You rolled your eyes but smiled, hugging your tote bag closer to your chest. “And you’re out here with groceries at ten o’clock because you love the nightlife?”

“Please,” he said, finally getting the door unlocked but not stepping inside yet. “This is survival. You ever tried to make pancakes at one in the morning and realized you’re out of milk? It’s tragic.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re jealous of my pancake game,” he countered smoothly, pushing his glasses up again with his thumb. “Don’t worry, I’ll invite you over one day. Blow your mind.”

“You say that like you can actually cook,” you shot back, smirking despite yourself.

“Oh, I’m full of surprises,” he said, his grin widening just slightly.

You should’ve kept walking, should’ve just waved and left it at that, but something about the way he lingered there–casual, waiting, like he wanted you to keep talking–made you pause in the hallway instead.

The building was quiet, the hum of the lights above the only sound besides the two of you. His eyes, a sharp and startling blue behind the lenses, held yours longer than they should have, and you felt a faint warmth creep up your neck that had nothing to do with the hallway’s poor ventilation.

“You’re weird, Gojo,” you said finally, trying to break the tension.

“Yeah,” he admitted easily, shifting the grocery bag to his other hand, “but I’m your weird neighbor. You’re stuck with me.”

And before you could think of a comeback, he winked.

The hallway smelled faintly of takeout and old carpet cleaner, that signature scent of a building whose landlord had given up somewhere around the Reagan era, but you didn’t mind. It was home, and your neighbor Gojo was leaning in his doorway with a grocery bag like he always had the worst timing, his grin too easy for someone holding what looked like five cartons of eggs and a gallon of milk in one hand.

“Seriously though,” you said as you shifted your tote higher on your shoulder, “what do you even make with that much food this late at night? You’re not feeding a whole frat in there, are you?”

His smile widened as he jiggled the keys in the lock. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Miss Nosy Neighbor.” He got the door open finally, only for the corner of a cereal box to peek out of the bag, bright and childish. “Spoiler alert: pancakes aren’t the only thing I’m good at.”

“You mean you’re gonna eat half that cereal and pass out watching TV,” you teased, arching a brow.

He laughed, pushing his glasses up again when they slid down the bridge of his nose. “Guilty. You caught me. But hey, at least I’m honest.”

You smirked, shaking your head, and turned toward your own apartment door just a few steps down. But you didn’t make it inside before you heard the sudden racket from Gojo’s place.

At first it was just a cupboard slamming, then another, then another, like someone was playing whack-a-mole with his kitchen. You frowned, halfway tempted to knock and make sure he hadn’t collapsed in there, when the sound cut off abruptly. A beat later, Gojo appeared again in the hallway, empty-handed now, as if nothing had happened.

“Everything okay in there?” you asked, brows raised.

“Yeah,” he said casually, brushing a hand through his pale hair like it had been nothing. “Just, uh, reorganizing. Cabinets are tricky.”

You gave him a skeptical look, lips twitching. “Sounded like you were fighting them.”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug, “we came to an understanding.”

Before you could press him, his eyes flicked to the recliner sitting awkwardly in the hallway just in front of your door–the one you’d been meaning to drag inside but hadn’t managed yet. You’d bought it secondhand off a listing and barely managed to get it delivered, but the idea of actually hauling it through your door by yourself had left you putting it off for days.

Gojo didn’t even ask. He just stepped forward, bent, and hefted the entire thing up in his arms like it weighed nothing.

“Wait–what–” you stammered, eyes wide as you watched him carry it smoothly down the hall.

“You were just gonna leave it out here forever?” he asked over his shoulder, adjusting it easily with one arm before nudging your door open with his hip.

Your mouth fell open. “How the hell are you that strong?”

He smirked, setting the recliner down neatly just inside your living room, then straightened without even the hint of a grunt. “I, uh… lift,” he said, so unconvincingly casual you wanted to laugh.

“You lift?” you repeated, following him in and shutting the door behind you.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing around your apartment as if taking it in. “Groceries. Cereal boxes. You know, heavy stuff.”

You snorted, setting your tote down on the counter. “Uh-huh. Totally believable.”

He ignored your skepticism, wandering a few steps further into your space, eyes scanning the cluttered coffee table and the stack of books on the armchair. He looked too at home for a man who had just barged in with furniture, but you didn’t tell him to stop. You just watched as he shoved his hands in his pockets, still grinning faintly, his glasses slipping again.

“So,” you said after a moment, leaning against the counter, “how’s work going? Still running around for the Bugle?”

He hummed in acknowledgment, finally turning his head back toward you. “Fine. Same as always.”

“Do they even give you a day off?” you asked, arching a brow.

“Eh, not really. Crime doesn’t exactly stick to a nine-to-five schedule.”

The words made you blink, but you brushed it off, tilting your head. “So how do you even get those photos of Spider-Man? Every time I see his face in the paper, it’s one of yours. You must have some crazy connections.”

For a second, Gojo didn’t answer. He just looked at you, his gaze flicking down briefly before meeting your eyes again. It took you a beat to realize why. You’d changed into a thin camisole when you got home earlier, the fabric soft and flimsy, and you hadn’t bothered with a bra. The way you were leaning against the counter wasn’t doing much to hide that fact. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes darting away like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You smirked faintly, heat rushing up your chest, but didn’t move to cover yourself. “What?” you asked, pretending not to notice the way his ears had turned faintly pink.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat as he pushed his glasses up again. “I just, uh–” He blinked, buying himself a second, then smirked, though it was a little forced. “I just know what spots to go to. He’s a creature of habit.”

“Mm,” you said softly, pretending to accept it even as you noticed the way his gaze flicked down again, just for a second.

He was thinking something. You didn’t need to know what exactly to feel it, the weight of it pressing into the air between you. His smirk lingered, but his eyes were heavier now, sharper, like he was fighting himself not to say more.

Gojo had intended to make a graceful exit after dropping the recliner in your living room, maybe toss in one more teasing remark about pancakes and then disappear into his own apartment before you could notice the way his pulse had been hammering since you leaned against the counter in that thin camisole.

But you didn’t kick him out. You just stood there, arms folded lightly under your chest, the fabric clinging to your skin in a way that made his glasses suddenly feel too tight on his face.

From your side, you couldn’t tell how much restraint he was using. He looked relaxed–hands in his pockets, easy grin, casual posture–but Gojo’s thoughts weren’t casual in the slightest. Every time your nipples shifted against the outline of the fabric, every little bounce when you laughed or tilted your head, he felt his cock stir harder in his slacks. He’d been in dangerous situations before–dangling off skyscrapers, dodging bullets, webbing up guys twice his size–but standing in your apartment while you obliviously arched your back in a paper-thin top? That was the kind of danger he wasn’t sure he could survive.

He shifted his weight slightly, pretending to glance around your bookshelf just so he could adjust himself discreetly. His cock was pressing against the inside of his zipper now, thickening with every subtle inhale of your shampoo. He clenched his jaw, dragging his gaze upward when it wanted to linger lower, forcing himself to focus on anything else before he embarrassed himself in front of you.

“Still doesn’t explain how you manage to get the clearest photos of Spider-Man,” you said, quirking a brow. “Like, what, do you camp out on rooftops waiting for him to swing by?”

Gojo cleared his throat, forcing a smile that felt tighter than he wanted it to. “Something like that. I’m good with patterns. Guess I know his schedule.”

“Schedule,” you repeated, smirking faintly as you reached for a glass of water. “So what, you’ve got him clocked in like a nine-to-five? ‘Oh, there goes Spider-Man, late for his shift again.’”

He chuckled, shifting again, subtly tugging his shirt lower over his lap as you turned toward the sink. He thought he was in the clear–until you sighed dramatically and leaned your hip against the counter again, crossing your arms under your chest so that the camisole pulled tighter.

“Honestly,” you said, a playful twist in your tone, “I don’t get the hype. Spider-Man’s overrated.”

Gojo’s head snapped up so fast you nearly dropped your glass. “Excuse me?”

You blinked at him, lips twitching. “What? He’s messy. You see the photos you take of him–dude looks like a kid with ADHD and a Red Bull problem. Always leaving webs on buildings, climbing around like a freaky cat burglar. Half the time the news makes him sound like a menace anyway.”

Gojo turned fully then, his face animated in mock offense, though under the surface his blood ran hotter. “Menace? He saves lives. You know that, right? He’s out there busting his ass to keep the city from turning into a free-for-all.”

You laughed, tilting your head, enjoying the way he bristled. “Wow, someone’s passionate. What, are you in love with him or something?”

The question hit harder than you expected. Gojo blinked behind his glasses, throat tightening, heat crawling up the back of his neck as he shifted his stance again, desperate to hide the growing tent in his pants. His cock twitched at the thought of you saying the word “love” in the same breath as Spider-Man, the irony almost enough to undo him completely.

“In love?” he echoed, trying to keep his voice light, but the smile tugging at his lips was strained.

“You defend him like you’re his lawyer,” you teased, sipping your water. “What’s next? You got a Spider-Man poster hidden in your closet? Maybe a shrine? I should check your apartment for webs.”

