s what prompts four burly men to lurch at the boy. Gojo makes quick effort to shoot at one’s face, gluing a sticky web to his eyes and hindering his senses completely.

He knocks over another one with a horse powered kick, pushing him into a glass display. He’s nearly amazed with himself by how rushed this fight is.

Another man comes at him with a closed fist, brass knuckles adorning them as they hurtle straight for Satoru’s face. With lightening reflexes, he swats the man’s arm, aiming the base of his palm straight up the man’s jaw. Except it isn’t his jaw he’s aiming for.

An anguished scream of agony leaves the man as he cradles his bleeding, broken nose. Spiderman towers over him again, kicking him in the gut while he’s down.

The fourth man fires several shots at Satoru, unfortunately for the goon, he hasn’t experienced just how the Six Eyes senses really benefit the Spiderman.

His gun is in Satoru’s hand before he knows it, a stringy web stuck to the end of it. The thief’s jaw drops, eyes reddened and wide when he witnesses the way the gun crushes in the vigilante’s hand, the pieces of it crumbling to the ground.

“This is getting boring,” Satoru whines immaturely. “I can’t believe I had to give up being with a pretty girl for this.”  

Forcibly tugging the man towards him with a web, Satoru delivers a lethal blow to the back of the man’s head, instantly knocking him out.

The sound of a glass rustling behind him draws his attention, the man he had knocked into the display was on his feet again. He has something in his hand that catches the vigilante’s attention, three small balls.

“Fuck no,” Satoru grabs the pellets by shooting webs again. “Not falling for this again.”

He lunges to the wall behind the man, psyching him out when he kicks off the wall and practically tackles the man to the ground.

“Not in the mood to get to know you,” Satoru frowns, his boot on the side of the man’s neck. “Where’s Jogo? And who gave you this?”

He hold up the pellets of gas, the stare of whitened eyes through his mask are enough to terrify the man.

“Please! I don’t know where Jogo is! I was just instructed to make this hit!” the man chokes out. “I got these through the—the lady we got that makes these—her name is Hanami—she works in a lab somewhere—we don’t know where. She has someone drop them off and she tells us where after the drop’s been made but—”

“You’re not telling me what I need,” Satoru steps down on the man’s throat harder.

“I—I can tell you where she gets her stuff from! In fact, I heard from somewhere that she’s got a guy on the inside getting her the goods. It’s at Myrtec Chemicals—one of her guys told me there’s a drop happening later tonight!”

“Thanks,” Satoru lifelessly smiles, kicking the man unconscious.

Shivering behind a wall of crates is not how you expect to be spending your Friday night. What you envisioned after a long night of studying was curling up with some popcorn and other snacks to watch a nice movie.

Most certainly not a group of men talking about people they are planning to kill.

“Man, I fucking hate the captain,” one spews. “I’d love to rip his heart out of his chest if I ever got the chance.”

You cover your mouth, trying to contain your gasp. The suspicion that Satoru may be involved with these men is tearing you apart. You haven’t seen or heard him in the last twenty minutes you’ve been here.

Standing outside the wired fence of Myrtec Chemicals is not how you want to go out. So slipping out now makes sense. You needed to make sure Satoru wasn’t linked to these guys and there’s been no sign of his loudmouth anywhere.

As you shift to run off as fast as you can so you can get to the bus stop at the edge of the next street, you accidentally bump your elbow into one of the big crates. A dull yet prominent thud reverberates through the air.

Fuck.

“What the fuck!”

“Someone’s here?”

“Who’s there?”

You know once again you’re cornered. Why must you test your luck so often? How on earth will you get out of this one?

“Hey! You!” a man is looking around the pile of crates, eyes landing on you.

You make a run for it but he grabs you—as expected. You cinch your eyes shut and a loud whoosh over your heads shoots through the air.

No way.

“Hey! Hands off her!”

The voice is hauntingly familiar. So is that black and white suit and that emblem of blue across his chest. That glowing spider—hope.

Spiderman leaps at the man that had grabbed you, striking him across the face. The other men shout out, rushing to grab their weapons, all the while the great Spiderman is making haste to scoop you into his arms.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry about this.”

“That’s okay, been wondering about you for a while,” he says with ease, then he leaps and you scream out, not realizing you’re on top of a small security tower. “Stay put here, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod seeing the thumbs up he gives you as he falls backwards to the ground, flipping straight back into action.

You watch as he takes down the remaining men, but the fascination to him isn’t all that you think about. You’re trying to pinpoint that voice—that cadence and rhythm in it. It sounds an awful lot like—

“How’d you end up here?” the vigilante is hanging upside down by a web in front of you, attached to the top of the watch tower’s antenna structure.

You blink, retracting in place, “I thought my friend might be here, but I might’ve been wrong. I was just worried.”

“You get into trouble pretty often, don’t you?” he chuckles, still upside down.

That thought invades your mind again—his voice sounds too much like his. There’s no way. There’s just no way.

“Sorry about that,” you shake your head.

“Why’d you think he’d be here?” the man tilts his head.

“They’re using a chemical, aren’t they? Those thugs?” you quiz. “They’re using it on people when they ransack places like banks and jewelry stores. I analyzed the particles and managed to isolate where certain specialized compounds can be mixed and it traced back here. Thought I’d check it out.”

Satoru’s suspended in the air, his state of mind matches his physical state. Speechless, he does nothing but stare.

“Ugh, God, why are you so stupid for someone so smart?” he groans.

“Excuse me?” you quickly pipe, taking a step back as he lowers onto the tower’s rail with you.

His arm slips around you, and he murmurs, “You could’ve gotten really hurt. This was a very dumb thing to do.”

“I know that but . . .”

“Why’d you have to come, huh? You care about that guy or something?” he asks, shooting out a web to another building.

“Yeah, or something,” you quietly say, eyes on him. Your suspicion as to who is behind the mask is starting to piece together and you aren’t sure whether you should comment on it or not. “Wanted to make sure he was okay.”

He can’t even face you. Do you even know what you’re saying? He wants to chalk it up to delusion but a mind as sharp as yours can’t be subject to something so petty as delusion.

When your arms slip around his neck, you stare at him and you can practically see through him.

“Hold on as—” Satoru begins.

“As tight as I can, I know,” you finish, not even being as terrified as you were the first time he web slung you through the streets of New York.

He stops at the top of a building, one far too high above the ground. That is when you realize you aren’t on top of any old building at all. You gawk from this point, the highest point of New York’s famous Vessel.

You look down, overlooking the Hudson Yard and seeing that the structure is closed to the public due to how late in the evening it is.

“I’ve never actually been here before,” you marvel at the sight. “It’s beautiful.”

“Hm, it is,” Satoru mumbles, staring at your wonder-stricken eyes.

At the sound of his voice you turn slowly, facing him, “Thank you for saving me. Again.”

“Nothing to it,” he replies, his tone hinting at a smile you can’t see. “Think I might’ve chipped a nail back there.”

Your eyes flit over him, head to toe. While your eyes stay by his feet, you say, “I want to take off your mask.”

“That defeats the whole purpose of it,” Satoru states. “Then you’d see my face. It defeats the sense of mystery too when you find out who I am.”

“I think I already know,” your eyes settle back on the white blank eyes of the mask, wanting to see the blue you’d been thinking far too much about.

Satoru’s stunned silence screams over how you move toward him. Your searing palms set on his chest, he feels like he’s being scorched to ash with how close you are.

He makes no effort to move away or tell you to stop. He swallows his inhibitions when your hands hesitantly slide up his chest to the base of his neck. The tips of your fingers caress his collarbone and neck till they tug at the edge of his mask.

Satoru knows he should tell you that he can’t let you see but he wants it so bad at the same time.

That’s why he watches with withheld breaths when you inch your way as your pull up the mask, slowly.

The pale of his moonlit skin exposes itself to you while you gently tear the mask further up. His chin peeks out, the sharp cut of his jaw, then you see his soft lips, the ones you want to just lean in and kiss so damn bad.

So you do and he knows he’d be stupid to stop you this time around. Your mouth feathers over his before you finally press onto him. Your lips meet his, buttery soft, warming your cold ones by a single touch.

He kisses you back softly but you back away, his head following your back before you part lips. He gazes at you as you cradle the lower half of his face, easing him into letting you take the mask off further.

You pull it back more, seeing that pointed nose of his you were accustomed to watching crinkle as he smiled. Then you finally pull them away from his eyes and his hair. You aren’t so surprised anymore, not as much as you should be at least.

That snowy white hair, like a fresh fleet of ice had poured onto his head ever so lovingly. Then those eyes, God those eyes. The shimmering blue that twinkled so brilliantly in the amber light, the eyes you feel like you’re seeing for the first time without any pair of glasses or masks in the way.

For once, you are the one smiling and he’s left with a somnolescent look on his face, like he could fall over at any moment. His eyes are half-lidded, fixed on your eyes and fleeting down to your lips without any sign of subtly.

He bends his neck down, capturing your lips in his again before slipping his arm around you and his free hand to your face. Now even if you wanted to move away, you couldn’t. Key word ‘if’.

You feel the way he softly inhales from his nose, breathing in like he’s breathing you in. He’s gentle and yearning, like he’s wanted this for a long time.

He presses his lips a little harder, and you can’t help the little sigh you let out. If you were in this situation two weeks ago, you’d be running around flipping your lid at the revelation that Satoru Gojo was the Spiderman. Except now, that mattered slightly less to you.

You both pull away by a hair, noses grazing one another’s as you gaze into each other’s eyes. You pull back a little more to see his face in its entirety. A fallen angel.

The little fidget of your smile as you decide whether to smile or not is enough to have him take the lead and smile anyway.

“So you did want to kiss me,” you say cheekily, eyes glistening from the city lights, the winter air pinching your nose and cheeks.

“Yes, dummy,” Satoru responds with a quiet nuance of hilarity. His gloved hand remains on your face, his thumb pressing down on your chin.

Tipping your chin down, your mouth opens. The cool air of the night blends in with Satoru’s warm breath, swirling in a strangely comforting breath, one that bore escape.

He pushes his tongue into your mouth, doing his best to taste every bit of you because he missed the chance for far too many years. Here, there is no police captain father to rush in, no thug or criminal to interrupt, no man that could touch you. Other than him of course.

You taste like peppermint, like what he would envision a warm and loving Christmas with family to be like. He wants more—he needs more.

Your tongues twirl in tandem, pace still slow but you each feel a growing desire crushing on your souls. It’s heavy and bone rattling, enough that he pulls back to shake himself out of it.

“I should take you back home—your parents—”

“Dad’s going to be out all night with that heist and Mom drank too much wine at dinner and my brothers and sister aren’t going to say anything about me not being home,” you’re quick to arbitrate. “I’m a little cold though.”

“I can see that,” he laughs as you shiver, the frosty air intermingling with his warm breath to create a translucent fog. “I—I don’t wanna sound like I’m rushing but you can come home with me to my place. I can explain everything there.”

You press your tongue in between your teeth in thought before you grin, “Let’s go.”

You help put on his mask when he cranes his neck down to you. He grabs you and you know the drill, hold on tight and do not, under any circumstances, let go.

He’s swung you through the entire city again and you take the time to enjoy, this time trusting him without a shadow of a doubt. The city looks pretty from his view, you count yourself grateful to get a glimpse of that, and that he has shared this special thing with you.

He stops outside a half open window on the side of an apartment building, he helps you through the ledge, safely getting you inside. You take a few steps back and watch him crawl inside, dropping to the floor with the agility of a cat.

“I can’t believe I’m seeing this,” you say softly. “I can’t believe I kissed Spiderman. I can’t believe I kissed you actually. That’s crazier to me.”

Satoru tears the mask from his head, his hair all disheveled fell into his eyes, “That’s crazier to you? That you made out with me not that I saved your ass again?”

“Shut up,” you narrow your eyes, looking around. “This is where you live, huh?”

“Mhm,” Satoru answers, watching you. “So you looked into that liquid again. Why did you come all the way to that place? That was very dangerous. And very very stupid. You really came all that way because of me?”

You face him, the air still coolly frosting at the shell of your ears, “I thought you might’ve been involved with those guys at first but based on our conversations, I assumed that maybe you were trying to play hero.”

“And you showed up and realized I was,” Satoru peers down at you. “Idiot.”

“Hey, if I was an idiot, I never would’ve been there in the first place,” you jab your pointer finger straight into his chest. He lets out an exaggerated and overdramatic cough, clutching his heart as if you did serious damage. “Seriously, Satoru, I get why you couldn’t tell me but . . . were you planning on not being near me to protect that secret?”

He stills, the smile vanishing from his face. His icy hair falls over his equally icy irises, bottom lip pushing ever so lightly into his top one in a small frown.

“I didn’t mean to push you away. I tried to stop myself from being close to you—that day you were late was my fault,” he shakes his head, eyes wide.

“But you still saved me,” you justify.

“But you wouldn’t be there in the first place if it weren’t for me,” he counters quickly.

You lower your eyes, “I have a mind, you know? I can say ‘no’, and I can make my own choices. Staying to help you was my choice. And I don’t regret it.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, lights darkened in his apartment. The only thing illuminating the space is the moon, its incandescent glow spilling into the room as if it were sneaking in secrets.

Shining down on your clandestine meeting, you each are inching closer, lips feathering over one another’s before he can’t take it anymore and kisses you.

His hands thread through your hair, his fingers interlinking at the nape of your neck, pushing you against him. He’s kissing you like he wants to breathe you in, like you’re the air that needs to be in his lungs.

You let your tongue slide across his bottom lip, easing it into his mouth. You lap inside his mouth, exploring every bit that your muscle can physically reach, intertwining with his.

Feverishly, you keep kissing each other, and it simply isn’t enough. Panting like starved dogs, you want to whisper to him to take you to his room but it feels too far—and your mind is running in circles right now.

Between kisses, you reach back, shedding your coat and kicking your boots off. Fuck, why is it always so cold in New York? Couldn’t it be summer, so you had less layers to shed?

He’s reeling you back in every time your lips leave his for even a moment. Taking yourself away from him for even a split second is cruel to him, worse than battling a group of mutants as Spiderman.