He coughed, forcing a laugh that came out a little rougher than intended. “Cute. Real cute.” He turned back slightly under the guise of adjusting his belt, but really it was to shift himself again, the outline of his cock pressing harder against the fabric than he could manage to ignore. He could feel his palms sweating as his mind betrayed him, slipping into fantasies of bending you over the counter, tugging that flimsy camisole down, finally sucking your nipples the way he’d been imagining since you first walked in.

He dragged his focus back to your smirk, clearing his throat again. “I’m just saying, maybe you don’t give the guy enough credit. He’s out there risking his life while you’re in here shit-talking him like he’s a… what’d you call it? A freaky cat burglar?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, leaning closer with that spark in your eyes that always made him feel like you were testing him. “Sounds like you’ve got a crush. Do I need to worry about competition from a guy in spandex?”

Gojo’s cock pulsed so hard he thought for sure you could see it now. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, biting back the urge to groan, and gave you a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Trust me,” he said slowly, gaze flicking down one last time before snapping back up to your face, “the only one you need to worry about is yourself.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The city looked different at night. Not just darker, but alive in a way most people never saw. From twelve stories up, the lights blurred into rivers of gold and red, traffic weaving like veins across the concrete, neon buzzing against the low hum of distant sirens. For Satoru Gojo, this wasn’t the hour to sleep. It was the hour to move.

He pulled the mask down over his face with practiced ease, the sharp lines of blue, black, and white snapping into place as the lenses adjusted, tinting the city with a faint glow. He shoved the window open without hesitation, the cool air rushing against his bare arms, and stepped onto the ledge. For a moment, he just stood there, balancing casually on the narrow strip of concrete like it was a sidewalk. Then he leapt.

The web shot out with a sharp thwip, catching the steel edge of a billboard. The line snapped taut, and he swung low, his body carving through the night air with practiced rhythm. It was a dance he could do in his sleep–legs tucked, torso twisting, hand releasing just long enough to fire another line, letting gravity pull him before the next catch. The rush never dulled. The wind whipped against his body, his heart hammering with that mix of thrill and responsibility that kept him out here, night after night.

The call had come from the police scanner he’d hacked weeks ago: an explosion in the warehouse district, reports of armed men in masks scattering through the alleys. Gojo didn’t bother with the details. He knew the type. Gang rats with more firepower than brains, desperate enough to make noise, careless enough to kill civilians without a second thought. He’d been waiting for this kind of break in the lull of small-time robberies.

The first thing he smelled when he swung into the district was smoke. Black and acrid, spilling out of the gutted warehouse like an open wound. Flames licked at the steel supports, casting jagged shadows down the empty streets. He landed on the roof of a van, crouched low, and scanned the scene. Three men in masks were sprinting down the alley, rifles slung, shouting to each other as they carried something bulky between them.

“Idiots,” he muttered, firing a web that yanked the nearest one straight off his feet. The man hit the ground with a yell, the crate tumbling from his arms. Gojo swung down, landing hard enough to dent the asphalt, and swept his leg in a clean arc that knocked another one off balance.

The third raised his rifle. Gojo’s web was faster. It glued the weapon to the wall, and the man’s hands stuck with it before he could fire.

“You boys don’t play well with others, huh?” Gojo taunted, yanking the first one upright by the front of his shirt. “What’s in the box? Please tell me it’s cookies.”

The man tried to headbutt him. Gojo slammed him back into the van hard enough to rattle the metal, his knuckles cracking against the guy’s jaw before webbing him to the hood for good measure.

The second one scrambled for a knife. Gojo grabbed a chunk of debris from the explosion–half a concrete brick–and hurled it just close enough to make the man flinch. Then he swept forward, webbing his legs together and yanking him face-first into the pavement.

The fight should have ended there. But more footsteps echoed down the alley, heavier this time, and a van screeched around the corner with its headlights off. Gunfire split the air, ripping through the brick where Gojo had been perched a moment before. He ducked low, vaulting over the nearest dumpster, webbing the driver’s side window before the shooter could line up again. The bullet grazed his arm as he twisted, hot pain tearing through his bicep, but he didn’t stop. He swung forward, ripped the gun from the man’s hand, and slammed the van door shut on his arm until he screamed.

By the time the smoke thinned, half the crew was glued to the asphalt, the others trussed up along the wall like grotesque marionettes. Gojo stood in the center of the wreckage, panting through the mask, the cut in his arm burning hotter with each pulse of his heartbeat. He wiped blood on the side of his suit and crouched to check the crate. Not cookies. Explosives. Enough to level another block. He hissed through his teeth, fired a quick signal web onto the lid for the police to track, and vaulted back into the night before the sirens grew close.

By the time he landed back on his own building, his arm was screaming. He crawled through the window into his apartment, ripping the mask off with his good hand, glasses forgotten on the nightstand where he’d left them. The adrenaline was wearing off now, replaced with raw, aching pain as he peeled the sleeve back to inspect the graze. Not deep, but messy. He hissed again as he disinfected it, the sound spilling into the quiet room like a groan.

He didn’t realize how loud he was being until the knock came.

“Gojo?”

Your voice.

He froze, the alcohol-soaked rag pressed to his skin.

The knock came again, sharper this time. “Can you–uh–keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

He blinked, realization dawning a second too late. To anyone else in the hall, his low groans and sharp hisses would sound like exactly one thing: sex. Loud, athletic sex. He bit down on the laugh bubbling in his throat and limped to the door, still clutching his arm.

When he opened it, you were standing there in your sleep shorts and that same thin camisole, brows furrowed, lips pursed like you’d been debating whether to knock again.

“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral, though your eyes flicked behind him like you half-expected to see some woman sprawled on his bed.

Gojo leaned casually against the frame despite the sting in his arm, forcing a grin. “Sorry, neighbor. Guess I got a little… carried away.”

You blinked, caught between suspicion and embarrassment. “With what, exactly?”

He smirked faintly, ignoring the blood seeping into the rag at his side. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Gojo leaned against the doorframe like nothing was wrong, like the blood wasn’t sticky and warm down his bicep, like the rag pressed to his arm wasn’t keeping him from dripping on the hardwood. He was good at this–at faking normal, at playing the dumb neighbor with the bad diet and the too-wide grin. Usually, you didn’t look close enough to see through it. But tonight, you weren’t buying it.

Your eyes narrowed immediately, scanning him from his face down to his bare torso. He hadn’t had the sense to throw on a shirt before opening the door, and now you were staring at the faint sheen of sweat on his pecs, the defined slope of his abs, and the arm he was trying so casually to keep angled away from you.

“Gojo,” you said slowly, your voice firm despite the way your gaze lingered, “what the fuck happened to you?”

He blinked behind the messy fringe of his white hair, his grin crooked. “What, this?” He waved the bloody rag as if it were nothing. “Just got into a fight.”

“A fight?” you echoed, your tone sharp. You reached forward without thinking, catching his wrist and tugging his arm gently toward you. He didn’t resist. Your fingers were warm on his skin, and his chest tightened for reasons that had nothing to do with the wound.

You tilted his arm under the hallway light, brows furrowing deeper at the angry scrape. “With who? You look like you got dragged across concrete.”

Gojo swallowed, searching for something harmless, something stupid enough that you’d laugh instead of pressing. “Uh,” he said finally, deadpan, “the raccoons in the alley.”

You blinked. “The what now?”

“Big ones,” he added, fighting the smile tugging at his lips. “Mean as hell. Real claws on ‘em.”

You stared at him like he’d lost it. “You mean Mister Muffins and his husband?”

For a second, Gojo just stared back, completely blindsided. Then the laugh broke out of him, low and loud and genuine, curling up from his chest until his shoulders shook. “You named them?”

“They’ve been living out there since last summer,” you said, still serious as you let go of his arm. “They’re practically our neighbors.”

Gojo grinned down at you, his chest still shaking faintly from the laugh. God, he wanted to kiss you. To grab your face and taste the amusement on your lips, to press you back against the doorframe and forget about the blood drying on his arm. But he swallowed it down, kept his hands at his sides, and rolled his eyes instead. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, chuckling. “Mister Muffins and his husband. Guess they didn’t like me stealing their pizza.”

You hummed, skeptical but letting it drop, stepping back just slightly as his grin softened. The warmth in his chest was dangerous, pulling him toward you, and he knew if he let it go one step further, he’d forget the mask and suit lying crumpled on his floor just a few feet away.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. His glasses were gone, and without them, his eyes were sharper, brighter, like shards of the clearest blue sky. His hair was tousled, falling messily over his forehead, and his body… God. 

His pecs gleamed faintly with sweat, the defined ridges of his abs drawing your gaze lower before you snapped it back up, only to be caught by the flex of his biceps as he shifted the rag against his wound. You rubbed your thighs together unconsciously, trying to ignore the heat crawling higher between your legs, cursing yourself for standing here in a thin camisole with no bra, nipples hard against the flimsy fabric.

“You need to go to the hospital,” you said finally, your voice firmer than you felt.

“I don’t,” he said easily, brushing it off with a casual shrug that only made his muscles flex harder. “I know how to clean myself up.”

“That looks serious,” you argued, taking a step closer. “You can’t just patch something like that with a wet rag and a joke about raccoons, Gojo.”

“Relax,” he said, smirking faintly even as he leaned more weight on the doorframe. “I’ve had worse. Trust me.”

You glared at him, but the concern twisting in your chest wasn’t enough to push you past the thick, embarrassing wave of attraction making your thighs clench tighter. “At least let me help,” you insisted.

“Tempting,” he said smoothly, voice dropping a little lower, “but I’ve got it handled.”

And before you could argue again, he shifted back and pulled the door toward himself.

“Go back to bed, neighbor,” he said, his grin too soft for the words to sound smug. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

The door clicked shut in your face before you could think of another protest.

You stood there in the hallway, staring at the wood grain, pulse pounding, cheeks burning, your thighs pressed together harder as you tried to ignore the way your body was betraying you. On the other side, you could still hear him moving–too much noise for a man with “just” a scrape, but you didn’t push. You didn’t dare.

Not yet.

The lock clicked softly behind him as the door shut, sealing away the quiet hallway and the sight of you standing there in your thin camisole, your nipples pressing against the fabric, your lips parted like you had a dozen more protests ready to spill out. Gojo leaned back against the door, exhaling hard, the rag still clutched against his arm. For a long moment he just stood there, listening to the faint echo of your retreating footsteps, imagining the sway of your hips, the faint curve of your ass under those sleep shorts.

He dropped the rag finally, letting it fall to the hardwood with a wet slap, and dragged a hand down his face. His cock was already stiffening in his pants, the arousal that had been simmering ever since you leaned against the counter now impossible to ignore. Spidey senses–hell, tonight it felt like nothing but arousal senses. He could still smell you, the faint trace of your shampoo lingering in the air like a ghost. His body was strung too tight to resist anymore.

With a sharp huff, he shoved his sweats down just far enough, his cock springing free against his stomach, long, thick, the mushroomed tip flushed an angry red and already leaking. The sight of it made his breath catch–not because he hadn’t seen it before, but because the thought of you seeing it, of your fingers wrapped around it, had his stomach clenching in need. He curled his hand around the base and groaned low, his head falling back against the door.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the word breaking on a moan as his fist slid up the thick shaft.

His strokes were slow at first, deliberate, the pad of his thumb dragging over the slit where precome already gathered. The wetness made the glide easier, slick, obscene, his hips twitching up into his grip as his cock throbbed harder. He squeezed, groaned again, and shut his eyes–and there you were.

Your tits in that flimsy camisole, nipples so hard he could see the outline through the fabric. The way your thighs pressed together, subtle but not subtle enough, when you told him to go to the hospital. The concern in your eyes as you grabbed his wrist, your touch softer than he deserved, your mouth tugging into that little frown that made his chest ache.

He stroked himself faster, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he imagined you looking up at him while on your knees, lips stretched around his cock, cheeks flushed from effort. He pictured your thighs spread across his lap, your tits bouncing in his hands as he fucked up into you, the same frown twisting into desperate pleasure as you whimpered his name.

His head rolled back, sweat beading along his temple as his chest rose faster. The sound of slick skin filled the room, obscene and raw, his hand working up and down his length, squeezing just below the head before dragging down again. He could almost hear you–the soft gasp when you realized how big he was, the breathless laugh when he teased you, the moan when he finally pushed inside.

“God, sweetheart,” he groaned, hips thrusting shallowly into his fist, “you’d feel so good around me.”

The image of your thighs wrapped around his waist slammed into his mind, your cunt clenching as he bottomed out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you begged him not to stop. His cock jerked in his grip, precome smearing down the thick vein as he fucked into his hand harder now, faster, chasing the edge of a release that had been gnawing at him since the moment you leaned over the counter earlier.

His abs tightened, his biceps flexing as his strokes grew rougher, breath coming in sharp pants that echoed through the quiet apartment. He imagined your tits bouncing against his chest, your thighs slick against his hips, your voice breaking as you cried out his name – and that was it. His head slammed back against the door with a ragged groan, his cock pulsing as hot ropes of cum spilled over his hand and stomach, thick and messy, his body shuddering with the force of it.

He stayed there, chest heaving, hand still lazily stroking through the aftershocks as his cock twitched against his palm. Cum smeared warm across his skin, sticky on his abs, and the thought of you licking it off made his cock twitch again despite the release.

When his breath finally steadied, he dragged his hand up to his face, smirking faintly even through the haze. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, imagining the way you’d looked at him tonight, concerned and flushed, completely unaware of how close he was to snapping.

And on the other side of the wall, he had no idea you were lying in bed, thighs pressed tight together, thinking of him in almost the exact same way.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The city always looked different at night when you weren’t seeing it from behind your apartment window. The neon signs bled against the slick pavement, every puddle on the street reflecting a smear of light like paint dragged too far across a canvas. You hadn’t meant to stay out this late– a work thing that ran longer than expected, a drink with a friend that turned into two–but now it was just you, the click of your heels on uneven concrete, and the distant hum of traffic echoing up from the main avenue.

You tugged the hem of your short black dress down as the breeze caught it, teeth pressing into your lower lip as you thought back to earlier in the evening, when Gojo had leaned in your doorway with that easy grin, glasses slightly crooked, acting like the whole world revolved around his jokes. 

You shouldn’t have been thinking about him, not while walking alone at midnight through streets that weren’t exactly friendly, but your mind kept drifting to the way his chest looked without his shirt, the way his arm had flexed when you grabbed his wrist. You rubbed your thighs together unconsciously as you walked, shaking your head to clear it.

You were halfway down the block when you heard it–footsteps behind you. At first you ignored it, telling yourself it was just another late-night straggler heading in the same direction. But then there was a laugh. Low. Male. And before you could quicken your pace, a voice called out.

“Hey, sweetheart. You lost?”

You turned just enough to see two men falling into step behind you, their grins too wide, their eyes too hungry. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, fingers sliding into the pocket where your keys were tucked between your knuckles.

“No, thanks,” you said curtly, facing forward again.

They didn’t take the hint. Their footsteps sped up until they were flanking you, one to the left, one to the right. The taller one leaned closer, his breath sour. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t falter. “Touch me, and I swear to God–”

The one on your right smirked, his hand brushing against your bare thigh. “What, you’ll stab me with those heels?”

You had the keys in your palm already, ready to jam them into his wrist if he tried again, when a sharp thwip split the air. The man’s arm was yanked backward so fast he stumbled, a thick white strand of web pinning his hand to the brick wall.

“What the–”

Another web shot past you, catching the second guy’s jacket and slamming him against a lamppost. They both cursed, thrashing, but it was no use–the webs hardened in seconds, holding them tight.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat, as a figure dropped from the building above with effortless grace.

Spider-Man.

His suit was nothing like the red-and-blue plastered on the city’s billboards. This one was sharper, darker: matte black panels broken by streaks of deep cobalt blue, white lines cutting across the chest in a sleek, angular design. The spider emblem was painted in silver, its legs stretching long down his ribs. His mask was a seamless fit, lenses glowing faintly as they narrowed toward the men he’d just strung up.

“Wow,” he said cheerfully, straightening from his crouch. “Can’t even let a lady walk home without drooling on her shoes? You guys are giving chivalry a really bad name.”

One of the men snarled, jerking against the web. “The fuck are you–”

“Sticky,” Spider-Man interrupted, cocking his head. “Kinda like duct tape, but cooler. You’ll be fine. Unless you sneeze. Then it’s gross.”

You stood there in stunned silence as he dusted off his gloved hands, then sauntered over like this was all part of his nightly routine.

“You okay?” he asked, tilting his head toward you.

You blinked once, unimpressed despite your racing pulse. “I was handling it.”

He let out a laugh that crackled through his mask speaker. “Oh yeah? With what, that little set of house keys? Adorable.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You done?”

“Saving your life?” He pretended to think. “Yeah, I guess.”

You turned to leave, brushing past him with a shake of your head. “Great. Thanks. Bye.”

But before you could take two steps, he moved, a line of web shooting out to block the narrow alley ahead, his tall frame stepping in front of you. He leaned casually against the brick, head tilted, arms crossed.

“No thank you?” he teased. “Not even a little one?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “Oh my God. You did your job. Congratulations. Do you want a cookie?”

He chuckled, lenses narrowing as he leaned a little closer. “Depends. You baking?”

You stared at him flatly, unimpressed. “You sound like you’re in love with yourself.”

“Someone has to be,” he shot back smoothly.

You huffed, stepping sideways to try to slip past, but his arm shot out, barring your path again. “C’mon,” he said, his tone still playful but softer now, more curious. “Just one thank you. You’ll make my night.”

You looked him up and down, from the glowing eyes of his mask to the sleek, muscle-hugging suit, then back up to meet his gaze. “Fine,” you said dryly. “Thank you for tying up two drunk idiots and interrupting my evening walk.”

He hummed like it was good enough, though you swore you could feel the smirk beneath the mask. “See? Was that so hard?”

You rolled your eyes, heels clicking as you moved past him when he finally dropped his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he called after you, his tone warm and teasing, “but you’ll remember me.”

And damn it, you already knew he was right.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You hadn’t planned on staying in Gojo’s apartment that morning. You’d only stopped by to drop off the package the landlord had left at the wrong door, but somehow, twenty minutes later, you were still sitting at the edge of his counter while he moved around the small kitchen, glasses perched on his nose, hair still damp from the shower. He’d thrown on a white button-down that was currently hanging open over a black undershirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the muscle in his forearms, and you were trying very hard not to stare.

Gojo, of course, noticed anyway. He always did. He leaned casually against the fridge, sipping his coffee, his eyes sparkling faintly behind the lenses as you recounted the insane night you’d had.