Satoru appreciates your enthusiasm and your forwardness, considering he’s not as experienced as he’d like to be for you. Hey, it’s hard to date as a superhero. He just prays it’s not too obvious

Your hands are busy unbuttoning your pants as he backs you into the backrest of the couch, not as coordinated as he hopes. He is not all that concerned clearly because you find yourself on your back on his couch, him hovering over you, lips not leaving yours for even a slight moment.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he breathes, his hips in between your parted legs. “I can’t believe my luck right now.”

“You’re such a dork—” you begin to joke before he rolls his hips against you, that tent in his pants prods at the heat between your thighs and you gasp out in pure shock and thirst.

Your eyes widen when they shoot down between your bodies, seeing that prominent bulge at the front of his pants, so obviously emphasized in that tight suit of his. How had you missed that before?

“What was that?” Satoru teases, eyelids bonneting over his irises seductively, a coy smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth.

He tries to hide just how painfully hard he is but now he understands there’s no use. After all, he can still play with your head a bit—just a bit.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist.

And his lips are on yours again, swallowing in your gasps and vice versa. All the while, he ruts his hips against you, grinding and dry humping like two pathetic teenagers.

Each time he rolls his hips into you, you moan, humming into his mouth shakily. He’s taking each sound in with pride, he can hardly believe he’s drawing out noises like that from you, miss put together. His lips trek down your jaw, peppering kisses as he makes his way down your neck, a smile curling at his lips.

With hazy eyes, you let your hands skirt at his abdomen, trying to tug at the fabric at his waist, “How the fuck do you get this thing off?”

“You’re supposed to buy me dinner before you see me undressed, you know?” he chuckles against your jaw.

“Ha ha, very funny. Now take your suit off—I don’t want to play any more games,” you plead, your tone dwindles towards something most would call pathetic, but he knows better than to make that mistake. “Please, I just want you.”

Okay, maybe he’s wrong.

He doesn’t have the heart to wait any longer either. The command is clear in his mind, tear the suit off, but his fumbling hands make the effort stretch beyond eternity.

While he is busy with the strenuous task of undressing, you decide to get yours over with. With the desire to stop, go slow, take it all in, each of you are still keeping your eyes on each other—listening to the other’s breaths, taking in the sight of the other’s skin unveiling itself bit by bit. 

As ceremoniously as one could in a moment like this, you discard your top and kick off your pants. You regret the split second you look away because when you look back at him, his shirt is gone.

The spider suit has a variant of features, all that aid in the never-ending trade of fighting crime. That suit also serves justice to whoever it may be underneath it, but fuck it underscored just how beautiful Satoru’s body is.

In the dim light, you make out his chiseled abs, how his shoulder blades are sculpted like an artist spent every drop of sweat, blood, and tears into defining them. How those broad shoulders seamlessly crown the defined muscles of his biceps. Your eyes trail down his arms to his forearms, veiny and working to take off his pants.

That’s when your focus shifts to his chest once more. The plains of his torso display his corded abs.

And you’re counting. Five—six—seven—eight—For someone so rambunctious, he sure fails to flaunt his perfect eight-packed figure.

Your eyes lock in on his lower abdomen, how his waist his much narrower in comparison to the width of his shoulders. His hips hollow out as they carve out a defined line, trailing down between his legs.

Temptation is close to getting the best of you when you realize he’s been frozen in place for half a minute now. Shooting your attention back up to his lustful gaze, you’re suddenly hyperaware of the circumstance of you only in your bra and underwear.

“You’re staring,” you warn with a sharp look.

“Mm—and you weren’t?” he returns the same expression, smugly lowering to kiss you once more.

Any argument you wish to spew are revoked the second his lips are on yours again. Satoru’s hands roam your body. Despite the freezing cold of the winter, his fingertips are piping hot, searing your skin wherever they touch. Your hips, your waists, your face, your breasts, your thighs.

Those lithe fingers slide down your side, around your back and where the clasp of your bra is. And you want to giggle at how he’s struggling to get it unhooked.

“Need help?” you grin, leaning on your elbows.

“Shut up—I got it,” he grunts out. He doesn’t have it in him to admit that he’s suddenly registering the fact that it’s you. You’re the one underneath him right now. It’s your body he can’t believe looks this perfect.

His breaths stops when he manages to tear off that stupid bra from you, your fingers toying with the waistband of his underwear.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Hm?” you hum interrogatively, being cut off when he dives down. “Satoru—ah—”

He buries his face in the valley of your chest, kissing you harshly while making his way to your exposed nipples. He latches his mouth over one and your chest nearly caves in. A moan slips from your mouth, hands at the back of his head, curling in his hair while he sucks your tits so lasciviously.

“Fuck—Satoru—ah,” you try to keep your eyes on him but find yourself cinching them shut anyway.

“You sound so cute saying my name like that,” he gasps out, tongue flicking over your pert nipple, and hand massaging at the mound he’s left alone.

Chills dissipate over your arms and legs, causing you to let out shivers. Shivers that could be a mixed response of the cold air and at the sensation of his mouth sucking you.

Satoru begins to lower himself, trailing kisses down your stomach as he goes. He doesn’t stop when he reaches the waistline of your panties. His lips press on top of the cloth, over your pussy, his fingers curl into the waistband at your hips.

His eyes flick up to yours, a smile on his pretty lips as he takes in your expression, pure desire stitched in every crevice of your face.

He pulls down your panties, eyes fixed between your legs like he was seeing the holy grail itself. His mouth is watering at the sight before him. He can’t believe that after years and years of knowing you, this is the outcome. All the competition, the annoyed glances, quick remarks, all boiled down to this very moment. With you spread out underneath him like a slut.

“Fuck me,” he groans out, tossing your underwear to the side. He lifts your left leg, kissing your ankle and trekking his way up your leg. When he reaches your thigh, his tongue begins to playfully drag across your skin. “Mmm.”

With shaky breaths, you watch him get close and closer but then he stops. He mulls over every form of research he’s ever done. He knows if he puts his mind to it he can please you, he just needs a second to reel himself in. Quite unlike him.

You watch him carefully, seeing how his smile faded and how he’s swallowing down dry lumps. There’s a flush in his face that isn’t something you’ve seen before. Is he . . . nervous?

Your hands shift down, cupping his face. At the endearing action, his heart quivers, as do his eyes. That’s when his jaw slacks, tongue lolling out and licking up your pussy.

You suck in a fragmented breath, fingers trembling when he smiles again and does it again. The saliva on his tongue drips down from the tip of his muscle, dribbling straight down to your slit.

“Do you always get this wet around me?” he has a smile painted on his face that is reaching his ears.

“Can you for once put your mouth to good use?” you whisper back sharply, earning a deep chuckle from his as he lowers his face between your legs again.

Eagerly, he swipes a long languid lick from the bottom of your pussy to the top, milking out his spit as well as your arousal. His arms easily slip around your thighs as he now buries his face, lapping at your cunt like a starved animal.

A loud moan rips straight from your throat, you toss your head back from the sheer intensity. And you can’t help but cry out like that again, feeling his tongue circling over your clit over and over.

When he hears a rather high-pitched cry leave you, his chest swells with pride. He isn’t sure what he was so nervous about. He just can’t believe he’s the one making you feel this good—or you’re the one he’s ever had a moment of weakness like that for.

Tilting his head to the side, he angles his tongue. Licking, sucking slurping your cunt, he’s producing the lewdest of noises, getting absolutely high off your taste.

“Oh my god!” you whine, now rolling your hips on his face, fingers tugging his hair and digging at his scalp. “Do that again.”

“What? This?” Satoru feigns innocence, flicking his tongue repeatedly and quickly over your clit, teasing you.

You almost let a scream burst from you, slapping your palm over your mouth as he teases you. It dawns on you then that those blue eyes looking up at you, are the same very ones you took so long to truly see. He’s not in his glasses but that sight between your legs would’ve been just as gorgeous too.

His hands grip your thighs, pushing them closer to your chest. His jaw unhinges like he’s eating a meal, nose rubbing against your puffy clit as he feels himself become impossibly and painfully harder that he could cum right then and there.

Goosebumps ripple over your body, every cell in your body short circuiting. His fingers dig into your flesh in a bruising grip. With another wanton tug at his hair, he slips out a nasty moan, eyes deliriously rolling to the back of his head.

There’s a sense of greed in the way he’s eating you out. Hunger and lust intertwine together in his movements, he can’t get enough.

His hand comes down between your thighs, fingers swiping over your clit.

Your back is arching off the couch, loud and shameless cries escape you one after the other with no end in sight. With your vision beginning to blur like a flock of clouds rolling in before a storm, you feel a white-hot heat between your legs.

Your eyes flicker towards his face below you. His eyes were shut and his brows your furrowed adorably in concentration. His hair fell in soft tufts and his jaw and tongue are moving in ways you would never have fathomed to see before. Needless to say, he is so fucking sexy.

Feverishly rocking your hips as best you can to meet his insatiable mouth, you know your orgasm is closing in. Every piece of your being is only focused on this immense pleasure and straining to get to the peak point it so desperately needs.

He sees you becoming more and more restless, your legs shake more and your fingers tug harsher at his scalp. The way you’re practically screaming tells him all he needs to know, you are right there.

You scream when it hits you like a freight train. You’re cumming right on his tongue and gushing down his mouth. By no means does that indicate he is stopping though. He continues his motions through your orgasm, not daring to stop till you were done.

Free falling from a great height, you’re whining, clawing at his hair, his shoulders, anything. Pushing him away because of how criminally intense the feeling is. He stays right there, undeterred by your efforts to get him away from you.

Your eyes stay shut but your mouth hangs open, long and drained breaths filling the air. Satoru raises his head, “So fucking messy—I find it hard to believe you haven’t always had the hots for me.”

Meanwhile, you still are reeling in your post-orgasm state, chest rising and falling. Your eyes shift to Satoru straightening up, expanding his posture.

“You okay?” he says, devious tones underlying in his voice. Sincerity had flown out the window.

You respond halfheartedly anyway, “Mhm.”

You slowly move to sit up, biting your lip to ground yourself. Despite your head feeling as weighty as a boulder, you hold yourself up. Your hands reach for his briefs, fingers hooking into the waistband and tugging at them.

“Woah—someone’s impatient,” he chuckles.

“We both know you’d prefer this over anything else,” you say with a daunting lilt of your head.

“That might be true but—” he sucks in a sharp breath when your hand grazes over the precum soaked bulge in his briefs. “Holy fuck.”

Hearing his exasperated breaths draw a smile from you, urging your hands to tug his underwear down and freeing—no way.

No Fucking Way.

Judging by your reaction, Gojo understands through and through that you were expecting much less from him.

It isn’t like you expecting so much less, but you weren’t expecting so fucking much. A dire mistake on your end.

It’s monstrous, big enough that if you wrapped both palms around it, there’d still be uncovered length left. You tilt your head in awe, eyeing the slight curve in it. How his pale skin underneath doesn’t overmine the flush in his tip, the white precum seeding at the opening of it.

“Something the matter?” Gojo flatly whispers, fully aware of how long you’re staring. But by no means is he feeling the heat of it.

“No,” you quickly glance up at him, unblinking.

“Uh huh,” he accepts disbelievingly, a cocky smirk on his face.

You lean forward, wrapping your palm around it. You give it a few precautionary pumps, almost as if you’re petting a wild beast, hoping to tame it. When you hear the reaction it elicits from Satoru, you can’t help but fixate on his face.

His brows knit together and his mouth drops, heavy breaths escaping him. Not only that, but you feel it. You feel the way his dick practically jumps in your hand, sensitive to your touch yet wanting more.

Your chest swells with pleasure, letting your hand feel just what he has to offer. You can feel the ridges in it, the way his veins ran thick, pulsating in your hand.

“If I knew this was the most effective way to get you to shut up, I would’ve done it a long time ago,” you murmur, half-lidded eyes on his twitching face.

“Ngghh—Ahh—Shut up,” he shudders, one hand gripping the backrest of the couch, and the other reaching across his stomach, a feeble hope to ground himself.

“Why should I?” you tease, tugging at his dick as you begin sinking further down on your knees, eye leveled with his waist. “I like hearing you like this a lot more, Satoru.”

And just as you’re about to drag your tongue along the tip of his dick, something within him snaps. He shivers, grabbing you by the back of the head and pulling you to his lips. A soft moan slips from his mouth into yours.

“I don’t think I can wait any longer,” he breathes between kisses. “—I gotta be inside ya.”

Just then, you practically feel a second heartbeat between your thighs. There is no argument in the world that you could use to refute him. All you do is nod dumbly, giving yourself up to him.

He pushes you down, your back falling against the couch cushions beneath you. Satoru hovers over you, staring down at your face, truly studying it. His gaze flicks down when yours does too, to where your fist covers his shaft.

He shudders pathetically when your hand moves along his dick, pumping it impatiently. He notes the clear enthusiasm it elicits from you, how your body curves into him from how horny you were.

Satoru’s own hand reaches for his cock, jerking it slowly before he drags the tip up and down between your folds, gliding over your quivering hole enough to tease it but not give it what it craves so desperately.

You whine, feverishly bucking your hips up into his dick, hoping he takes pity and gives you what you want.

He chuckles darkly, “So needy.”

He slaps his tip against your clit and you gasp, legs jolting at the feeling. It is more than clear he enjoyed pulling a response like that from you, so he does it again. And when you jerk in place like that once more, he sadistically laughs in a way that you wouldn’t believe he’s a hero at all.

“Look at it when I put it in,” he quickly pecks your jaw.

You hesitantly look down, seeing how he coats his cock with all your arousal mixed with your cum. A little huff drips from your lips, watching how his thumb swipes over his tip, a little wet sound stringing as he fists his heavy dick.

While he aligns his cock with the opening of your pussy, your right hand flies to his left forearm and your left hand curls around one of the couch cushions.

He begins pushing it in, grunting as the softness of your walls cling to his tip, threatening to suck him in. Your jaw drops, choppy breaths falling one after the other at how it feels like he’s splitting you open.

“Shit,” he chokes, his hair tickling your face with how close he is. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your fingers tremble the further he pushes in. Your pussy wraps around him so deliciously that he has to remind himself to practice restraint—for your sake. Ever the hero, Satoru Gojo.

Your breath stops, realizing he has way more left to go when you spare a painful glance down. He isn’t even halfway in yet.

“Fuck—Satoru, you’re too big—it won’t fit,” you push at his abdomen, teary eyed.

“Then we’ll make it fit, baby,” he coos, swatting your hand away. “Nothing to worry about.”