“…and then he just shows up,” you were saying, gesturing with your hands for emphasis. “Out of nowhere. Webs those guys up like they’re nothing. Doesn’t even break a sweat. And then–” you rolled your eyes dramatically–“he wants me to thank him. Like I owe him or something.”

Gojo hummed softly, biting back the grin tugging at his mouth as he set the mug down. On the surface, he was every inch the attentive neighbor, nodding along, but inside his chest, his heart was thudding. He hadn’t expected you to bring it up so soon–though he should have, knowing you.

He wanted to laugh, to tell you right then that the man in the suit had gone home with your face burned into his mind so vividly he’d had to jerk off against his door to the thought of your tits under that flimsy camisole. But instead, he pushed his glasses up and said lightly, “Sounds like he saved your ass.”

“Please,” you scoffed, crossing your legs. “I could’ve handled it.”

Gojo tilted his head, letting his eyes linger on the smooth stretch of your thigh before forcing them back up. “With what, those heels? Don’t get me wrong, you’d probably make a decent mark with ‘em, but…” He shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt having a little backup.”

You gave him a look, sharp and unimpressed, which only made him want to smirk harder. “You sound like you like him,” you teased. “What, are you secretly a Spider-Man fanboy?”

The comment nearly made him choke on his coffee. He swallowed, masking it with a faint laugh. “Me? Nah. I just think the guy gets a bad rap.”

“Uh-huh,” you said dryly, turning back to the package you’d brought as if to signal the conversation was over. But then you added, far too casually, “He does have a nice body, though. You can see everything in that suit.”

Gojo froze.

You didn’t notice at first, still fiddling with the box, your tone completely nonchalant. “I mean, I get it now. All that swinging around, climbing buildings like a cat–of course he’s built. And the suit? Zero imagination left to the eye. Couldn’t help but notice the… bulge.”

His cock stirred immediately. Heat shot straight through him, so sharp it made his throat tighten. He forced his expression neutral, though his grip on the edge of the counter had whitened his knuckles.

“Damn,” he said finally, his voice lower than he intended. He coughed once, masking it. “You really don’t like the guy, huh?”

You looked up, smirking faintly at his tone. “Didn’t say that. Just said he’s overrated. Doesn’t mean I didn’t notice he fills out that spandex.”

Gojo shifted subtly, turning back toward the counter to pour himself more coffee, mostly so you wouldn’t see the way his cock was already pressing against his slacks. He hummed, feigning casual. “So you were checking him out.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, swinging your leg idly. “Anyone would notice. Suit like that? It’s practically obscene.”

He almost groaned, biting down on the inside of his cheek. Inside his head, his thoughts weren’t neighborly at all. He was picturing you staring at his cock through the suit, lips parted, thighs rubbing together. He imagined pulling the mask up just enough to kiss you, your tits pressed against the chest of his suit, your nails dragging down his shoulders as you realized how right you’d been about the bulge.

Out loud, he only said, “Guess you’re more observant than you let on.”

You smirked, sipping from the mug he’d slid across the counter for you. “Guess so.”

Gojo watched the way your lips wrapped around the rim, and he nearly had to excuse himself to the bathroom right then.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

It started as a once-in-a-while thing, Spider-Man appearing in your path on your late-night walks, leaning against a lamppost or crouched on a fire escape like he’d been waiting. At first you told yourself it was coincidence. The city was big, but maybe your paths just crossed. Then it was every night. You’d step out of the corner store, the plastic bag in your hand still warm with groceries, and there he’d be, mask gleaming faintly under the lights, waving like you were old friends.

By the third night in a row, you crossed your arms and told him flatly, “You stalking me?”

“Stalking?” he gasped, hand over his chest like you’d wounded him. “I prefer the term dedicated escort service. I only charge in smiles.”

“Overpriced,” you muttered, walking past him.

“Brutal,” he said, falling into step beside you as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “But worth it.”

And that’s how it continued. Every night. Him showing up, you pretending not to be impressed, him cracking jokes while you tried not to stare at the way his suit clung to every line of muscle.

Tonight was no different–except it was.

You’d dressed in a short black skater skirt that swished with every step, thigh-high socks hugging tight against your thighs, and a cropped turtleneck that left a strip of your stomach bare. No bra. You hadn’t expected to run into him–not really–but the way his head snapped toward you when you rounded the corner told you he noticed every detail.

“New outfit?” he said casually, though Gojo behind the mask was already fighting the twitch in his cock. The way the fabric outlined your breasts, the way the socks cut into your soft thighs–it was killing him.

“Don’t get used to it,” you said, brushing past.

“Too late.” His voice carried a grin, but his body was already tense. He followed close, closer than usual, and you could feel the heat of him even through the fabric of his suit.

When you reached the quieter part of the block, he stopped suddenly.

“Come on,” he said, and before you could argue, his arms were around your waist.

“Wait–what the–”

The thwip of his web was the only warning before your feet left the ground. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively as he swung you upward, the city dropping away beneath you, wind whipping your hair back as you gasped. He landed smoothly on a rooftop, setting you down gently but keeping one arm snug around your waist as you staggered.

“See?” he said, his voice smug. “Better than a cab.”

You blinked, still catching your breath, but quickly covered it with a scoff. “You’re insane.”

“You’re welcome,” he countered, still close enough that his chest brushed your back when he leaned forward.

You stepped away, arms crossed, looking out at the skyline. The view was breathtaking–golden lights spilling across the city, the river glimmering like a vein of silver–but you weren’t about to admit that to him.

Instead, you muttered, “How do you even breathe in that mask? Looks suffocating.”

Behind you, Gojo’s cock twitched so hard it hurt. You looked so fucking cute, standing there unimpressed in your little skirt, thighs pressed together like you didn’t realize how much that tiny shift made his brain short-circuit.

“I manage,” he said lightly, though his voice was rougher now.

You turned halfway, catching the subtle way he shifted his stance. “Do you save ‘damsels in distress’ just so you can fuck them after?”

The question was sharp, mocking, but your tone sent a shiver through him. He huffed a laugh, though his cock was already swelling thick and hard, straining against the spandex.

“That’s not true,” he said, too quickly.

You raised a brow, smirking faintly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He wanted to protest, but then you shifted closer, brushing against him without even realizing it, the swell of your ass grazing the hard outline of his cock. His breath caught behind the mask. You felt it–the heat, the pressure–and your thighs squeezed tighter, a faint tremor betraying you as you shifted again, deliberately this time.

Gojo nearly groaned, his gloved hands curling into fists at his sides. He couldn’t help it when one slid forward, brushing against your hip, and you startled but didn’t move away. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and guided it higher, pressing his palm against the front of your cropped top.

“Over the clothes, Spidey,” you whispered, your breath shaky despite your bravado. “Just this once.”

His cock throbbed, precum already dampening the inside of his suit, but he nodded, his voice cracking slightly. “Yeah… yeah.” He almost said your name–the syllables caught behind his teeth–but he bit it back just in time.

His hand cupped your breast through the thin fabric, squeezing gently, his thumb brushing over the hard peak of your nipple. You gasped softly, arching faintly into the touch, and his cock jerked again against your ass.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of you even with the fabric between you.

You pressed your thighs tighter, your body trembling as you leaned back against him, your breath catching when his other hand slid down to rest on your hip, holding you steady as you rocked slightly against him.

The heat was unbearable, his cock firm against your ass as you rubbed back, your skirt riding higher with each subtle grind. He let out a shaky groan, his head dropping to your shoulder, and you bit your lip, your hand curling around his wrist to press him harder against your breast.

“Spidey,” you whispered, the word breaking into a gasp as his thumb flicked over your nipple again.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He turned you gently, lowering you onto the rooftop until he was sprawled beneath you, your thighs straddling his hips. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your soaked panties through the spandex, and you ground down instinctively, moaning softly at the friction.

He gripped your waist, guiding your movements as you rocked against him, the sound of your thighs sliding and the faint squeak of fabric mixing with your uneven breaths.

You leaned forward, fingers brushing the edge of his mask, trying to tug it up, but his hand caught yours. “Not that,” he said hoarsely, panic lacing the arousal in his voice.

You smirked faintly, leaning closer anyway, your lips brushing against the fabric over his mouth. “Fine,” you whispered. “This’ll do.”

And you kissed him–through the mask, hot and desperate, your hips grinding harder against his cock as his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, deeper, until the rooftop felt like it might swallow you both whole.

It was maddening, the slick heat of your panties growing wetter with each grind as you swallowed soft, helpless moans against his masked mouth. Gojo’s mind was unraveling beneath the mask. Every whimper you made went straight to his cock, every shift of your hips had him biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from begging. 

He’d meant to keep it innocent–just teasing, just banter–but the way you looked on top of him, thighs spread, skirt riding higher to bare the tops of your thighs… he was gone.

One of his gloved hands slid down from your waist, fingers brushing the edge of your panties through your skirt. He didn’t even wait for permission this time–you were already grinding so desperately it was answer enough. His palm cupped you firmly, the heat of your cunt soaking through the fabric as he pressed slow, steady circles against your clit.

You gasped, arching into his touch, your nails dragging over his chest through the suit. “Fuck–”

“Shit,” he groaned, his cock twitching violently beneath you. “You’re so wet. I can feel it through the gloves.” His voice was rough, cracking in your ear, but his tone still carried that cocky edge. “I swear, I’m never washing this hand.”

You let out a breathless laugh between moans, smirking faintly even as you ground down harder against him. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Hot, though,” he countered immediately, rubbing harder against your clit, the friction making your thighs shake as you bit your lip to hold back another moan.

Your hands slid up his chest, tracing the hard ridges of muscle beneath the suit, down over his abs, and then back up to grip his shoulders. He groaned again, his hips bucking up to meet yours as he muttered, “God, you’re killing me.”

The rooftop was filled with the wet sound of your panties sliding against his suit, your gasps mingling with his rough groans as his cock throbbed, leaking inside the spandex. He was so close–too close–twitching with every grind, his mind spinning with filthy images of tearing that skirt off and burying himself inside you.

“Spidey–” you moaned softly, breathless, your body trembling as his thumb pressed harder against your clit.

He bit back a groan, the words almost slipping–your name on his tongue, his mask nearly lifted–when it hit him. That sharp, electric jolt down his spine.

His Spider-sense.

Gojo froze, the sound of your ragged breaths still in his ears as his body tensed. He knew the feeling too well: danger, close, immediate. His cock throbbed angrily at the interruption, but adrenaline surged hotter, overriding even the need pulsing in his lap.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, sitting up so fast you fell backward off his lap, your thighs spreading instinctively as you hit the rooftop with a soft gasp.

“Are you kidding me?” you snapped, glaring up at him, your chest heaving. “What the hell, you asshole?”

He was already on his feet, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet with restless energy, scanning the skyline. ADHD energy mixed with the rush of instinct, his body practically vibrating as he muttered, “Shit, I’m sorry–”

“Sorry?” you shot back, pushing your skirt down with a flush. “You don’t just–ugh!”

He glanced back at you, his chest tight at the sight of your legs still open, thighs trembling, your lips flushed and swollen. He wanted nothing more than to drop back down and finish what he’d started. But the distant boom of an explosion cut through the night, orange light flashing against the buildings several blocks away.

His jaw clenched behind the mask. He crouched low in front of you, hands on your waist, and before you could shove him off, you were in his arms again, the world spinning as he leapt to the ground below with one clean swing.

He set you down gently, his voice hurried and hoarse as he backed away. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear–”

“Asshole!” you yelled after him, breathless and flushed, as another thwip launched him back into the night.

Gojo’s cock ached as he swung toward the fire, the memory of your heat grinding against him still burning in his nerves. He muttered under his breath, voice rough inside the mask, “God, you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

And you stood on the sidewalk below, thighs pressed tight together, still trembling from the way his gloved hand had touched you, cursing yourself for wanting him to come back already.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The storm had rolled in fast. The city’s usual hum was drowned in the crash of rain against the streets, the wind whistling between buildings with enough force to rattle your window frames. You hadn’t seen Gojo since the morning before–a quick exchange at his door, his glasses fogged from the shower steam, his grin lazy as he told you not to work too hard. Then nothing. No sound through the thin walls. No telltale slam of his cabinets. Just silence.

By the time night fell, the storm was in full swing. You tugged on your thin nightgown–the one that barely brushed mid-thigh–and shoved your feet into slippers, grabbing the trash bag before it started to stink up the whole kitchen. The hallway was empty, the air faintly damp from the rain sneaking through the old building.

You shoved the bag into the bin behind the complex, hugging your arms against the chill, and tilted your head at the sound of something above. Not thunder. Not rain. A thud.

Your gaze snapped up, hair plastered against your cheek as the downpour blurred your vision. And there–on the fire escape leading up the side of the building–a figure. Crawling. In the storm.

Your breath caught, heart thudding as the figure moved toward a familiar window. Gojo’s window.

And the suit–black, blue, white–clung tight to every muscle as the man climbed inside.

Spider-Man.

“What the actual fuck,” you hissed, your shock boiling into rage before you could think.

Without hesitation, you bolted back into the building, your bare legs slick from the rain, your nightgown clinging to your body as you pounded up the stairs. Your slippers slapped against the steps, your breath coming fast, fury drowning out the thunder.

By the time you reached Gojo’s door, your pulse was roaring in your ears. You slid in front of it, nearly tripping, and slammed your fist against the wood.

“I know you’re in there!” you shouted, breathless, your hair dripping onto your shoulders. “Don’t you dare ignore me!”

Inside, Gojo cursed under his breath.

He was soaked through, the rain making the spandex cling uncomfortably tight, his muscles burning from the night’s patrol. He’d only just crawled through the window, mask dragged halfway down, sticking to his skin and refusing to come off fully with the water plastering it to his face. His pale hair was plastered to his forehead, dripping into his eyes, and his chest heaved as he tried to pull the fabric off.

Then he heard you.

He froze, eyes darting to the door as your pounding rattled the hinges. “Shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Not now.”

The door slammed open before he could bolt the lock.

You stepped in, soaked nightgown clinging to every curve, eyes blazing as you slammed the door behind you. Your chest rose fast, your breaths ragged from the sprint up the stairs. And then you saw him.

White hair plastered to his forehead. The mask dragged past his nose, still covering his eyes. Suit clinging to his chest and arms, droplets of rain dripping down the sharp lines of muscle.

You stopped dead, your whole body going cold despite the storm.

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” you said, your voice low, sharp, deadly serious.

He froze, mask halfway off, lips parted, caught like a kid in headlights.

“Satoru!?”

Gojo swallowed hard, chest still rising fast, every excuse he’d ever crafted evaporating from his mind as your voice cut through the thunder.

“Uh,” he said finally, voice cracking under the weight of the silence. “Surprise?”

You stared at him, fury and disbelief swirling in your chest so fast you could hardly breathe. Your fists clenched at your sides as you took a step closer, the storm hammering against the windows behind you.

“Surprise?” you repeated, your tone rising with every syllable. “That’s what you’ve got? Surprise!?”

He dragged a hand through his soaked hair, grimacing as the mask clung to his cheek. “In my defense,” he muttered, “you weren’t supposed to find out like this.”

You laughed. Sharp. Bitter. “No shit.”

He looked at you then–really looked. Your nightgown clung translucent to your thighs, your hair dripping against your flushed skin, your eyes lit with fire. And despite the mess, despite the panic, his cock twitched against the cling of the spandex.

Gojo’s throat bobbed as he forced a grin, though it was weaker than usual. “So… guess you’re not a Spider-Man fan after all, huh?”

You glared at him, heat rushing up your neck even as your thighs pressed unconsciously together.

“Don’t you dare try to joke your way out of this,” you snapped, your voice trembling with adrenaline.

And behind the mask, Gojo’s mind was a mess of panic, desire, and the quiet, sinking realization that there was no taking this back.

The rain was still pouring when you stepped closer, your bare feet soaking against his floorboards, the thin fabric of your nightgown clinging wetly to your skin. Your pulse was wild in your chest, your anger and adrenaline and the raw shock of what you’d just walked into mixing until your hands were already on him before you realized what you were doing.

“Are you hurt?” you demanded, palms sliding over his soaked chest, down his arms, searching for cuts, bruises, anything. Your fingers skimmed the hard lines of muscle beneath the clinging spandex, water dripping between your knuckles as you shoved at him to turn his body.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Gojo muttered, his grin cocky even as he winced when your thumb brushed a tender spot on his ribs. “You trying to cop a feel, or is this the world’s angriest check-up?”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your hands sliding up to his face, gripping his jaw. His mask was still dragged halfway down, covering his eyes, but you could see his smirk curving beneath it. Your chest heaved as you shook your head. “You left me high and dry yesterday. Do you even–do you even know how humiliating that was?”

He flinched at that, the grin faltering for the first time. “I–yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

“You’re such a prick,” you hissed, your nails curling against his cheek. “Showing up every night, getting under my skin, and then just–”

He cut you off before the words could spiral further. His gloved hands came up, framing your face with a gentleness that didn’t match the pounding storm outside, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a soft kiss. It was hot, deep, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his soaked chest pressed hard against yours. You tried to protest, tried to push him back, but your hands betrayed you, clutching at his cheeks, pulling him down as his mouth devoured yours.

You gasped into the kiss, your fingers sliding up into his damp hair, tugging at the white strands as he groaned against your lips. The sound was filthy, desperate, his body thrumming with pent-up hunger as he pressed you backward until your spine hit the wall.

His mouth trailed down your jaw, hot kisses dragging to the base of your throat, and then further, teeth grazing your collarbone as he shoved your nightgown up and over your head. You gasped as the soaked fabric hit the floor, leaving you bare in the storm’s cold air, your nipples tightening instantly in the chill.

Gojo groaned like he was seeing the sun for the first time, lips closing greedily over one hardened peak. “Fuck,” he mumbled against your skin, tongue flicking, teeth nipping just enough to make you arch. “Dreamed about this.”

Your hands clutched at the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair as he lavished your breasts with open-mouthed kisses, groaning softly with every taste. He palmed your ass with one large hand, squeezing firmly, grinding his cock against your hips as his other hand shoved between your thighs to feel the heat of your soaked panties.

“Over the clothes,” you gasped, echoing the rooftop, your thighs trembling as he rubbed hard against your clit through the thin fabric.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, groaning again as your body arched into his touch. “God, you’re soaked, baby. You’re gonna ruin this suit.”