When someone tells you not to worry, you learn, it is entirely appropriate to in fact, worry.

He angles himself to sink into you, glancing down between each of your bodies and up at your face, seeing your face contort into a pained yet pleasured expression. The more you become acquainted with his shape, the more it begins to feel good.

When he ruts himself against you, you let out a sharp squeal, clinging onto him. Your eyes feel like they are about to burst from their very sockets, in an almost cartoonish sense.

He watches you, a smirk on his restless face. He draws his hips back and jams them back into you.

“Oh fuck!” you cry, a crease forming between your brows.

“Aw, you look so cute,” he smiles, taking a breath to wince at just how snugly set he is inside you. “All the other guys at school would want to fucking kill me to get to have a sight like this.”

“You talk too much,” you shake your head, reaching up to grab his jaw.

“And you love it,” he pulls himself out till only his tip rests inside you, then he drives his cock back in you, stringing a shriek from you. He begins doing it repeatedly, thrusting in and out of you.

At first his pace is slow yet precise, the tip of his cock prodding so far inside you, you feel it kissing your cervix. Then he decides it’s better to make you work for it before he gives you his all.

His quickens his pace, his thrusts rough and catching you off guard with each one. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles hooking behind him and toes pointing tautly.

“I’m beginning to think you go looking for trouble just to get the Spiderman to ruin you like this,” he accentuates his point with a well-meaning thrust.

The sounds filling the air are beyond your wildest dirtiest dreams. The sound of his heavy breathing is like music to your ears, just the way your moans are to his. The lewd noises of pap pap pap ofhis balls hitting your ass mix with the squelch of his cock drilling into your wet cunt.

The feeling of him on top of you—inside you, is something you can’t even comprehend the perfection in. Every inch of your body just feels so fucking good that you feel yourself teetering on the edge of delusion.

Your hands make their way up to the base of his neck, your fingers loosely intertwine behind his head. You moan again, letting your fingertips scratch at the back of his head.

Satoru pumps himself in and out of you. He can’t even help it—it’s like his body has a mind of its own. And now, he’s trying to have at least some form of restraint, trying his utmost best to not cum. It isn’t like you’re making anything easier on him.

He nearly falls apart when you pull his mouth to yours, gasping adorably as you let your tongue meet his. You’re sharing the same air at this point, and he fucking loves it.

You feel like you could cum at any given moment. You fixate on that feeling, realizing that you haven’t had time to yourself at all in the last few months. Certainly not enough time for a man to make you cum, let alone give yourself the time to do so.

Now though, you come to the understanding you were deprived. Satoru is giving you just what you needed after so long.

He knows that if his mouth stays on yours, he doesn’t have a fighting chance. So he parts from you, holding himself up by his arms and fucking you even harder.

Your hands jump to his biceps, whining as you do so. All the while, he soaks in your appearance. Your fucked out face, the way your tits are bouncing with every one of his strokes, and the way his cock is slipping so easily in and out of you.

When he suddenly pulls out of you completely, you hardly have beyond a second to realize he’s flipping you over. Your arms rest on the arm rest of the couch, while he adjusts your hips, getting you on your knees.

You turn your head over your shoulder, seeing his big strong hands spreading your ass, spitting down between your legs. You shudder, nose crinkling at the feeling of his spit dripping down to your pussy.

He then slides his dick between your folds again, coating it before he, without warning slips back into you.

He doesn’t ease into it like he did before at all. He has a quick, relentless pace from the get-go. His dick moves inside you like it wants to blend into your body, or perhaps go so far inside you that you feel him in your throat.

With this new position, you feel him prodding deeper than before. Your walls suck him in, helping the tip of his length brushing your cervix, this time at a higher intensity.

He angles his strokes better when his hands grip into your hips. With every lust driven thrust, you feel his fingers dig into your flesh even more. You’re more than certain it will leave a mark that you’ll be seeing for days.

“Fuck me,” Satoru breathlessly laughs. “You’re being such a good girl for me. You feel good?”

“So—so fucking good,” your eyes are closed, nails digging into the plush of his couch. “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he darkly mutters.

He ruts himself into your pussy again, feeling the warmth that he never wants to ever part from. He clenches his jaw, trying to ground himself in the smallest way possible at the very least.

His pelvis slams against your ass with great fervor, over and over again. Your heads drops pathetically, forehead against the armrest as you jolt forward . . . forward . . . forward. Your shoulders blades contract, back arching and creating a beautiful crease down your spine.

While he’s fucking you, a part of him wants to bend down and lick up that expanse of skin. Right where the spokes of your spine take shape. Then his eyes fix on the way your ass meets his skin and he does not dare tear his gaze away.

“Mmm shit, baby,” Satoru throws his head back deliriously. “Sucking my cock in so fucking nice.”

Then he rocks his hips against you so zealously that the angle he’s at elicits a loud scream from you. Your body falls forward, knees shaking.

“Oh?” Satoru comes to a grinding halt. “Did I find something?”

He draws himself back and drives himself straight into your pussy again, realigning himself to hit that same spot again.

When you choke out a sob, he grins, “Looks like I have.”

You spare another glance behind you, meeting eyes with that complacent expression on his face. His strokes are quick, deep, and precise, skimming at your g spot just right.

“Oh my god,” you cry, arms and legs shaking. A familiar heat stirs in your core, an iron searing heat. One that feels much more intense than anything you’ve ever experienced before.

You look back again, seeing how Satoru’s washboard abs are glistening with a beautiful moonlit sheen. He throws his head back and you spy the way his jaw hangs when he moans.

Your trembling legs are on the verge of giving out and he feels your pussy clenching. He knows you’re on the edge. He hovers over you, his chest pressing against your back as his hand swirls your sensitive clit in circles.

His senses are clouding, vision blurring just as yours is. Every muscle in your body tightens without any direction, moving at their own accord. A million little tingles flurry over your body like blizzards.

Your throat is drying out from the sheer amount of stamina stringing out of you. And you weren’t even doing any of the work.

Your cunt tightens around him, clamping down on him. His ministrations on your clit get you right where he wants you, cumming like a whore on his dick.

You cry out, body spasming like you no longer have any control over it. You’re writhing beneath him, spilling the sweetest of moans that are going straight to his head.

“Yeah, baby, come on. You got this,” he’s whispering encouragingly in your ear, lips brushing against your helix. “Ah—ah—yeah, just like that.”

Stars stipple across the night sky of your vision. All flickering on and off as if children are playing with light switches in an empty house. Any rational thought flies out of your mind, all you can focus on is this feeling, ardent as a flame.

Satoru’s pace comes to a stop, hands slowing on your nub as he backs away. He chuckles as you slump into the couch, watching you catch your breath.

Once you do, you get back on your knees, turning to face him. He looks as if he’s about to spew some condescending rhetoric but you push him so he’s now seated.

“Your turn,” you say hoarsely, taking your place on his lap.

He surprisingly has nothing to say. Or perhaps he does but his tongue fails him quite severely in that moment.

You straddle his hips with your thighs, sitting up straight in his lap. Your arms are slung around his neck and he finds it so sexy the way one of your hands reach down to put his dick back in you.

As you sink down on his cock, both your mouths fall open, eyes on each other’s. Your arms are slung across his shoulders as you look him dead in the eye and bottom out. You softly whimper but fuck, the whimper that escapes him is worth more than any currency.

His brows pinch and nose scrunches, his pretty lips fall into a pout. One that you want to kiss off his lips so bad. His hands are on your ass, pathetically trying to guide you to go faster and move at the very least. And you do, but the speed you move at is far from fast.

You lift your hips up, and then slam yourself down, earning a strangled gasp from him. You do it again, eliciting the same reaction. Your arms slide down till your hands are at the nape of his neck, feeling the scruff of his undercut.

He moans again, this time wrapping his strong arms around your back and letting you take the reigns completely. He watches the way your cunt sheathes down on his cock repeatedly, your hair in your dazed eyes and all.

As you ride him, he can’t steer his eyes away from any part of you at all, especially your tits bouncing in front of his face. He can’t even help leaning forward ever so slightly, wrapping his mouth around your nipple, hoping it stifles his moans.

You let out a raspy cry, feeling the way his tongue flicks over your bud. His prior hope of suppressing moans is all but futile for you can hear how his heavy breaths spiral into pitchy whines.

Your hips gyrate, rolling against him and he’s already been edging himself to prolong his orgasm but now he knows he’s done for. His dick twitches, and he lets go of your nipple with a pop.

His hands come to rest on your thighs and he looks up at you darkly, “You on birth control?”

Your nails scratch tenderly over his nape again, you bite down on your lip and nod.

“Good,” he simply mutters.

He lets out a choppy moan again, eyes hooded and breaths heavy. His cock twitches inside you again, and with one final plunge in you he’s fallen completely apart. “Fuck—"

His cum spurts inside your pussy, ropes of white liquid shoot in you. The warmth of it invaded your space, hurtling deep in you before it begins leaking out of where the two of you are connected.

Shakily, you breathe as you look down, feeling his seed dripping down your thigh. You take a moment to breath, watching him come down from his high as well.

You both heave heavily, catching elusive breaths. Each of you slowly trail your eyes up at each other, staring for a moment before you both break into laughter.

He rubs his hands over your thighs, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you smile, tilting your head unconsciously. You flick your gaze over his face, seeing the damp mess his hair is now, sweaty and clinging to his skin. His eyes still have that wintered glimmer. A smile rests on his lips too.

“Can I ask you something?” you quiz.

“Shoot.” Ironic pun.

“Is the reason you’ve been getting under my skin a lot because you had a crush on me?” you ask.

“What? No,” he scoffs, hands on your hips. You cock a suspicious brow, your hands loosely skimming his neck. “You’re crazy.”

“Uh huh,” you nod sarcastically.

“You hungry?” he asks, raising his brows.

“Oh, like crazy,” you breath.

He grins, “Let me order something and I’ll get you cleaned up. Now where’s my phone?”

He stands up, carrying you easily with one arm as he reaches for his phone on the floor. You squeal, tightening your grip on him. “Satoru!”

He pays no mind as he’s already halfway through punching in his pizza order, “Hmm, how do you feel about stuffed cheesy bread?”

“I could go for it, yeah,” you say.

“Great. Done,” he clicks, a satisfied bliss on his face.

“You know have a lot of explaining to do, right?” you remind him.

“You don’t think I know that?” he scoffs airily. “I’d be pretty dumb to forget that with you badgering me around all the time.”

You open your mouth to argue and he laughs, “Kidding! I’ll tell you everything—I swear. Let’s get you cleaned up first. Food should be here by then so I’ll explain while we eat.”

“Okay, but I like hot showers—if you put me under cold water I’m feeding you to that mutant lizard thing on the news,” you warn as he carries you off into the bathroom.

“Oh—I wouldn’t dream of it,” Satoru says. “Besides, can’t take that risk. The city needs me.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you choose to keep your sarcastic remark to yourself. Instead, you lean your head against his shoulder, letting him whisk you away.

You got squeamish if you were on cooking duty when Pearson was butchering up the latest hunt, eyes hastily averted. You had pouted all day when John tread on a butterfly, even if it was entirely by accident. You passed off darning shirts to Tilly if they were too blood-soaked, nausea evident on your face.

Well, passed off is the wrong wording. More like, tried to sew without looking at your hands til Tilly took pity and offered to switch with you.

You weren't naive, you just didn't like to see things die. Not an awful hill to die on, Arthur had to agree. Neither did he in most cases.

Micah liked to grouse that you were definitely not cut out for gang life—said with a predatory curl of his lip, eyes shining with malicious intent. Probably was dreaming up all those ways to frighten you, or ruin your "innocence", just for the hell of seeing you shriek.

But Micah was a bad man. You knew that.

It’s why Arthur didn’t understand why the hell you tolerated him.

Watching you over the fire, the air bending in the heat, Arthur relents with a sigh. You did much more than tolerate him. If he wasn’t feeling so sour-faced, he probably go as far as to say you liked him, good and proper.

Besides, he could admit he was a better man than Micah; even if only in the faintest of ways.

He killed just as much. He’s beat men to death with his bare hands, blood flying and bones crunching. He doesn’t hesitate to send a bullet into any unlucky bastard getting between him and the next score for the gang.

Arthur knows feeling guilty doesn’t absolve him of nothin’.

At least he helped people too. Stopped when a lonely straggler needed a ride, retrieved stolen bags, and hunted down herbs and flowers. He enjoyed being the good thing riding into town, even if at time it took a hell of a lotta patience.

That was something he had, that Micah did not.

It just wasn’t enough for Arthur to understand why you might care for him.

But Arthur Morgan is not one to look the gift horse in the mouth and so despite how unlikely it should be, the two of you were friends.

It means being greeted in the early morning with a cup of coffee, the cup pressed into his hand before he’s even wiped the sleep from his eyes. You don’t linger, not any longer than you need to make sure he’s not gonna drop the hot mug.

The first time you had offered it, Arthur had been so surprised he had nearly dropped it.

You had laughed, hands darting out to steady the cup, and looked up at him through your lashes. “Hold tight, cowboy. That’s important stuff in there.”

Arthur had wondered then if this was what it was like to be struck by lightning. Each atom of his body fizzed, coming alive with a hum.

He had opened his mouth, then closed it, uncharacteristically flustered by the gesture.

You had laughed again, softer this time. Arthur finally reined himself in and tipped his hat in appreciation—mainly to hide the colour on his cheeks.

“Thank you kindly, miss.”

“You’re very welcome, Mister Morgan.” You had mused, amusement in your smile. Then you departed, other chores calling your name, with nothing more than a smile thrown over your shoulder.

For him, your friendship means finding the little gifts of the world to bring back. He hadn’t thought too much of it before, passing through homesteads and general stores with only fleeting glances.

However, after a week of hand-delivered cups of coffee, Arthur had begun to hunt for something of equal calibre he could give in return.

Several flowers sat in his tent, wilting and drying in the sun, in the grasp of a man too unsure of himself to gift them. He bought sweets, an extra chocolate bar in his satchel, before it was eaten in gnawing worry of what you’d think.

He was a brute. Trying to gift you nice things from his violent hands was downright laughable.

It wasn’t until he found a hair-pin, silver and slender with a delicate flower atop it, did Arthur manage to finally give back. He’d bought it before he could chicken out and once he had it, he thought it would be far stranger to keep it than to gift it.

You liked wearing flowers in your hair. That had been why Arthur picked them for you—but this, you could wear always, without it wilting.

He’d handed it over as you had passed him his morning coffee, pressing it into your palm as nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he hid his smile behind his coffee at your delighted gasp, your joy infectious and unmistakable.

You had thanked him profusely, for the first time not calling him Mister Morgan, but instead Arthur. His name had never sounded sweeter than falling from your lips

And that there… that was the one other, really good reason that you and him shouldn’t be friends.

Because as sure as the sun rose every morning, Arthur Morgan rose with it, undeniably in love with you.

—

You had been engaged once before.

Not by choice—an important distinction you hold fast to. Even if Karen likes to make passing jokes about you being a woman already spoken for, you’re thankful when Abigail quickly shoots her down with a piercing glare.

There is, after all, only one real reason a woman like you ends up on the run.

Rufus Hugo is your particular reason. A man up to his neck in wealth, pilfering the land for oil, and, as last you knew, looking for a fourth wife.

You’d once thought him unlucky, your poor fiancé.

How is it one man can be followed by such tragedy? Three young wives, in the space of a couple years, each found violated and slaughtered in the back alleys of Saint Denis, red smiles cut into their throats.

You’d once been a fool.

The papers and Sheriff had to be under his thumb, considering the blind eye and frilly stories they turned out. The rumours told a different, darker tale — ones that fell on deaf ears, too twisted up in your own plastic assurances.

Your father wouldn’t have organised this if he knew. And— and he couldn’t know, because it simply couldn’t be true.

Rufus treated you like a jewel, plying you with expensive gifts and decadent clothing, more than you’d ever had before.

When the nag in your gut didn’t leave, he had coaxed it out of you — the fear of some maniacal killer, out for the blood of Mister Hugo’s betrothed — and then he assured you with a feline smile of a wolf.

No one’s going to lay a hand on you, treasure. The only man who gets to touch you is me.

Adoring at the time.

Stomach-churning in hindsight.

You’d overheard entirely by accident, a fact that makes your heart skip stutter if you think about it too long.

Pure luck saved your life. Pure chance that you’d overheard them, wandering the halls at one of the many parties held in the honour of your engagement.

His nasty habit revealed to you in a manner of words, floating out the keyhole.

His sickening tone, lusty and humorous at once, you heard him tell the other men at the party how there was nothing better than how tight their cunts had got when he dragged the blade across their jugular.

Your stomach had plummeted. Bile crawled thickly up your throat.

The version of the world you knew contorted painfully, upside down and suddenly all wrong.

And like the vicious pain of stepping into a bear trap, the hinges of it sweeping up with sharpened blades, you knew if you stayed that you would undoubtedly be next.

You ran.

With nothing but the clothes on your back, frenzied like an animal being cornered, you ran. It was thankful you managed any coherent ideas as you tore down the stairs, pushing through the party, uncaring of the cries that followed you — but stealing a horse was probably the only reason you survived.

Though you sparsely knew how to ride it, you rode for two long, hard days before exhaustion caught up.

No amount of distance felt safe enough to slide off your dead-tired horse but you were given no choice. Your stomach ached with the growl of hunger and delirium had begun to creep in from your lack of sleep.

You were parched beyond relief and still in your god forsaken party dress, when you let your horse slow to a stop in a shallow river.

Then you’d fallen off in one spineless lump.

Caught somewhere between physical exhaustion and sleep, the freezing water had been quite the wake-up. More so when you surfaced, spluttering, and there was a man standing before you — muttering something about a strange damn woman.

It was the very first night you laid your eyes upon Arthur Morgan—soon after which, you promptly fainted from exhaustion.

The same night you disappeared from Saint Denis — becoming a ghost before you were doomed to become one at the hands on your to-be husband — you were reinvented in the warmth of a gang on the run.

—

Two years on, you stop wondering if Rufus Hugo still hunts for his fourth bride.

There would have been search parties for you, you’re sure of it. Even if half the party could attest to you fleeing of your own accord, a rich man doesn’t give up his prizes so easily.

But somewhere along the way, you’re not sure when, you stopped looking over your shoulder. You no longer tensed at every new, unfamiliar figure on the horizon, certain it was your past crawling back.

You’re not sure when—but you sure as hell know why.

Sliding off his horse in one fluid motion, Arthur hitches the reins on the post out front the general store with a grunt.

It’s a blazing day in Rhodes, the desert sun overhead. A mirage pools in the distance, along the main road. There’s little wind to cool you, just the buzz of flies around the horses.

It’s just you and Arthur travelling today.

An unnecessary journey for the sake of enjoying each other’s company; under the guise of camp work, of course.

You two are friends. Arthur kept his distance from most gang members, happier on the outside of the circle, which you knew.

It meant that when you got these moments — Arthur inviting you along for a journey to a town, the myriad of gifts he seemed to find for you — you couldn’t help but… hope.

You steal a glance at the cowboy, drinking in his rugged profile. He’s due for a shave, his beard a little longer than you know he prefers, but you gladly enjoy the sight.

Men in the city were groomed and clean-shaven. There’s something much more real about the ruggedness of Arthur’s appearance, his blue eyes flashing your way from beneath his hat. You catch the hint of his smile too.

Watching him subtly, he takes a moment to coo his praise to his mare, Hypatia. She nickers affectionately, searching for a treat that he dotingly gives. His rough voice whispers lowly of how he spoils her, even as he brushes her neck gently.

Sometimes, you really think Arthur likes horses more than he likes people.

It doesn’t bother you—how could it? How could you feel anything but soft-hearted when you see him dote on his horse, all his corners softened?

Besides, you think it’s a good show of character.

You’ve heard how he talks to himself sometimes, self-deprecating mutterings of how he’s a bad man, unworthy of your kindness.

But you’ve met worse men before.

Arthur may have killed, but never senselessly. Never for pleasure.

“I think,” Arthur says, his southern drawl thick. He tips his hat to the general store ahead of you both. “The spices will be second floor.”

Can’t hunt, can’t kill, can’t thieve — but god, can you cook.

It had been nice to have something to bring to the gang, considering your general squeamishness. Arthur decided long ago it was worth heading further south for the better spices closer to the city.

“I gots to pick up some more ammo, but I’ll meet ya in there.” His gaze finds the gun store across the street before tracking back to yours. He checks, “That alright?”

You nod to him, as your own mare butts your shoulder gently, making you laugh.

“Yeah, that’s alright, Arthur.” You affirm, reaching back to give her a pat. The sweet smile you wear is equal parts for her as it is for the cowboy before you.

“See you in a minute,” you say. Arthur nods, boots kicking up the red dirt as he begins to make his way down the main street.

The worn steps of the general store creek underfoot as you make your way up them, already mentally flicking through what you’d wanted to buy.

Salt, oregano, thyme… maybe some cumin, knowing how much Arthur seems to like it. Nodding politely to the shopkeeper, you head for the second story stairs — missing the flash of someone familiar through the window, peering in.

These wooden stairs are far less worn than those outside, but the traces of countless boots are evident all the same. Hand on the railing, you ascend slow, mind wandering off easily.

It’s venison for dinner, if you aren’t mistaken, from the latest hunt Charles brought in. Maybe tonight you’ll make convince Pearson to make the stew your way—spiced heavily and just the way Arthur likes it. (He hasn’t told you that half the reason is because it’s you making it.)

You approach the lined shelves with a hum, eyes dancing from colourful tin to colourful tin. Spotting your first target, a trusty tin of salt, you miss the creek of the floorboards behind you as you reach for it.

“Treasure.”

Your hand falters, fingers outstretched, halted in the place. There’s the unmistakable heat of a body behind you— but even so, the scrape of a knife leaving its sheathe confirms it.

A shuddering exhale forces from your mouth as the knife is suddenly beneath your chin, hovered above your throat. You lock in place, hand still held out. A hurricane of harrowing dread howls through you.

It couldn’t… it couldn’t be him.

No way could he have found you now, after years of your disappearance — no way was he still fucking looking for you.

The well of horror in your chest caves in, growing like a sinkhole, as your mind repeats the same word over and over: no, no, no, no, no.

The blade moves up, the cool edge of it pressing to your chin. You inhale sharply and feel a tremble start to take your body as your face is forcibly turned, pulling your gaze to a sickeningly familiar face.

“My, my,” Rufus croons. “My little bride to-be. Been lookin' for you a long time.”

Your nose wrinkles at the title, one you’d renounced the minute you'd fled, all those months ago. His dark eyes narrow at the motion and travel to your outstretched left hand, eyeing it with a glint.

“No ring.” He tuts, letting the knife fall back against your throat and resting it there.

You snatch your hand back in, hands flying to his arm and pulling with all your might—a fruitless battle against his strength. All it earns you is the sharp edge of the blade pressing further into your skin and you stop moving quickly, another gutted gasp pulled from you.

"Do you even know," He hisses into your ear. "How much goddamn money I spent on you? On trying to track you down?"

The venom in his voice leaks out, replaced by a charismatic purr you're far more familiar with. Once upon a time, it had voiced believable assurances from a man who would happen to be your husband.

Now, it only widens the sinkhole in your chest.

"You've cost me a fortune, treasure. Now I've come to collect what I'm owed."

A finger draws an idle line on your back, creeping forward along the stroke of your waist. Try as you might to suppress it, a shiver skitters through you and your throat presses ever closer to the knife again.

It's enough to pierce the skin, just a sliver, before the finger on your waist turns is joined by four others, clamping tightly.

Your balance wavers as you're forced back, the hard line of his body pressing flush up against you.

Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck are you going to do?

Eyes screwing closed, you force your breath to remain even. You— you have your own revolver but if you move, you don't doubt Rufus has any qualms with painting the shop-floor with your blood.

If he wants you, he'll have to move you- he— he'll have to leave the shop and then, you can try—

A loud clatter sound and your eyes fly open, catching on to what's been dropped — your stomach following suit quickly. Your revolver glints back at you.

"Here's what's going to happen," Rufus begins, as if he's merely discussing the weather. "You and I are gonna—"

His voice drops at the intrusion of noise, a squeak from the stairs behind you. In an instant, you remember the person you're waiting on. Arthur.

A desperate mixture of terror and relief shoves up your throat. It's a warning and a cry for help simultaneously.

When the knife shifts, you have no choice but to shift too, your body and Rufus twisting deftly—his other hand drawing his revolver in an instant, the barrel directed at Arthur. He's already drawn back the hammer.

There's no keeping your breathing even now. Not as you get to watch Arthur's distracted gaze tug upward, seeing the horror seep into his expression. His body becomes deathly still.

You don't come along on jobs for good reason. Even so, you aren't so naive as to think being an outlaw has no risks. You know Arthur has been on the barrel-end of innumerable weapons, that he risks his life on the daily.

You've just never had to see it with your own eyes before.

The scene unfolding before you feels like a honest-to-god nightmare, ripped from the most fearful parts of your mind and thrust into reality.

A slush of hysteria churns within you at the realisation you may very, very well watch Arthur die today. The man who had been the first to hold out his hand, to offer you aid, to pull you from the life you were running to escape.

The one you hold too closely in your heart, in your affections.

The thought triggers something to seize terribly in your heart — and you know suddenly, without doubt, you'll do anything to stop it from happening.

There's a long moment where nobody breathes. You watch as Arthur's sharp eyes dart from the gun, to the knife on your neck, up to your face in rapid succession. You watch his horror bleed into a vengeful fury, one like you've never seen before.

"You don't want to do that."

The words come out so low it's nearly a growl. Arthur's hand moves, drawing back to his holster when Rufus interrupts.

"Uh, uh, uh," He taunts, quickly turning the barrel of the gun to your head. The barrel of it butts against your temple.

Arthur freezes.

"That's right. You're going to drop your revolver."

It's a staggeringly long moment as Arthur wrestles with what to do, his hand still hovering, fingers twitching. Then the knife nudges closer and the single trickle of blood down the column of your neck is enough to have him complying.

It lands with a thud against the floor. It feels like the nail in the coffin.

"Why are you doin' this?"

The revolver in Rufus' hand lolls forward to aim back at Arthur, the motion almost lazy. He smiles.

"She didn't tell you?" His attention switches to you, using his thumb on the knife to stroke along your neck. "Is this who you replaced me with, treasure? He's hardly an upgrade. Hell, he looks—"

The words die off as Rufus' head snaps back to Arthur, his passive grip on his gun changing in an instant.

For one long moment, he studies the outlaw across from you both and then, horribly, you feel the moment he starts to laugh.

"Oh, treasure," He all but coos at you. You see Arthur bristle across the room. "You're precious. Runaway with the outlaws, did you? This day just gets better and better."

He focuses his gaze back on Arthur and lines up his aim, hand steady. "I've seen your wanted posters, Mister Morgan. A fine five thousand to bring you in. My bride and my money all in a day's work."

He grins like the goddamn cat that got the cream, finger adjusting on the trigger.

And even though you know he knows, even though you know you told him, you can't help how your focus snaps to Arthur's reaction. Your stomach swoops in a horrible twist.

Because you can't but wonder if you're worth the trouble. As if you think, that now, as he realises who this man from your past is, he'll relent. He'll hand you over.

Understanding flickers across Arthur's face, the word bride sinking in with a sting. Then, somehow, the lethality rippling from his very being grows, expanding tenfold.

He's downright murderous, looking every bit of the immoral, malevolent man he believes himself to be.

He is never going to hand you over, you realise, the fear dissipating in the air like smoke.

Another one takes its' place. It's a terrible truth; he'll get himself killed trying to save you.

"Best of all?" Rufus hums. "You're wanted dead or alive, Mister Morgan."

He'll kill him.

You act without thinking. Distracted enough, Rufus' strength is beaten as your wrench the arm holding the knife back far enough to bite down into it, hard. Blood springs up beneath your teeth, the hard lines of sinew snapping beneath the force.

Rufus howls in pain. The revolver drops Arthur from its' sights as Rufus shoves against you fiercely, the butt of the gun slamming against your temple in a loud knock. You both hurtle to the ground in a desperate struggle—and all you can think of it the blade in his hand.

It presses forward, aimed for your neck, and you rip your teeth out of his arm, taking a pound of flesh with it. Rufus wails again and the knife surges forward, intended for your heart.

You twist frantically and escape the hold, scampering up and with nothing but pure instinct, your urge the blade into his own chest, pressing with all your weight.