“You already ruined it,” you hissed back, moaning as his teeth tugged at your nipple.

“Not ruined enough,” he growled, rutting harder against your hip, the outline of his cock thick and throbbing through the spandex.

The storm cracked outside, thunder shaking the windows, and you nearly cried out as he lifted you suddenly, slamming your back gently against the wall as he held you up effortlessly, your thighs wrapping around his waist. His mouth claimed yours again, desperate and sloppy, as he dry-humped you hard, each thrust rubbing his cock against your soaked panties, the friction maddening.

You gasped against his lips, trying to breathe. “You–you really save damsels in distress just to fuck them, don’t you?”

He pulled back enough to smirk against your mouth, breath hot. “If that’s the job description, I’ll take the overtime.”

You rolled your eyes even as you moaned when his fingers pressed harder against your clit. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah,” he groaned, biting your nipple again, “but you love it.”

Your thighs squeezed tighter around his waist as his gloved hand rubbed rough circles against your clit, your wetness soaking through the fabric. You were trembling, your voice breaking as you gasped, “Satoru–”

He kissed you hard again, whispering against your lips, “Say it again.”

“Satoru,” you moaned, hips grinding desperately.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his cock jerking as precum leaked inside the suit.

Without another word, he carried you into his bedroom, dropping you gently onto the bed. The storm raged outside, lightning flashing against the walls, but his attention was only on you. He crawled over you slowly, deliberately, his mask finally tugged off with one hand.

You froze, breath caught.

Satoru.

His face was more beautiful than you’d ever let yourself imagine. Sharp cheekbones, jawline strong and wet with rain, mouth flushed from kissing you raw. But it was his eyes–that impossibly bright, crystalline blue, now bare without his glasses–that made your breath stutter. They were electric, alive, drinking you in like he’d been starved.

You didn’t get a chance to speak. His mouth was back on you, kissing down your neck, biting lightly at your collarbone, trailing lower. He licked and nipped at the curve of your breasts, groaning like a man possessed, before dragging his tongue down your stomach. You whimpered, your thighs pressing together, but he pried them apart, kissing along the soft skin until his mouth was at your hips.

He tore your panties down your legs in one quick motion, groaning when the scent of your arousal hit him. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I’ve been dreaming about this pussy.”

He pressed his face between your thighs, groaning loudly as his tongue licked a slow stripe over your folds. You gasped, your hands flying into his hair, tugging hard as his mouth latched onto your clit. He moaned like he’d been starved, rutting his hips against the mattress beneath him as he ate you out, tongue sliding deep inside, nose pressed against your clit.

“God–” you moaned, thighs trembling as his gloved fingers gripped your hips, holding you down. “Satoru–”

He groaned into your cunt, rutting harder against the bed, his cock straining as he inhaled the slick heat of you. His hands slid down, pushing your thighs up, locking them against his head until you were practically suffocating him.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned, pulling back only long enough to slide a gloved finger against your entrance. “Gonna finger you open, sweetheart. Wanna feel you come on my hand.”

You whimpered as his finger slid inside, thick and deliberate, curling just right. He added another, stretching you slowly, his tongue circling your clit as your back arched. The storm roared outside, thunder shaking the glass–until a sharp thwip sounded, and the window slammed shut, his web sealing it tight.

“Need to hear you,” he muttered against your clit. “Can’t miss a single sound.”

You moaned louder, your hips rocking helplessly into his mouth as his fingers pumped deep, curling against your sweet spot while his tongue worked your clit mercilessly. Your hands clutched his hair, pulling him deeper, and he groaned against you, rutting harder into the mattress, lost in the taste of you.

“Satoru–” you gasped, thighs squeezing around his head, your body trembling violently as the pressure built.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your cunt. “Come for me. Wanna drown in it.”

The wave hit you sharp and blinding, your orgasm tearing through you with a cry as your thighs shook around his head, your cunt fluttering around his fingers. He groaned like he was coming with you, his cock rutting desperately into the mattress as he licked you through every spasm, every aftershock, refusing to let you go.

When you finally collapsed back against the sheets, panting, your hands still tangled in his hair, he pulled back just enough to look up at you. His mouth was wet with you, his eyes burning with hunger, and his grin was wicked.

“Not bad for a prick, huh?”

He was still panting against your thigh, lips wet with your release, when he shifted back, fumbling with the edge of his suit. You propped yourself up on your elbows, sweat dampening your flushed chest, your breath uneven as you watched him struggle.

“Fucking–” he muttered, yanking at the fabric. “Piece of shit–sticks like a goddamn–” He growled, tugging harder, the wet spandex clinging stubbornly to his chest and arms. His abs flexed beautifully as he twisted, muscles rippling with every frustrated movement, and you bit your lower lip without meaning to, heat curling in your stomach again as his cock twitched visibly beneath the suit.

“You good over there, hero?” you teased softly, smirking despite your breathlessness.

“Shut up,” he hissed, jerking at the zipper that refused to budge. “I swear this thing’s cursed. Who the hell thought full-body spandex was a good idea?”

You laughed, low and teasing, until his growl deepened and he yanked so hard the seam popped. “Fucking–dammit!” He cursed louder, finally collapsing half-off the bed with a grunt as he fought the top half down.

Your laughter bubbled out before you could stop it, the sound bright in the storm-muted room. But it didn’t last long.

Because when he finally shoved the wet fabric down his hips and his cock sprang free, long and flushed and heavy against his abs, you forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, eyes wide, lips parting as heat licked sharp through your veins. “It’s always the nerds.”

Gojo’s grin was feral as he shoved the ruined suit down the rest of the way, kicking it off impatiently. “Yeah? Still laughing?”

You swallowed hard, thighs pressing together instinctively as you shook your head faintly. “Not even a little.”

“Didn’t think so,” he muttered, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking once, slow, his head tipping back with a low groan. Precum glistened at the tip, sliding down the thick vein as he pumped lazily, his eyes hooded as they fixed on you.

Your thighs clenched tighter, your breath shallow as you watched his hand glide up and down, his cock twitching in his grip. He climbed back onto the bed, his body looming over yours as he captured your mouth in another searing kiss, your moan spilling against his tongue as the blunt head of his cock brushed your soaked entrance.

He groaned your name, broken and needy, his lips trembling against yours. “God, baby–”

You gasped as he pushed in, the stretch sharp and overwhelming, your back arching off the bed as his cock slid deeper, inch by inch. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your mouth falling open as the fullness robbed you of words.

“Fuck–” he whined, the sound raw, his hips trembling as he sank fully inside, buried to the hilt. “You’re so–so tight, I can’t–”

You cried out, your legs bending instinctively as he sat back on his knees, bracing his hands on the tops of your thighs. He pulled back slowly, then slammed forward again, the wet slap of his hips echoing through the room as you arched and moaned.

“God, yes,” he groaned, his head tipping back, his cock driving deep inside you. “So good–so fucking good–”

Your thighs quivered as he pounded into you, the stretch burning, perfect, your walls fluttering helplessly around his thick cock. He was whining now, shameless, his voice breaking as he thrust harder, faster, his hands gripping your thighs tight enough to bruise.

When he leaned forward again, your knees bent up toward your stomach, his thrusts went deeper, sharper, your breath catching with every snap of his hips. He hooked your legs over his shoulders, his chest pressing against your shins as he pounded harder, his lips dragging against your neck.

“Fuck–I can’t stop–” he groaned, teeth grazing your skin as he kissed hard against your throat. “You don’t know–don’t know how many times I–fuck–fucked my fist thinking about you in those little tops. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

You gasped, nails raking down his back. “You–you perv–”

He laughed breathlessly against your skin, the sound breaking into a moan as your cunt clenched tight around him. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. And you love it. Don’t even try to lie, baby.”

Your body betrayed you, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, your moans spilling shamelessly as his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you.

“God, you feel–so good,” he whined, his thrusts growing erratic as his body trembled. “So fucking perfect–I’m not gonna last–”

You gasped, the tension coiling tight in your belly as his pace quickened, his cock slamming deeper with every thrust, the sound of your wetness filling the room.

“Come with me,” he begged against your mouth, his tongue tangling with yours as he pounded harder. “Please, baby–want to feel you–fuck–want to feel you break on me.”

Your orgasm tore through you with a cry, your body arching violently, your walls clenching tight around his cock as you shook beneath him. He groaned loud, desperate, his hips slamming forward one last time as he spilled inside you, hot and messy, filling you until it leaked around his cock.

He collapsed against you, chest heaving, his lips brushing your ear as he muttered, breathless and grinning, “Guess that’s not the only thing white that shoots outta me.”

You smacked his shoulder weakly, still trembling. “Shut the fuck up.”

He laughed against your neck, his still cock twitching inside you even as he kissed your jaw, grinning like the menace he was.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

It didn’t take long for “neighbors” to stop being the right word.

Every time Gojo saw you now, he couldn’t resist. In the hallway, he’d press you against the wall, kissing you so hard your knees went weak before you could even fumble for your keys. On rooftops, after swinging you breathless above the city, he’d land with you straddling his lap, your thighs squeezing against his hips as his mouth devoured yours, his cock straining inside the suit until he had to pull away before he ruined it. Even in his apartment, when you came over under the flimsiest excuse, he’d corner you in the kitchen, lifting you onto the counter just to kiss you until you forgot why you’d come in the first place.