It sinks in with a satisfying, bubbling gurgle. Blood rises quickly to spew from the wound, a river of red spilling out.

He's going to kill him—he's going to kill Arthur. The manic thought has your hands prying the knife out and driving it back in again, over and over, his body making soft squelching as gutted sounds drag from his mouth.

Blood sprays wildly, coating your face and clothes, but you can't stop. You can't stop, he's going to kill Arthur and take you away from him. You can't let it happen— you can't—

Hands pull at your arms and you seize wildly, dropping the knife and thrashing away, but in doing so, Arthur swings into vision.

It's him. He's alive. He's the one touching you. He's speaking, his lips moving, but no words are reaching your ears.

Your chest is heaving, hyperventilation wracking your body. Your ringing ears finally tune back in.

"—alright, you're alright. It's me. He's dead. He's dead. You're okay." Arthur murmurs, almost nonsensically, his hands held out, palms up. He's crouched before you and he barely knows what he's saying, but you're staring at him like a wild animal, drenched in blood.

"It's okay," He says again, desperate to help you in any way he can, blues eyes locked on you. "You're okay."

There's still blood in your mouth from the chunk you've taken out of Rufus' arm and a bright red splatter of it sprayed across your face.

"I—" The word coughs out of you.

Your gaze falls into horror as you take in the body growing cold on the floor next to you. Arthur watches the panic set in as the realisation of what you've done sets in.

"I- I had to, I had to," You begin to babble, terror threaded in your tone. "I had to, he was— he was gonna kill you."

"Hey, hey," Soothing sounds fall from his lips as Arthur shifts forward, reaching for you desperately. You grip his forearms, eyes wide, as if you need to make him understand.

"He was gonna—" Your words are interrupted by your own choking sob, breathing coming too fast. "Arthur, he was gonna kill you, I-I had to."

"I know, I know," Arthur croaks out, his throat thickening as his own realisation dawns. This hadn't been an act of rabid self-defence, as he thought. You had killed Rufus for him.

You, who can't stand the sight of blood, who gets queasy at the butchers, who doesn't like to hunt or kill — but will for him. To protect him. If he wasn't already there, the sheer display of love would send Arthur crumbling to his knees.

But he just moves his hands, his violent hands, to cup your face. The blood smears. "I know, sweetheart."

Your staring him, your eyes still wide and wild, looking frantically for something in his face. Forgiveness? Absolution?

Arthur will gladly absolve you of this, a crime that was barely a crime at all. Saving his life and your own, at the cost of the life of a killer.

There's blood on your eyelashes and in your hair. Your breathing slows but your bottom lip quivers with a fierceness. In the smallest voice he's ever heard from you, you whisper, "I had to," then crumble.

Arthur's large body cradles yours easily, one hand tucking around your middle and the other shifting to cup the back of your head as you sink into him. Your head tucks away in the crook of his neck, soft sobs spilling out easily now, and something awful aches in Arthur's chest.

"I got you," He repeats, a promise, a goddamn oath he swears to keep. "I got you, you're okay. You didn't do nothin' wrong."

He feels downright evil to move you so soon but his ears prick at some commotion below. Casting his eyes back to dead body, Arthur knows the large pool of blood has made its way through the floorboards. It's only a matter of minutes before the Sheriff will be here.

"Shit." He curses. He strokes a tender hand along your hair, calling gently for your attention.

"We gotta move. People are comin'. Can you walk?"

You dig your face out of his neck, movements sluggish. The exhaustion from the terror has drained you, your eyelids already drooping, limbs heavier.

Arthur makes the call for you.

Hoisting you softly into his hold, he keeps you nestled against his broad chest, arms tucked behind your back and the bend of your knees. He's almost thankful you can't stand, if only so he can feel the puffs of breaths that escape you against his neck, a reminder you're still with him.

Arthur eyes the locked door in the back corner. It'll lead around the back of the general store and out to the street but Hypatia and your own horse were still hitched out the front. Gritting his teeth, he prepares himself for a wild run, hoping the element of surprise is enough.

It will be enough. It has to be enough.

It's with a charging sprint that he makes it down the stairs, his boots slamming against the wooden floorboards. He doesn't pause to take in the shop-keepers aghast reaction, nor the sprinkling shower of red from the ceiling.

He bursts out into the daylight. Eagle eyes scanning the streets, it's clear that, for now, he's ahead of the law.

With less gentleness than he'd prefer, Arthur pushes you up onto Hypatia's saddle, keeping one hand on your waist to keep you upright and on. His other reaches for the reins hitched over the post and he snags them free, quickly doing the same for your horse.

There's a yell down the street, loud and demanding. Arthur doesn't spare a glance, vaulting himself up onto the saddle behind you.

With a hyah! and a loud, practised whistle, Hypatia breaks into a sprint, quickly followed by your own horse.

Two horses tear down main street, hooves thundering, a fearsome and unstoppable silhouette against the western sun.

The townspeople bleat their fear, barely leaping out the way in time as the horses rush by. Dust kicks up a red-dirt storm. Soon, when it settles, gone will be the only proof you were ever there.

Arthur rides.

The weight of you, slumped back in his chest, is less of a comfort than he would like.

He wants to— no, needs to see your eyes, needs to intercept every foul, wicked thought running rabid in your mind. You’re clawing at your soiled conscience, he’s sure of it, trying to tear the new stain on it from you.

Ruined yourself—for him.

A spidering guilt cloys in his chest, darker than ink and sharper than any blade or bullet he’s ever felt before. His chest aches.

Arthur knows he’s a bad man. He just never imagined he might drag you down to his murky depths.

Swallowing heavy, he grips the reins tighter. Leather bites into his palms. He welcomes the punishment.

He feels, more than hears, your sudden shuddering gasp as you come back to yourself. Your exhaustion must have dipped away enough and it’s clear, for a moment, you struggle to place yourself and your surroundings.

The jostle of a horse beneath you is a giveaway but even so, Arthur feels your hand curl across his toned forearm. Your grip is tight, nearly masking the tremble in your fingers. Nearly.

“It’s me,” Arthur assures, raising his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear over the rumble of galloping. “I got you, it’s Arthur.”

The grip on his arm loosens, his works sinking in, and you nod wordlessly. You let him cocoon you in safety, surrounded in his arms.

Unknown to Arthur, the ride is far too reminiscent of the journey you’d taken all those years ago; the long, hard ride with no goal but putting distance between you and where you were running from. Who you were running from.

Except this time, the one you're running from is dead. He’s dead and you killed him.

It’s unclear how far he travels, the sun sitting lower in the sky, a pinkness blooming on the horizon, before Arthur pulls Hypatia into a slower trot.

You hadn't been followed out of Rhodes, he knows, but he’d still taken you as far as he could, likely further than necessary.

But now, out of physical danger, his priority switches on a dime, all of his senses zoned in to you before him. You, still wordless, still vacant, still painted in a glaze of scarlet.

The decision come easy, Arthur using his keen skills to trot towards the sound of water. A thorough check ensures you'll have no company and Arthur wastes no time, tugging the reins to a halt with a quiet click. He dismounts, large hands reaching for you before his boots even hit the dirt.

You’re willing, your hands seeking him, finding his shoulders and allowing him to help you off Hypatia. There’s a dulled look in your eyes and Arthur knows he will do anything—anything— to change that.

Feet on the ground, you’re level with his chest and you blink slowly, staring forward.

For a moment, Arthur waits, his brows drawn together in his concern. He gives you the moment. If you need to cry, to scream, to blame him — he'll take it, weather whatever storm you have brewing within you.

But you only drag yours eyes up to meet his, voice still small, "I got blood on you."

Another fracture in his chest, another ache of misery. Arthur sighs, gaze softening immeasurably, his hand coming up to cup your cheek tenderly. The blood smears beneath his touch.

"That's alrigh', sweetheart." He murmurs, sweet as he can. He tilts his head slightly, towards the lazy, roving river, blue eyes never leaving you. “Will ya let me clean yer up? In the river?”

You seem to just notice the riverbank you’re standing upon, head twisting to peer at the roaming water of the river.

A nod, minuscule and unnoticeable, if he wasn’t tuned into your every movement.

His hand on your face shifts, reaching down to tangle with your own. It's an anchor in unsteady seas, solid and unflinching.

Your eyes take in your hands, intertwined, and trail up to his face — and you know, with a sudden burning intensity, you can't regret what you've done today.

Not if it means having him. Not if it means saving him.

Arthur leads you down to the water, slow and steady. You follow, hand clutching his tightly, like a devoted follower who trails a messiah, your salvation ahead.

Stopping only to remove your boots and his own, along with his hat, Arthur bites back his hiss at the chill of the water as he wades his way in, fully clothed. The water licks up his calves, thighs, rushing around the sudden intrusion. When it reaches above his waist, he pauses, letting you catch up.

The sun kisses the horizon in the distance, a mellow and amber light cast far across the landscape. Strange how much had happened, had changed, in a manner of hours.

Crickets chorus. In the nearby trees, an owl hoots a soft lullaby.

Arthur doesn't let go of your hand. With the other, he brushes it across the surface of the river and then reaches in, letting it pool into his palm. He brings it your face and lets its run across your hairline, loosening the blood that's crusted there.

It's a slow, dedicated process.

Hands, scarred and calloused, pass over your skin the softest of touches. His thumb works gently at your hair, washing the blood away into the river. You close your eyes when he asks you to, in a low murmur, and the cake of sin is cleaned from you in the most tender of motions.

"Will I ever be clean again?"

A whispered question, eyes still closed. The blood may be leaving but you can still feel it spraying across your face, hot and thick. It's sunk in, you're sure of it—evidence of your crime just an inch beneath your flesh.

"You are not unclean." Arthur grunts, his hand still moving as he speaks. His thumb passes over your jaw. "This— what you did, it don't dirty these hands, you hear me? You did what you needed to do. You did nothin' wrong."

The assurances feel heady and heavy and you want to shake them off. You're not yet sure if you deserve them.

"I'm not mad he's dead." You say. He has to know this.

"I'm not mad I—" Your voice wavers terribly, even if your mind is set. "—killed him."

Eyes fluttering open, you gaze up at Arthur, reverent and resolute. "I... I would do it again, Arthur."

The for you is unspoken.

But if he looks, if he peers between the lines, you know Arthur would find it, beside the I love you hidden within your earnest words.

It's barely a secret—not when you want him to see it. You've been torn open today, a festering wound split down your middle, and somehow nothing feels more crucial than him knowing.

Him knowing and loving you still, seeing you unchanged, despite it all.

The water rushes around you, carrying your transgressions away, and his hand in yours, dwarfing it, does not falter. Arthur's eyes graze across your face. He seems to find what he's searching for.

"You won't ever have to, sweetheart." He says, voice nearly a whisper.

His lips find your hairline, scraping a delicate kiss against the clean skin there. Then he presses his forehead against yours, soothing and intimate, a lifeline. An understanding and a reciprocation.

A sudden urge possesses you, the words clawing up your throat in a frenzy.

You need to tell him, need to say the words aloud and make him understand, as you had on that shop floor.

What if he doesn't know?

His forehead shifts against yours, the tips of your noses nudging together, your interwoven hands grasping each other just as tightly as the other. A warmth rises in your chest, glowing and fizzling, and despite the day, your lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

Just hit the fucking target. You think to yourself scoldingly.

You're not sure why this is so much harder for you than just about anyone else in the gang. And as much as it isn't your job, you've grown determined to be able to handle yourself if trouble ever comes knocking.

You thought that with a gunslinger as fine as Arthur Morgan himself, you'd learn a thing or two — a foolish idea that's dissipating quickly before you.

Adjusting your clammy grip on the pistol cradled between both palms, you shift your stance and squint again, rolling your shoulders back.

Empty lungs. You pull back the hammer and line up your best shot, feeling the kick of the recoil.

The lack of shattering glass is answer enough, but even so you lower your extended arms an inch or so to see closer. Scrunching your eyes to try focus, you wince at what you can make out.

No bullet holes on any of the crates, all six bottles still standing.

You're beginning to sorely regret asking for shooting practice when it only seems like a surefire way to prove yourself a fool. And in front of Arthur no less.

Arthur who—well, you'd be lying if you said you weren't fond for.

Quick to boil, your frustration wells, an itch behind your eyes. You drop your arms, lowering your gaze to the ground with another sigh.

"How you do this every damn day is a miracle to me."

You force a half-hearted laugh into your words. It's better than letting him hear that wallowing, pitiful feeling you can feel rising up your throat.

"It's jus' lots 'n lots of practice," Arthur says gently, his voice somewhere behind you.

Christ knows his intense, watchful gaze isn't helping you either.

You can't help but feel it burning into your back every time you raise the pistol—and every time you fail miserably.

Your frustration rises again and you finally lift your head, turning back to the cowboy.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," You say sincerely. "I— this was a mistake." You begin to hold the pistol out in your outstretched hand, grip lax.

You don't get very far before he's stepping in closer, his hand reaching up to yours and pressing your fingers to close around the grip again.

"C'mon now," He rasps. "Yer not just gonna give up 'cos it's hard, are ya?"

Skin against skin is enough to draw your heart up your throat, rabbiting fast and all too revealing. You pointedly ignore the spike in your pulse and let him manoeuvre you, his hand moving up to nudge your shoulder. You face the targets.

Six bottles in the distance glint tauntingly beneath the afternoon sun, as if teasing you for your failure.

"Arthur," You sigh dejectedly.

It's kind of him to keep offering encouragement but you only need ten minutes of this to realise it's a severely lost cause. "It's not use, I'm awful—"

"Hush," Arthur cuts you off, voice gruff this time. "You ain't no such thing. Just—"

He hovers just behind you, the heat of his body blazing against your back. With a quiet hum, his fingertips square out your angled shoulders, fixing your stance. They trail down to minutely adjust the twist of your hips, pressing one further forward gently.

The sun seems to burn brighter suddenly. You fight to keep your face forward and pray Arthur can't heart the traitorous inhale you give at his touch.

"'Kay. Shoot again." He murmurs lowly, his hands retreating but staying close. "Lemme watch closer this time."

You're not brave enough to tell him that you're even less likely to hit the target with his close proximity.

Instead, you just follow his instruction, raising the pistol to the bottles once more. Slowing your breath as much as your racing heart will allow, you squint.

"Wait," Arthur's voice interrupts.

You falter, suddenly unsure. Moving out from behind you, his hand comes up to push the gun down, barrel facing the dirt.

Standing close, he tilts his head up, his eyes assessing you intently from beneath the brim of his hat. It's as though he's looking at a puzzle he can't quite figure out.

After a moment, his eyes cast out to the shooting range he's set up for you. You get a stolen glimpse of his chiselled jaw before he's stepping forward, broad shouldered, with one hand resting on his gun belt.

Turning to face you, he takes a few wide steps back, then halts, raising his hand.

"How many fingers?"

Brows raised, you will yourself not to scoff. "You bein’ serious?"

Arthur doesn't move, only his head tilting forward an inch, the brim of his hat dipping lower. He smiles wryly. "Humour me."

Dropping your arms, you let the gun swing idly to your side. With a shrug, you focus on his hand.

"Two."

Arthur nods. He turns and paces back til he's in line with the bottles this time. It's far enough from you that the details of him begin to blur out, but you can still see his figure just fine.

"And now?" He calls out, voice raised to reach you over the distance.

Your careless shrug from before is nowhere to be found. A sudden sheepishness crawls up within you as you quickly try to strain your gaze.

God, is he even holding up a hand at all?

You don't get a moment to guess before he's approaching you once more, his features getting sharper as he draws closer. You can see his smile, a rare sight. He seems to have solved his puzzle.

"What was that for?" You question curiously.

"It ain't yer aim, that's for damn sure," Arthur says, coming to a stop before you.

His blue eyes assess you once more, before he extends his hand out for the pistol at your side. You hand it over wordlessly, waiting for his explanation. A dragonfly swoops by you with a loud hum.

"It's yer eyes." He says, holstering the pistol without a glance.

You blink, confused at the implication. You're sure if there was something wrong with your eyes, you'd know about it at your grown age.

Your confusion must be clear on your face because Arthur continues, resting his hands on his gun belt casually.

He nods to you. "Not all bad. 'Betcha can see just fine up close. But in the distance, not so much."

"Oh," The word escapes in a soft breath.

It hadn't really been something you had considered—that your poor performance shooting was due to that blurriness surrounding the targets. That it was due to anything other than you being utter shit at shooting.

Turning your stare out to the bottles again, you blink and squint, as if to check. You realise he may just be talking truth.

"Lord, I think you might be right." You admit, a relieved laugh colouring your tone. The frustration you felt from earlier drains rapidly, taking with it your souring mood.

A different part of you deflates at the knowledge you'll never get better at shooting. Cursed vision. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, pushing down your bitterness.

Arthur gestures to the horses with one hand, lesson clearly over.

The pair of you begin to meander back towards your horses hitched in the treeline. Side by side, it doesn't escape you the nearness you're inclined to, drawn to him, a flower facing the sun.

The leather of his jacket brushes your bare arm. You think you must be suffering sunburn, considering how your skin seems to burn in response.

Eyes flashing in his direction, you think you see a hint of colour on Arthur’s face.

He’s tilts his head, his features covered by the brim of his hat, so you can't be sure. You chalk it up to a wishful imagination.

Always unknowable. Maybe it's his private nature that's part of what allures you to the man.

Pushing forward, you approach your mare, Dragon, with a gentle greeting. You're rewarded with the butting of her muzzle against your palm, a smile curling onto your lips instinctively.

“Y'know, chances are, you're not nearly as awful as ya think.” Arthur says, his tone softer than usual—perhaps sensing your blue mood.

Despite talking to you, he keeps his gaze steadfast on his own horse, Hypatia. He dotes on her with a loving pat, hands usually meant for violence, now gentle.

After a moment, he says. “I’ll see what I can do fer you at the general store.”

Pleasant surprise curls up in your stomach in a sharp bloom.

“Arthur,” You say with a smile, sounding a bit awed. He does look up at you this time, blue eyes bright from beneath the edge of his hat. “That’s very kind but, well, you needn’t do that—“

"I ain't makin' you any promises," He cuts your rambling response off. "I'll just have a look. That alright?"

Feeling your face glow warmly, you force yourself to meet his strong gaze. "Alright."

Then after a moment, you say, "I guess I'll allow it."

Arthur guffaws lightly at that. He pushes up on strong legs to mount Hypatia in one fluid motion, one he's done countless times before. You watch, pretending you aren't staring at the powerful flex of his thighs as he settles into the saddle.

Christ alive. It takes effort to avert your eyes, stepping up to sling yourself into your own saddle.

“If she allows it…” Arthur repeats, almost incredulously, his head tilted toward you. There’s a tug on his lips, like he’s holding back his smile, even as he shakes his head at you.

A laugh titters out of you and you nudge Dragon forward, if only so he can't see the grin on your lips.

And if you spend the ride to camp lingering on the feeling of his hands covering your own hands, adjusting the twist of your waist?

Well, that was your own damn business.

—

After your shooting lesson, Arthur leaves camp for four days.

Some bounty given to him by the sheriff in Valentine that he was tracking up into the mountains — at least that’s what he’d said as he bid you a polite goodbye, early in the morning light, the day after your lesson.

You’d murmured your drowsy goodbye over your coffee cup, eyes barely open — making Arthur snort quietly — and then watched intently, your sleepy gaze softened, as he disappeared between the trees on Hypatia.

Perhaps you’d been too spoiled with his company in these last couple weeks.

He hadn’t taken any longer jobs, always back at camp for the evening, with a tip of his hat to you. Always prepared to lend a helping hand or to escort you and the girls into Valentine. You'd almost call yourselves friends. The familiarity of his presence was something you'd gotten used to.

It was one of the good reasons you found yourself particular afflicted with him — Arthur Morgan was far kinder than he ever gave himself credit for.

And far nicer to look at than he seemed to think so too.

To say you’re a bit put off by not having your usual pretty-boy cowboy to provide somewhere nice to rest your eyes wouldn’t be a lie.

“Someone’s head in the clouds.”

The jeering words from Karen pair with a playful nudge to your shoulder.

Distracted, the dish in your hands slips and lands back in the water-filled basin with a splosh. Narrowing your eyes at Karen, you fish it out and resume your abandoned scrubbing.

“Ain’t sure what you’re talking ‘bout,” You hum, nonchalant as you can manage.

Liar. You’d definitely been casting your gaze towards the trail that leads into camp and slipped away into a daydream, sweet as the cowboy’s eyes you were imagining. Surely he wouldn't be away much longer, right?

“Mmhm,” Karen says, telling you exactly how much she believed you.

At her side, Mary-Beth smothers a giggle in her palm. Clearly your attempts at subtlety are wholly ineffective.

Despite your intent glances as you work your way through the remaining chores of the day, none prove to be fruitful. The sun lazes across the sky and sinks toward the horizon and even then, Arthur is absent.

Your lovesickness abates with a sigh. The outlaw could be gone for weeks at a time, you knew that. If it was a shorter trip, he'd be back already. Tonight, you depart from around the campfire earlier than usual, heading back to your shared tent with Mary-Beth.

It’s with an absentminded hum that you potter around, straightening out the space as the sunlight dwindles. You had worked hard today and it’s filled your bones with a weariness ready for sleep.

An oil lamp burns on the crate acting as your bedside table, casting a mellow, amber colour through the tent. The idle sounds of the wildlife of Horseshoe Overlook fill the background, mixing with the crackle of the campfire.

Maybe you should journal a bit, before bed. Eyes narrowed, you scan your cot for the little book you keep nearby—you had used it just last night.

Coming up blank, you huff and crouch to your knees to hunt for it. Countless times you’ve fallen asleep with it in your hand and found it gone in the morning. It worms its way down the edge of the tent with a mission to escape you, you swear.

Peering beneath your cot, the red leather of the book gleams back at you. You smile and reach out, having to duck a little further to reach it, giving a victorious little aha! when you close your fingers around it.

Shifting back, you sit on your heels, right as someone clears their throat behind you.

Spooked and not unlike a deer, you startle with a violent jump. Whipping around, pulse jumping, your panic recedes as you narrow your eyes at the cause of your panic.

“Christ, Arthur,” you seethe at him. You put a hand over your racing heart to calm it. “You damn near scared the mickey out of me.”

“My apologies, miss,” Arthur says, tipping his hat. He sounds sincere but even so, you catch the glimmer of amusement on his lips. “Weren’t my intention.”

He’s lingering at the entrance of your tent, not quite entering. His big hands rest of his gun belt, hovering somewhere between casual and proper.

How Arthur manages both is a mystery to you; every bit at home amongst the rough of tumble of camp, yet ever-so polite to you.

He treats you like a gentlemen treats a proper lady; though both of you are neither.

Pushing to your feet, you let your journal drop atop your cot. Then you regret it, wishing you had something to occupy your hands. The all too familiar buzz of nerves that come with being sweet on someone makes you prone to fidgeting.

You brush down your skirts just to do something. “And just what was your intention?”

Amusement abiding, a different expression skitters across Arthur's face. He raises one hand to scratch the back of his neck.

“Gotcha somethin',” He murmurs, dragging his hand forward, across his beard. Rather hastily, he stuffs his hand into his satchel.

He digs for a moment and then pulls his hand out, extending it out. Something shiny glints in the low light of the tent, resting in his big palm.

You step forward and squint for a moment, realising with a jolt of unexpected delight that it’s a pair of round spectacles.

An infectious smile tugs the corner of your lips up, your eyes brighter upon seeing the gift he’s brought you. Your hand reaches out, then halts in mid-air, glancing back up at him.

“May I?”

“‘Course. They’re for you.” Arthur grunts, feigning nonchalance even as he beckons you to take them from him.

Smile turning to a grin, you pluck them out his hand, stepping closer as you do. You turn them over in delicately, drinking in the details greedily. They’re finely made.

With an ebb of guilt, you realise they must’ve cost him a fortune. If he paid for them, that is.

“Took me all the way out past Emerald Ranch to find a fella who did them.”

Gaze snapping up, the ebb of guilt grows. He hadn’t just got them for you, he’d gone out of his way to find a spectacle maker specifically.

There’s a silver lining to the guilt — the feeling sprinkled through your chest like gunpowder, kicking up sparks. He certainly had to be keeping you in mind, to some capacity, to do such a thing for you.

The thought of being more than a passing thought in Arthur’s mind is enough to set the gunpowder alight. Your chest glows brightly like a firework.

“What happened to just having a nosy in the general store, hm?” You ask.

“Well, now,” Arthur begins, giving a hesitant cough as if it’ll cover the sincerity of his actions. He tilts his head down, the brim of his hat covering his eyes, as he always did when he felt too seen.

After a pause, he says lowly, “I know how much you wanted to shoot.”

“That’s... mighty kind of you, Mister Morgan.” You say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray the racing of your treacherous heart. “Though, I’d hate for you to go to all this trouble if they don’t even work right with my eyes.”

Holding the pair of spectacles up, you unfold the arms and peer through the lenses. They’re certainly magnifying something—Arthur looking further away in the one lens you peer through. It’s almost like a funhouse mirror. The smile on your face widens, cheeks nearly aching.

“That don’t matter,” Arthur says. He pats his satchel gently. “If those don’t work, I got three more pairs in here.”

“Three?” You lower the glasses, bewilderment colouring your voice.

“Where the devil did you get so many?”

“Turns out, folk rich enough to take the stagecoach can usually afford ‘em.” Arthur chuckles.

Somehow the image of Arthur out there, picking through the loot box, then demanding folk hand over their eyewear is enough to inspire a laugh out of you.

You stifle your laughter behind your hand, endeared even more when he opens his satchel to prove it, a shy smile on his lips.

Sure enough, he draws three more pairs out. Even the thickness of the glass even varies from pair to pair — god, who knew one could be so thoughtful whilst robbing?

“You know, that might be the most sweet thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The words come out softer than intended, your affections surely obvious.

You don’t risk a glance up at Arthur’s face, too fearful your feelings are written over your own, plain to see. In doing so, you miss the dusting of pink across his own cheeks.

Arthur clears his throat, sending a single prayer for strength to a god who’s surely abandoned him. The way you sound, he’d almost believe you’re sweet on him.

“Cmon, then,” He says, adding a touch more gruff to his voice. “Better try them on after all the damn time I spent hunting them down.”

You roll your eyes at his faux annoyance. There’s no real heat to his words.

Tilting your face down, you bring the pair up to tuck over your ears hesitantly. The world around you shifts as the lenses settle. Your sight is sufficiently more blurry than it was a second ago.

“Woah.” You murmur, looking up just to check.

Arthur’s figure swims before you, entirely out of focus. You blink, unbeknownst of the way the glasses magnify your eyes to a comically large size. It makes Arthur's smile grow, teeth peeking out, knowing for sure you can’t see for shit.

“Not those.” He says decidedly and when you slide them off, he’s already holding out the second pair, arms unfolded this time.

You mutter a quiet thank-you, feeling warmth creep your neck at the simple, polite motion.

This pair, when you slide them on, has a rather different effect. Instead of the blurriness alike to being underwater, the entire world sharpens.

You inhale at the difference. The sounds of the campfires and people around you dims and you blink rapidly, eyes jumping from detail to detail. There's something new to notice in every corner.

Head dipped down, you can pick out the individual blades of grass underfoot. The stitching on the hem your dress, the same as on the sleeves, you can see properly now. As in, see the stitches.

You swish you dress, watching, entranced.

Arthur’s comment during shooting practice may have been wrong —saying there was nothing wrong with your vision up close — because suddenly everything seems so much more. Maybe you’ve been blinder than you think.

Swinging your head round, you survey the inside of your tent with a renewed interest.

The fraying hole in your blanket, scribbled words in your opened journal, the splinters in your wooden crate bedside table — things you normally need to see up close, clearer than ever.

“I take it those ones are workin’ just fine.” Arthur says amusedly, having watched your wide-eyed and wandering gaze.

At the sound of his raspy voice, your head jerks up — and then your heart lurches forward with a hiccup, nearly tripping over itself.

Arthur is… He’s… Holy heaven, has he always been that handsome?

A dozen new details spring out at you, little secrets you've been missing. You can see the crook in his nose from being broken too many times. A scar you’ve never noticed on the edge of his chin, given away by the small patch in his beard.

He has freckles, dozens of little ones, from all his time spent under the baking sun. They gather at the edges of his eyes, blending into the crows feet. You can trace the cupid's bow of his lips.

It occurs to you that you should totally, definitely say something. You’ve been silent too long, just taking in the lines of his face, awed, but your throat has dried up.