It wasn’t casual anymore. It wasn’t just banter. Every time, it was hungrier, filthier, his lips tasting of desperation as if every kiss was the last he’d ever get. And every time, you let him. You wanted him. You needed him.

So by the time Halloween rolled around, you decided to test him.  It was a perfect mimicry of his – the same sleek black, blue, and white design, the same silver spider emblem across the chest. Only yours was paper-thin, clinging to every curve, the high cut of the legs revealing the swell of your thighs, the zipper undone just enough to frame the valley of your breasts.

The second his door swung open, you knew you’d nailed it.

Satoru stood there barefoot in pajama pants and a loose tee, his glasses perched low on his nose. He was mid-yawn, hair sticking out in messy tufts, looking every inch the lazy neighbor you’d always pretended he was. But then his gaze landed on you, and the yawn died in his throat.

His jaw went slack. His glasses slid further down the bridge of his nose as his eyes widened, and you saw it–that split-second flash of hunger that told you he wasn’t seeing just a Halloween costume.

You tugged the flimsy hood back, letting your damp hair spill out as you smirked faintly. The black, blue, and white spandex clung skin-tight to every curve, the silver spider stretched taut across your chest, the thin material leaving little to the imagination. The zipper dipped just enough between your breasts to make your nipples push faintly against the suit.

“Trick or treat,” you said softly, trying for smug, but your voice came out a little breathless.

Gojo didn’t answer. He grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside, slamming the door behind you so hard the frame rattled.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. He crowded you against the counter, eyes raking over your body in the clinging fabric, and his cock was already swelling against his pajama pants. “You–fuck. You’re in my suit.”

You arched a brow, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse stuttered. “Relax. It’s Halloween. Last-minute costume.”

“Uh-huh.” His grin was feral now, wicked and knowing, his hand already tugging his pajama pants down just enough to free his cock. It sprang heavy and flushed against his stomach, the blunt head glistening as precum smeared over the soft fabric of your suit when he pressed forward. “Last minute, huh? Then why’s it so… fucking accurate?”

“Coincidence,” you muttered, bracing your hands on the counter as he slid between your thighs, his cock gliding over the thin spandex covering you. The heat of him seared through the fabric, the pressure of his thickness undeniable, and your breath hitched despite yourself.

Gojo groaned, his head tipping forward to rest briefly against your shoulder as he thrust again, rutting slow and heavy between your thighs. “God–this suit’s so thin I can feel everything. You’re not wearing a damn thing under it, are you?”

You bit back a whimper, pressing your thighs tighter together as his cock dragged with delicious friction over your covered cunt. “Maybe I like the breeze,” you whispered.

He groaned loudly, grinding harder, his cock smearing precum into the flimsy fabric. “You’re fucking soaked,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He rocked his hips again, faster now, every thrust sliding his cock perfectly between the squeeze of your thighs, the heat of your pussy beneath the suit. “Gonna ruin this suit before the night’s over.”

You gasped, bracing yourself against the counter as your legs trembled. “You’re–unbelievable.”

“You’re a fan,” he groaned in your ear, biting lightly at your neck as he rutted harder, his cock twitching violently with each pass. “Don’t even try to deny it. You came here dressed as me, sweetheart. That’s obsession.”

You rolled your eyes even as a soft moan broke free. “You’re delusional.”

“Delusional and about to make a mess all over your thighs,” he shot back, his breath hot as his hips snapped faster, rutting between your covered legs like a man possessed. His cock slid against the damp patch spreading between your thighs, his precum soaking through until the spandex clung wetter, tighter.

“God, you feel–so good,” he groaned, his hand sliding to your hip to hold you still as his cock fucked harder between your thighs. “So soft–even through this fucking suit–fuck, I can’t stop.”

Your breath stuttered, your thighs squeezing tighter as the friction built, your body trembling as he groaned in your ear.

“Tell me you’re not a fan,” he muttered, his cock jerking against you as his pace grew ragged. “Say it. Say you don’t think about me when you wear this.”

You gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder, and whispered, “You’re insane.”

“And you’re dripping through this fucking suit,” he countered, rutting harder, groaning when your thighs clenched helplessly tighter around him.

The room was filled with the wet, obscene sound of his cock sliding through the soaked fabric, his breath hot against your ear as you moaned softly despite yourself. He smirked, teeth grazing your jaw as he thrust faster.

“Yeah,” he panted, “you’re a fan.”

Gojo’s cock was still sliding between your thighs through the damp fabric when his restraint finally snapped. His groans were ragged, his hips snapping harder against you, but the suit was too thin, too teasing. He needed you–bare, wet, wrapped tight around him.

His gloved hands slid up your ass, squeezing hard before dipping between your thighs. You gasped when his fingers pressed against the slick heat beneath the spandex, his breath hot in your ear as he growled, “Fuck this.”

The sound of fabric tearing split the air, sharp and obscene, as his fingers ripped through the seam between your thighs. The flimsy material gave way easily, splitting wide to reveal the wet heat he’d been rutting against.

“Toru–” you gasped, your hands clutching the counter, your back arching as his cock brushed bare against your folds.

“Couldn’t wait another second,” he groaned, lining himself up and thrusting inside with one hard, desperate push. You cried out, your back bowing as the stretch filled you, his cock sliding deep, thick, splitting you open as your body clenched around him.

“God,” he panted, his hair sticking damp to his forehead, the nape of his neck tingling as his whole body trembled. “So tight–fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

His hand slid up your body, gripping your jaw to tilt your face back. You gasped as his mouth claimed yours from behind, his kiss deep and messy, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hips slammed forward. The sound of his balls slapping against your ass filled the kitchen, wet and sinful, mixing with your moans as he fucked you harder.

“I’m so–fuck–I’m so in love with you,” he groaned against your lips, his words broken by the force of his thrusts. His other hand slid up to squeeze your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple through the stretched suit as you whimpered against his mouth.

“Ah, hnngh Toru–” you moaned, your body trembling with every deep stroke.

He growled low, kissing you harder, rutting into you like he couldn’t get close enough. “You drive me insane–every little thing you wear, I can’t stop–fuck–I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The noise was obscene, the wet slap of his hips, your slick dripping down your thighs, his grunts and your breathless moans echoing in the storm-muted apartment. Your knees buckled, but his arm wrapped firm around your waist, holding you steady as he pounded deeper, each thrust rougher, needier, his cock twitching violently inside you.

“Shit–” he gasped, teeth grazing your neck as he kissed down hard, leaving marks against your skin. “I’m not gonna last–”

You gasped his name, your nails clawing at the counter as your walls fluttered around him, the pressure coiling tight in your belly. His hips snapped faster, desperate, his cock slamming deep as his hand clutched your breast tighter.

The orgasm hit you hard, your body arching violently as you cried out, your pussy clenching down around him. Gojo groaned loud in your ear, his hips jerking as he pressed deep, his cock pulsing hot inside you as he spilled, pressing his seed as far as he could with each ragged thrust.

He nearly tore the whole suit off you in the frenzy, his fingers clawing at the spandex, but stopped himself, panting, before tugging you around. His lips found yours again, swollen and desperate, kissing you harder, deeper, like he couldn’t let you breathe without him.

When he finally pulled back, both of you panting, sweat and rain dampening your skin, you glared weakly. “That was a fifty-five-dollar suit.”

Gojo smirked, still catching his breath, brushing his thumb along your swollen lower lip. “I’ll make you a new one. One that doesn’t tear.”

You scoffed, still trembling, cum dripping down your thighs. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, kissing you again with a grin. “We’ll cosplay. Take some cute couple photos.” His grin widened, wicked and smug. “Next Bugle headline: Spider-Man Has a Spider-Woman?”

You smacked his shoulder, still panting. “You’re ridiculous.”

He only laughed, kissing you again, his cock still twitching inside you.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆

Daily Bugle – Special Halloween Edition “SPIDER-MAN: HERO OF THE CITY… OR JUST WHIPPED?”

The grainy-but-clear front-page photo said it all.

Spider-Man, clad in his sleek black, blue, and white suit, hung upside down from a thick strand of webbing, his mask tugged down just past his lips. His body was taut, muscles visible even through the spandex, his arm bent to steady himself as he dangled with the effortless balance only he could manage.

Below him, standing firmly on the slick pavement of the city street, was you–in a sapphire-blue dress that clung to every curve like it had been painted on. The plunging neckline drew the eye, but it was the way you cupped Spider-Man’s face, tilting him toward you for a kiss, that had every reader double-taking.

Your lips met his with shocking tenderness for such a scandalous scene, the city lights glowing off the sheen of rain on your dress. His hand gripped your waist through the webbing’s swing, his cocky posture only half-masking the intensity of the kiss.

The caption beneath the photo read:

'Caught in the web of romance? Spider-Man spotted locking lips with mystery woman in midnight sapphire. Sources say the hero’s heart might finally be as captured as the criminals he webs up.'

And in smaller print at the bottom, a snide add-on from Masamichi himself:

'Is Spider-Man putting his love life before saving lives? Find out on page 3.'

A/N: okay who the hell REPORTED this post :( also need tonycries to notice me lmfao

The boardroom was silent.