Lord above, he’s pretty.

How are you expected to continue your day with the knowledge that Arthur Morgan might be the prettiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on?

Lord, if you’d been fond of him before, you’re surely smitten with him now.

Arthur shifts uncomfortably under the attention, taking your prolonged silence for the worst. His already jittered nerves fry under your stare and he ducks his head to hide himself from you.

“Probably can see what an ugly bastard I am, now you can see proper.” He huffs offhandedly, scratching at his beard and keeping his gaze low.

It hadn’t occurred to him, this downside of fetching this gift for you. You’ll see him clearly now — flaws and all.

“What?”

You sound a mixture of bewildered and crestfallen and it draws Arthur’s gaze up.

Your eyebrows have knit together in the middle and you take another step, bringing you closer together still.

Arthur forces himself to keep breathing, even as his nerves flutter. It’s an awful lot like one of Mary-Beth’s books, where she talks about romantics getting butterflies.

It feels more like a hive of bumblebees, Arthur thinks, trying to shove the feeling down. ‘Sides, the two of you weren’t romantics. You didn’t see him that way.

“Not in the slightest.” You say, eyes never leaving his face.

Arthur isn’t sure what your expression means but even as the attention makes him shift, something within him more selfish preens. Having your undivided attention when he’s surely unworthy of it has him standing a little taller, chest puffing out more.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you have…” Your voice trails off, your words soft as the dawn’s first rays of light. Arthur forces himself to meet your eye again. “A little bit of green in your eyes?”

This time, you don’t miss the flush of colour that creeps up Arthur’s neck.

He clears his throat, breaking your stare so he can rub the back of his neck; a futile attempt to cover his nervousness.

How in the hell else is he supposed to react to you all but waxing poetic about his eyes? You, enigmatic and more beautiful than a mayflower in the spring?

He’d wanted your attention, getting you the glasses, but now he has it, he’s melting beneath it like butter in the sun. He's a grown man for heaven's sake. How is it that you can make him nervous like nothing before?

“No, er, can’t say they have.” He says, stealing a glimpse back at you.

God, Arthur was a fool. You look even more beautiful in the spectacles. He’ll surely embarrass himself with his besotted stare, unable to curb his fondness for you.

There’s something new in your expression too. Your smile turned more feline, as if you’ve clued in to something he hasn’t.

His hands fall to clutch his gun belt, prepared to retreat and perhaps spend his evening drowning himself in the river to escape the mortification of feelings. He's giving himself away — and if he isn't, the heat colouring his cheeks sure is.

“Right, well,” He nods, clearing his throat once more. “If they workin’ jus’ fine, I’ll leave ya be.”

“Will you let me thank you first?” You ask tentatively.

Arthur doesn’t know what that means but he nods nonetheless. He tries to keep himself from fidgeting, his hands flexing on his belt all the while. Blue eyes dart from you, to the ground, then back to you.

You only need another half-step to get close enough to do what you wish. Pressing up onto your toes to reach, you bestow a gentle kiss onto Arthur's cheek, just above the scruff.

It takes a great deal of courage to keep your eyes steady, heart in your throat, as you sink back down onto flat feet. You don't relent your closeness.

For one long moment, you drink in the politely stunned expression on his face. This close, you can smell the scent of cigarettes and woodsmoke on his clothes. It makes your head spin. Makes your heart tremble. Your lips still sear from the kiss.

Though your heart threatens to bruise your ribs with how hard its beating in your chest, you refuse to regret your boldness.

Besides, as Arthur seems to grapple with what's just happened, his smile and blush return in equal measure.

"...Why'd you think she left dinner so early? She's probably—oh!"

Mary-Beth's voice cuts through the charged air.

Snapped from your tender reverie, you tear your eyes from Arthur and take a timid step back. You're well aware it's too late and both Mary-Beth and Tilly had seen the nearness you had been sharing with Arthur. You'll be hounded about it tonight, no doubt.

"Sorry, didn't realise we were interrupting." Tilly finds her voice before Mary-Beth does, the latter spluttering her agreements. Before they can retreat, Arthur cuts in.

"Weren't—" His voice comes out rougher than usual and he clears his throat, hat tipped down. "—interrupting nothin'. Don't worry bout it, I was just leavin'."

He takes a few steps back and then pauses, heaving a heavy breath as if he was gathering his strength. Still lingering just beyond the entrance of your tent, you wait with baited breath.

Arthur's eyes dance over to the other girls. If you could be bold, hell, so could he. He finds your gaze.

"Shootin' tomorrow? You 'n' me?" He asks, voice low.

If you didn't know him so well, you might miss the slight apprehension in his tone. As if you'd say no.

You have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip to try contain you smile. Your fervent nod betrays your excitement anyway.

Arthur smiles then, more brazenly than you've seen before, before he bids you a goodnight with a final tip of his hat.

—

The crates where targets once stood are now gloriously empty, the six shattered glass bottles banished to a life in the dirt.

You stand, pistol still smoking in your grip, and grin triumphantly. The sun glints off the delicate frames of your new spectacles. Your vision is clear and your aim is true.

Hovering just behind you, as he had some days ago, Arthur hums his contentment. "'Atta girl."

You turn, looking over your shoulder at him, and in an instant, your smile in reflected back. More reserved than your own, but entirely for you. Arthur nudges you to look forward with a gentle hand, gesturing to something out in the field.

"See if you can hit just the edge of the crate next. We might make a gunslinger of you yet."

You huff, leaning back an inch to feel more of his warmth. Arthur smiles to himself, well aware of your tactics.

His hands drop to your hips, twisting them in a minute adjustment they don't need, just to hear the slight stagger in your breath.

"Why, Mister Morgan," Your voice is threaded with humour, exactly the colour of sunlight. "I'd nearly think you're just making excuses to put your hands on me."

With a low hum, Arthur lets his hands drag up an inch to rest on your waist. Your skin is warm, as is your smile. He can pretend the hot buzz of the day threatens make his knees buckle, though he knows it's entirely your effect.

"Maybe. That a crime?"

"Even if it were," You say, gaze slicing back to meet his. The taunt of a smile on your pretty mouth rivals all the beauty Arthur's ever seen. "Thank heavens you're an outlaw."

—

so where was he? the takeout you bought for dinner is getting cold and your stomach is growing louder and more impatient by the second. you didn’t want to eat without him though since it’s something you did daily; eating together as a way of debriefing and letting go of the stress that the day brought.

after an onslaught of unanswered phone calls from you, at 7:15, rin merely texts a ‘won’t be home for a while. eat without me’, and although rin was naturally curt and straightforward, the text had a depravity of… him, somehow. either way, his message causes a swirl of emotions in your stomach; unpleasant ones that begin to grow a nauseous shade of green.

you put rin’s takeaway in the fridge regardless, sending him a quick text telling him to be safe and that you’ll see him soon. 

he probably got caught up with something. you’re sure it’ll be fine. 

you shouldn’t have ignored that sinking feeling of premonition. shouldn’t have pushed down the unease swirling in your stomach when shutting the door to the refrigerator before stalking over to the kitchen island with slow steps as you prepare to eat in silence. no one to keep you company except your own thoughts and the ghost of rin’s presence.

and when rin does come home almost two hours later, he stills calls your name as usual, you still go to him as usual, he greets you with a tired smile as usual, you hug him as usual, he doesn’t kiss the top of your forehead, though. you ignore it, pushing your thoughts aside because he was home. he finally came back. you’ll wake up tomorrow and this uneasy feeling will sort itself out.

except it doesn’t.  

from that night onwards, rin changes. slowly, but surely, the cracks of change manifest in your relationship and through it all, you choose to cast a blind eye, plastering over it with sightless belief in your love. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

the queasy feeling in your gut never stills. it fades at times when your mind is busy with other things, but it inevitably gets drawn back into the whirlpool of concern regarding your lover- or, rather, rin.

you think you’re still in a relationship, but you don’t really know anymore. you haven’t seen him in a while. the only indication of his existence that you get are the stray bowls he leaves on the kitchen counter whenever he’s done eating, the lessening weight of his protein powder containers, and the decrease of various food items from the fridge that you restock here and there.

it feels like you’re living with a ghost.

some nights, when it gets the most lonely, your mind betrays you, completely eliminating any and all trust you had in rin. 

you wonder if there’s another person. another lover that he feels more passionately for. another lover that his heart had gravitated towards, abandoning yours in the process. perhaps that is the explanation behind his absence. 

but no evidence points towards that conclusion. there has been no suspicious deduction of bills from his bank statement that would suggest infidelity, his location is constantly at the sports stadium whenever you check, and there are no traces of a lover on him- not even you. 

it is not totally blasphemous to assume that itoshi rin wouldn’t be engrossed in soccer to the point that he’d spend unhealthy and obsessive hours into honing his abilities, but it feels a little traitorous that he could forget about life outside of the sport. it isn’t just you he’s neglecting. his mother and father have been constantly asking when he’ll come over to spend some time together, his teammates have been asking you about rin’s whereabouts and when he’ll be free and what’s worse is that you never know how to answer every time. 

it’s embarrassing to be seen as a lover that is forgettable enough for rin to dismiss, so you lie and lie and lie, telling everyone that you’ll tell them later, that he’s fine and just busy, and you lie to yourself. you tell yourself that rin will be home soon so you two can talk about it, and then everything will return to normal.

(your reflection looks through your facade, disheartened and worried.)

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“why are you late?” 

you jump at the voice that greets you when you step foot in the apartment and the sight before you causes you to wonder just how tired you feel, because rin is in your apartment, where he’s meant to be, for once. not only that, but he’s leaning against the couch, adorned in loungewear and slippers, and the sight is too foreignly domestic for your comprehension. 

coming home to a house with someone there feels nice. 

he’s lost a little bit of muscle and fat, but his frame is still as intimidating; shoulders broad and built, just the faintest indicator into the athletic body he’s developed over the years. his hair is a little longer too. 

“oh, rin, hi.” you mutter, surprise evident in your tone.

“hello.”

“since i got a promotion,” you respond simply. rin makes no move to approach you, no initiative to take your bag and put it on the couch for you. instead, he stays rooted in his position leaning against the couch, arms crossed.

the air around him feels hostile, and suddenly you’re almost afraid to speak. “and does that promotion change your work hours or something?”

(he doesn’t congratulate or celebrate your achievement.)

“i work with flexible hours now but the office is further and the commute is so bothersome.”

rin uncrosses his arms with a thoughtful hum, gaze glued to the floor, mind occupied. you approach him slowly, pulling your bag off your shoulder and setting it in the entrance near the genkan with a thud, the sound sobering to him.

when he looks back up, you don’t want to acknowledge the emptiness in his icy eyes, barren of the usual determination that defined itoshi rin. but if you knew that that day would be the beginning of the end, perhaps you would have done something about it.

when you opened your arms for him, perhaps you would have hugged him a little tighter, a little longer, strained all the stress out of his shoulders.

perhaps you would have protected him a little harder from the cruelties of his own mind; shown him that the world was not out to get him, and that there was a place for people like him in the world (people who can’t see their own value and instead, berate themselves for their waning self-worth because they cannot see the light behind them).

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“i’m going to shower,” rin declares once the moment both of you step in the safety of your shared home.

“no, you’re not! not before we talk,” you demand, hurriedly taking off your shoes so you can face him before he slips out of your grasp. the dark-haired turns to look at you with an unamused expression, the way tonight seemed to drag on obviously taking a toll on him.

“you’re gonna stop me from taking a shower, really?”

“yes because what the fuck was going on with you tonight?”

he narrows his eyes into slits, the pure intimidation that rin naturally emanates almost threatening you into submission. however, for the humiliation you’ve had to endure tonight, you won’t budge.

“i don’t understand,” rin says monotonously. you roll your eyes.

“you don’t understand? what’s that supposed to mean?”

“i don’t know what you’re getting mad over.”

“the fact that you didn’t even try to talk to me- let alone look at me, once this entire night?”

your partner looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. “that’s an exaggeration,” he huffs.

“no it’s not!” you recall the looks of pity sent your way when rin sat beside you unmoving and unresponsive to any conversation you tried to make. “would it have killed to show you some sort of interest?”

“would it kill you to not receive attention for one night?” he retaliates. 

“it’s not about that-”

“really? sure feels like it. i don’t have time to shower you with all my attention, y/n, there are other things i have to do.” 

there are a million things you want to say to rin, a million emotions that you have felt whilst he’s been absent, a million examples of how he’s been leaving you behind and how you’re now fed up of keeping these millions to yourself. yet, not a word leaves you, too stunned by the stranger in front of you to voice it all out. 

rin, however, takes your silence as defeat and turns to leave.

“you’re being dramatic. i’m going to shower before i waste anymore time with this lukewarm conversation.” 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

the night your relationship officially fell apart is one you still remember vividly, because it only happened a few days ago.

in your memory, the night was nearing 9pm, yet rin had still not come home. 

your heart takes you to him because as much as your relationship with him has caused you nothing but pain recently, you know itoshi rin. you know him because you’re soulmates and where he goes, there’s a fragment of your heart that follows. 

the drive to the practice pitch is nothing but heavy. heavy with your anticipation and stress, you feel your chest constrict and tighten, especially when you pull up into the very empty parking lot. 

“rin!” you shout for the fifth time and only then, does the dark-haired look up at you from where he’s doing dribbling drills. he almost trips over the ball from your interruption. 

“wha- oh,” he turns away just before you can catch the roll of his eyes, the snarl of frustration (one that lovers should never bare at each other). “what do you want?”

you pause a few feet away from him, utterly gobsmacked with the attitude your partner was showing you. after driving all this way, the least you’d want is a little concern, but alas.

“it’s time to go,” you stand your ground. “i’m here to pick you up.”

“yeah, right, i’m not going home.”

“that’s ridiculous! are you not tired?”

“no.”

“rin. c’mon, that’s enough, you need to rest.”

“what the fuck do you know about being enough?” he asks.

the silence is deafening and most hurtful. 

you stammer out the only response you can, “wh-what?”

he doesn’t give you anything. unrelenting, he is. rin has always been the embodiment of stubbornness served cold. not finding much productivity in his silence, you continue speaking with a wavering voice. “let’s go home. please, you shouldn’t be working yourself like this-”

“-leave me the fuck alone!” he finally comes undone. “can’t you see that i don’t have time to deal with headaches like you?”

the thread keeps unravelling.

“fucking lukewarm. i can’t deal with this right now, i don’t need you here.”

“fine,” you murmur. rin has his back turned against you and he prepares himself to kick another ball. “i’ll leave then since you don’t need me.”

when rin arrives home that night, he reasons the unease churning in his stomach on the physical exertion of practice as nothing is out of place. the apartment is as kept and tidy as it typically is, the lights are off because you’ve gone to bed, and there is a meal on the kitchen counter sealed by plastic wrap.

he won’t eat it because he’ll want to throw up otherwise, so rin tucks it neatly into the fridge, not thinking twice about the emptiness on the shelves, right where your favourite drinks are normally kept. 

the athlete washes up quickly and efficiently, a good night’s rest sounding too appealing for his battered body that felt as heavy as lead. 

that night, sleep takes rin and lulls him into a temporary sanctuary, protecting him from the reality that he would wake up to. because when morning comes, he will turn and find that you are not beside him like he expects you to be. your side of the bed is untouched, devoid of any warmth or indicator that you were there.

he checks the bathroom- you’re not there. he calls your name in the hallway- you don’t respond. he scans the kitchen, the study, the living room, and finds nothing but loneliness in each room. there’s no text from you indicating that you were elsewhere.

you’ll return, though. rin’s sure of it.

except you don’t, the hours pass by with rin anticipating your return, and his confidence slowly dwindles with each minute. by the time it’s been 24 hours since he last saw you, his patience runs thin. finding your contact, rin presses the ‘call’ button and is surprised that it does not go through, stopping him after only one ring when an automated voice says ‘this caller is unavailable’. 

the dark-haired stares at your contact in contempt, furrowing his eyebrows when all of his following attempts receive the same treatment, but rin continues stubbornly because you couldn’t have blocked him, right?

was it because of what he said? he didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean to blow up on you like that- how is he supposed to say sorry if he can’t even reach you?

checking his private accounts on various social media, he sees that you’ve blocked him there too. running in to the master bedroom and checking the closet, half of your clothes are missing, and the bag you keep on the shelf is missing too. the bathroom lacks some of your products, your laptop and various chargers are gone from your study space, and the heaviness of your absence hits itoshi rin like a train.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

you never did come around to collect your stuff. rin finds a little bit of pain in that fact.

he feels like a ghost, haunted by the trinkets of you that remain littered around his apartment. he doesn't have the heart to throw them out, not when they're the closest thing to you he can get.

a few times rin sees you in his dreams. a few times he sees you in his nightmares, looking completely hurt and run-down by his recklessness and neglect, but most mornings he wakes up feeling emptier, no one to turn to on your side on the bed. not anymore. there’s no body to hold when he needs it most, there’s no one to keep him company whilst he eats dinner, there’s no love. not since the day you left.

you, on the other hand, find it odd to live life without a second person in the periphery. you thought rin was the one for you, you never had any thoughts about what life could be without him because you were certain that it would be him that you spent the rest of your years with, so learning to accommodate without him is gnawing you away, the little bug of loneliness festing on your newfound independence. 

you’re seated on the floor of your best friend’s living room when reo texts one day, interrupting your apartment hunt.

reo: Are you still coming to my party?

you scrunch your eyebrows at the text, unknowing of where it was coming from.

y/n: not anymore. what’s up?

reo: Why not :( reo: Please it’d be so fun

y/n: don’t you know that rin and i broke up?

reo: Ok but he’s definitely not coming reo: It’s Rin, he doesn’t have a life so you’re fine. Pls say you’ll come

reo: Plus he’s been all mopey ever since so I don’t think he’s in a party mood

you dutifully ignore the last part of reo’s statement. after a little more coaxing, he finally manages to get you to agree to come, but not without a feeling of apprehension settling in your gut. still, it would be a shame to miss out on an invitation from a friend because of it. 

besides, reo’s bargain of offering to buy your outfit was too tempting to let go. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“practice was rough,” bachira murmurs, flopping on the sides of the soccer field with a sigh. his sweat causes his hair and clothes to cling to his skin, and isagi takes a seat on the bench beside his best friend, tossing the dual-tone haired his water bottle.

wiping the sweat off his forehead, isagi agrees with a hum. “i know. i just want to go home.”

“i don’t know how rin does this, staying overtime and all of that.”

“he’s insane. it only got worse after his breakup and everything.”

bachira frowns, looking over to where the dark-haired in question is standing. “i feel bad for rin-rin, seems like he’s not taking it well at all.”

a beat of silence passes before bachira speaks again. “you know y/n’s coming to reo’s party this weekend?” 

the black-haired wipes his mouth before setting the water bottle down. “really?”

“yeah. reo told me.”

“that’s nice, it’s been a while since we’ve seen y/n so it’d be nice to catch up.”

“i wonder if rin knows.”

“i doubt it,” isagi reassures, “he hardly goes to parties like the one reo’s throwing.”

“maybe that’s why y/n agreed in the first place.”

“probably.”

a cold voice suddenly cuts the two from their conversation “y/n’s going to reo’s party?” 

isagi feels his blood cool over before looking up. there, stands itoshi rin, who has a frazzled, yet equally determined look in his eyes, one that isagi has not seen in a while (not since you left). “what? no! where did you hear that from?” 

bachira laughs nervously, “you’re hearing things, rin-rin!

but they are soccer players, not actors or professional liars. “shut the fuck up, asshats. y/n’s going to reo’s party this weekend?”

the two exchange a look and their silence is the only answer rin needs. 

“hold on, you’re not thinking of going, are you?” isagi asks, accepting defeat and now switching tactics.

“why wouldn’t i? my partne-” he pauses. “y/n is gonna be there.”

“yes but-”

“-you can’t stop me from going, so don’t even think about it.”

without another word, rin is gone, stalking away with a scary determination that was previously dormant. 

“what did we just do?” bachira mumbles. “should we tell y/n?” 

“nah.”

“agreed.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

you should have never come to this party.

how stupid and foolish of you, but how utterly cruel of the universe to let you hurt like this, to let the same pain that has walked all over you for the past few months return; this time ramming into you with the ferocity of a bull, knocking the air out of your lungs

“y/n!” comes the dreaded call of your name. you walk a little faster, breaking into an-almost sprint.

“y/n!” 

“for fucks sake- y/n!” this cry of your name is broken, rasped and pathetic, and your chests clenches from how pained it sounds. like a howl from an injured wolf, it is broken enough for you to pity it, luring you into a trap that will inevitably end in chunks being torn from your heart, but you don’t have much left to spare, so you keep running, no matter how badly you want to give in.

except it’s not enough to deter rin, nothing ever be when there’s a goal in sight, especially one so close that he can taste it.

“y/n, please, i need to talk to-”

“-go away, rin!” you cut him off, hugging yourself tighter to shield yourself against the cold and rin’s pleas from piercing you. 

“not until you listen to me!”

fury powers you, igniting you with the courage to turn around and finally face him. you don’t look him in the eye, keeping your gaze elsewhere, but he shuts up nevertheless, awestruck by finally being able to see you face-to-face after being so long away from you. all words die on his throat, withering away to nothing as his eyes slightly widen in shock.

you’re just as beautiful as the day you left; perhaps even more so.

rin wonders if your radiancy was birthed by his absence, and if the answer is ‘yes’, he might wither away on the spot.

“it’s always about you isn’t it?” you shout. “always about what you want and never about what others want. you said you wanted me to leave, so i did! what more could i possibly give?” 

he gulps, utterly entranced as his heart makes itself known in his chest, racing wildly and vividly; the first indication that it was alive and hadn’t been replaced by a gaping hole in your absence. he hasn’t felt this human since you left. 

“i didn’t mean for you to actually leave,” rin confesses shakily. 

“well, it didn’t seem like you wanted me to stay either.”

“no, that’s not-” he falters. “it’s… not the same without you.”

you hug yourself tighter. “i don’t believe you, you’re just saying that now that there’s nobody to warm your bed.”

“no, it’s not like that- i don’t like living without you,” the athlete continues, admitting something so heavy with such airiness.

“you can’t just say that after so long. not when you’ve been living without me months before we broke up.”

there are a million and one things that rin wants to say to you, but none of them break through the whirlwind that is his thoughts, rattling around in his brain on overdrive and overwhelming him with the intensity of them all. one thing he knows for sure is that you are the single muse behind all of them, the only thing that is keeping him sane amongst the flurry of disturbances.

then, you shiver from the chilly breeze of the night, and the whirlwind is silenced into oblivion to awaken a dormant instinct of his instead. one that commands him to fulfil a duty that he’s not inclined to do anymore.

quickly, rin takes off his jacket and holds it out to you, as if expecting you to take it. 

he drops it when you don’t, hope dwindling in his stomach.

swallowing weakly, he then asks “would you ever give me a second chance?”

“you’ll hurt me again,” you glance away, the street lamps highlighting the melancholy in your profile as rin observes you closely. his eyes outline the curves of your face, each divet and slope that he used to trace with his hands now out of his reach. “you take and you take, but you never give and i’m so tired of it.”

“don’t say that,” he pleads, voice barely louder than a whisper as the dark-haired takes a heavy step towards you. “you’ll break my heart.”

“i shouldn’t love you anymore, you’re bad for me.”

“then i’ll be good- i’ll become whatever you want me to be-”

“-we won’t work like that.”

“we’ll work as long as i’m yours again, just, let me fix us, i’ll do whatever it takes. i’m not giving up like this.” 

the first tear makes herself known and paths the way for your downfall like a tsunami, washing away whatever you had built up during your time away from itoshi rin; the good and the bad. the hurt and the healing, all undone by a singular, stray tear. in your vision, he becomes nothing but a blur, a kaleidoscope of colours that you once loved.

a kaleidoscope of colours that you still love, much to the chagrin of your broken heart. 

a hand wraps around your wrist, a warm shackle that grounds you to rin like he’s your lifeline. no matter how bad you want to push him away, something in you will always bend to him. 

“don’t cry,” he pleads, voice airy and breathy. “i’m sorry, please don’t cry.”

please don’t cry because of me.

“i don’t want to be with you if it means i need to go through all of that again.” you whisper, slipping out of his grasp like sand and wiping away your own tears, rejecting his callous and prickly touch. 

rin’s world dims as panic seizes his throat. “please don’t say that, you don’t mean it.”

“i do though. you left me first, don’t you know?” 

“-i do.”

“and now i’m not yours to care about anymore-”

“i know, i know,” words are merely spilling out of his mouth without much purpose at this point, because he’ll do anything just to delay you leaving, to push back the possibility of you turning around and never seeing you again. why did he have to break who he loved so much? 

still, he pleads for another chance, desperation shining in his eyes as pure longing fills him. you have always been too good to him, he knows, but like the tumultuous tides and their inability to stray too far from the shore, rin will come back to you with his undying devotion. 

even if he thinks you should find someone better than him, that you should be adored by someone who could love you so much better, he can’t let go. to let you go is to let go the one good thing that came to him in life, 

you exhale shakily. “we’ve loved each other for too long.” 

“what do you mean?” he stutters, eyes widening helplessly. 

“i have loved you too much for too long, rin,” you choke, “there has to be an end to us somewhere in sight- you need to accept that.”

“no,” his look of absolute devastation causes a physical recoil in your stomach. “no- not long enough, it’ll never be enough, fuck- even forever won’t be long enough, i can’t let you go like that.”

he crosses the distance between you in the blink of an eye. you can’t see him clearly under the dim light of the night, but you can feel him, so close and so overwhelming, but so cold as his hands come to grasp yours. his grip is firm, not enough to hurt, but enough for you to feel his determination. 

tears dance along his lashline. 

“please, tell me you’re still mine,” begs the dark-haired. rin’s tears are diamonds, in which they are precious, but they also crumble into a precious waterfall that rolls down his cheeks, tempting you towards his beautiful ruination. 

words continue to tumble out of him, each one sharpened to pierce your defences. “tell me that we’ll be fine, that i’m all you want, please. i’m so fucking sorry for hurting you, but please don’t leave me. 

i’ll fix us, i’ll become everything you need, i’ll be good.”

the dark-haired’s hands find their way to your face, cupping each side of your jaw with a scary gentleness; one that you’d never expect from someone as ragged as itoshi rin. 

“i love you,” he declares, so raw, so full of passion that it makes you sick. the rin you know never lets his heart on his sleeve like this. 

you cave. “how will you fix us?” 

slowly. he’ll rebuild everything that you have given him.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

first, rin takes you out on dates again. calls you beautiful and really means it.

second, rin leaves practice at regular times, and listens when you tell him that he needs to take care of himself. because for you, he will. 

third, rin picks you up from work. his practice ends a little earlier than your job, so he always goes the extra mile to be there for you at the end of the day. even if you tell him that he doesn’t need to go out of his way to do so, he’d rather see you get home safe than only receiving a mere text of confirmation. 

plus, it gives rin more time with you.

fourth, rin sends you regular gifts. from bouquets, to random items that he just knows you’d like, they all get left at your door at the best times. 

fifth, rin lets you set the pace. you wanted things to go slow so that you two didn’t have to force anything back in place. no point recreating something that’s in the past, you reasoned, so might as well try again.

sixth, rin takes his time in welcoming you back into his space. it’s a few months after you two have reconciled, and majority of your items are back where they belong (you poked fun at him for not being able to throw away the stuff you did leave, and he just mumbled something indecipherable, all embarrassed, before moving on). the life has been restored in his apartment, now filled with more remnants of you loitering around his space: your various chargers and laptop, your products, your clothes, they all sit beside his things like that’s where they are meant to be.

and you are back in his arms, because it is where you are meant to be (more for his sake than yours).

rin stirs awake one morning under the gentle light of the morning sun and you’re there beside him, occupying the space that he has left devastatingly empty. mattress still curved to your frame as he never dared infiltrate it, in hopes that you would return.

now that you have, you feel too warm, too familiar, too unreal that he wonders if you’re just another dream of his. 

then, you stir, and press yourself closer against his chest, face to face with the heart that only beats for you.

a stray tear rolls down rin’s face; a salvation for the utter relief he feels, as well as the overwhelming amount of adoration that he stores for you. his ‘i love you’ is sweeter than the chirping of the birds outside, and certainly more meaningful as he wraps more of himself around your sleeping figure, hoping to attach all of him to all of you. 

you’re home. he won’t let you leave again.