Thirty floors above ground, the windows showed nothing but sky. No city sounds. No wind. Just filtered light across black marble and bulletproof glass.

Three men sat at the table. Two in tailored suits. One older, slouched slightly, sipping aged saké from a shallow porcelain cup like the world was taking too long to bow.

Naobito Zen’in didn’t need to speak to command the room. His eyes did enough.

The Zen’in Corporation had evolved. Gone were the days of dirty blades in the alleys of Kyoto — now, the family dealt in polished weapons and blood-stained contracts dressed as pharmaceutical advancements. They funded private military contracts, sold combat-grade cursed tools through shell companies, and quietly partnered with world governments to build control systems masked as “safety” tech.

On paper, they were pioneers in biotech and tactical defense. In reality, they were the spider at the center of the web, pulling strings through bloodlines and money and old war pacts written in flesh.

But even spiders bleed when bitten.

Naoya Zen’in leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, spinning a silver pen between his fingers. He looked bored.

“He’s still alive,” Naoya muttered, as if it was an inconvenience. “After everything we’ve thrown at him.”

Across from him, Ogi Zen’in adjusted his cufflink. His voice was lower, flatter, built from ice and calculation.

“Three of ours dead,” Ogi said. “Two branch heads and a handler. Sukuna didn’t just vanish — he made a statement.”

“Mm.” Naobito’s grunt was nearly soundless. He tilted his cup and drank slowly.

“He’s out of control,” Naoya went on. “This is what happens when you let a rabid dog run around with a name like ours stamped on his file. He was never loyal.”

“No,” Ogi said, “he was useful.”

Naoya’s mouth twitched. He looked young when he was angry — boyish and spiteful. “He butchered Hayato in front of a proxy meeting in Singapore.”

“Because Hayato threatened to leash him again,” Ogi said with a shrug. “That was never going to go well.”

Naobito placed his cup down gently. The sound was like a warning.

They both fell silent.

He finally spoke — his voice was sandpaper and steel, old and unforgiving.

“We pulled him out of that cage,” Naobito said. “We trained him. We gave him his name, gave him blood, gave him kills.”

“He was perfect,” Ogi added, nodding once. “Untraceable. Unregistered. The kind of enforcer even foreign agencies wouldn’t see coming.”

Naoya scoffed. “Until he decided he was done answering to us.”

Naobito leaned back, his hand closing slowly over the edge of the table.

“I don’t care what fantasy he’s playing now. I don’t care where he’s hiding. I care that every day he breathes, our reputation suffers. Three heads dead. Contracts lost. Half the old men too scared to sit in this room.”

Ogi folded his hands neatly.

“Sukuna Ryomen is no longer an asset,” he said. “He’s a message. One we need to erase.”

Naoya’s voice was almost a hiss.

“Then let me erase him.”

Naobito didn’t look at him. He looked at the skyline beyond the glass.

“Do it clean,” he said.

Nooya smiled. “When have I ever?”

Ogi stood.

“I’ll prepare the handlers.”

Naoya tapped the table twice and stood as well. His eyes were sharp now — hungry.

Naobito raised his cup once more, slow and final.

“This time,” he said, “make sure he stays dead.”

No wedding. No cake. No rings.

Just one scratched-up table in a dead-silent municipal office, a few sheets of forged paperwork, and two people who had no idea what the other really was.

You were dressed in smart, clean layers. Not too formal, not too cold — just soft enough to sell the image. Sukuna showed up five minutes late in a hoodie and combat boots, looking like he’d just woken up from a fistfight.

The clerk didn’t care. She slid the file across the table and barely looked up from her screen.

“Government partnership program. Joint housing. Name, signature, thumbprint,” she recited in a tone that said she’d rather be dead than here.

Sukuna didn’t say a word. He scribbled his name down in sharp, impatient strokes, and didn’t bother glancing at you.

You did the same — calm, clean, steady.

You didn’t smile.

No vows. No kiss. No pretending yet.

Just:

“Congratulations. You’re legally married.”

“You may now proceed to your government-issued family unit.”

You drove home in silence. He didn’t ask questions. You didn’t offer anything.

You picked him.

Stupid.

You picked him from a list — low-profile, clean history, flexible availability, and no official ties to any organization. He looked average enough. Rough around the edges, maybe. A little scarred. A little too calm. But you figured he was just some loner trying to disappear.

And if you needed to disappear, a man like that would help. Blend in. Keep to himself.

He probably thought the same about you.

Which is what made this so much worse.

You assumed he was the kind of man who needed someone. Someone soft. Maybe someone stupid. Someone to tie him down.

He assumed you were the kind of woman who wanted a picture-perfect family so badly you’d marry a man you barely knew just to get it.

Neither of you said any of it out loud.

The key turned in the door.

He stepped into your apartment and looked around once, slowly — scanning. You knew the type. Not careless, but casual. Comfortable in danger. His eyes lingered on the corner of the room where the wall met the window. You saw him clock the potential blind spots instantly.

He didn’t say a word about the place.

Just dropped his duffel bag at the end of the couch and rolled his shoulder like he was shaking something off.

“This yours?” he asked, tapping the armrest.

“It is now,” you said flatly.

“Hope it doesn’t squeak when I crash on it.”

“You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

He gave you a slow side glance, like he was already annoyed with the conversation.

“Why not?”

You lifted your chin, cool and mechanical.

“Because this is a domestic file. If he hears we’re not even in the same room, it’ll start to look wrong.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“…You mean the kid?”

You didn’t answer.

He snorted. “Great.”

He was rude. Unbothered. Disrespectful. And unfortunately, very attractive in a way that made you want to hit something.

You reminded yourself: This is just a mission.

You didn’t pick a partner. You picked a cover. A name to sign next to yours. Nothing more.

Yuuji was waiting.

You felt it before you saw him — the faint sound of his socks on hardwood. The nervous, restless shift of energy behind the wall. He was pretending not to eavesdrop.

You cleared your throat.

“He’s here,” you called softly, a little warmer than you felt.

Thump. Shuffle. And then—

“HE’S HERE???”

A small blur shot into the living room like he’d been launched. Yuuji skidded to a stop two feet from Sukuna and blinked up at him, eyes wide.

You froze.

Sukuna stared down at the kid with something between shock and offense.

“…Why’s it looking at me like that?” he muttered.

“I think that’s just his face,” you whispered back.

Yuuji stepped forward, all smiles and sunshine. “Hi! Are you my new dad?”

Sukuna blinked.

“…The fuck did he just say?”

“Language,” you said sharply.

“I’m six,” Yuuji said helpfully. “I know that I'm adopted.”

Sukuna turned to you, mouth opening — then closing — then opening again.

You sighed. “He doesn’t know anything.”

“Yes I do,” Yuuji said brightly. “But I’m not telling anyone. Because you both look like you kill people.”

He smiled.

Sukuna stared at him like he’d just grown a second head.

“What the actual—”

“I like your tattoos,” Yuuji added, plopping down on the couch beside him. “They make you look like a criminal. It’s very believable. Good job committing to the bit.”

“I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind,” Sukuna muttered, sitting slowly like he wasn’t sure if this was a prank or a threat. “He’s insane.”

“He’s a kid,” you said tightly, grabbing two mugs and heading for the kitchen. “He’s adjusting.”

“He called me a criminal.”

“Not inaccurately.”

Sukuna shot you a look so sharp it could’ve sliced concrete.

Dinner was the quietest chaos you’d ever survived.

You served noodles. Yuuji complimented the food too much. Sukuna barely touched it, chewing with the energy of someone contemplating violence.

The silence between you and him was loud. Calculated. Cold.

You passed him a glass. He took it with a muttered “Thanks” that sounded more like fuck off.

After dishes, you caught Sukuna in the hallway.

He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. You didn’t trust that look.

“What now?” you asked, trying not to show how tired you already were.

He didn’t even blink.

“You picked me,” he said, voice low. “Why?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean? You're the one who asked me about marriage”

He shrugged, but it was fake casual. “Just seems like you wanted this whole thing real bad. Marriage. Kid. Little house. Suburban bullshit. Makes you wonder.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“I’m not the one smiling like a Stepford wife.”

You stepped in, face barely a breath from his. “I’m smiling so the kid doesn’t figure out we barely know each other.”

He snorted. “Newsflash — he already knows.”

You both turned.

Yuuji was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging his legs, coloring.

“I’m not deaf,” he said cheerfully. “Also, that’s not how married people argue. You should study more.”

Sukuna groaned. “I’m not surviving this.”

That night, you tried to sleep. You couldn’t.

Sukuna was pacing the guest room like a caged animal.

You could hear him from your side of the apartment. Heavy footsteps. A muffled curse. The sound of something being dropped — a boot, maybe. Then silence. Then a muttered “fuckin’ fake-ass family” followed by the sound of him punching a pillow.

You stared at the ceiling.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

But easy was never part of the job.

The clock read 12:03 AM.

But you hadn’t been sleeping.

You were sitting upright on the edge of the bed, one hand resting against your knee, the other already slipping into the inner lining of your nightshirt. The room was dark, quiet — not even the floorboards creaked under your weight. You’d been still for hours, waiting, breathing slow, eyes half-lidded but fully aware.

The second the faint crackle hit your earpiece, you moved.

“…Target’s mobile. East sector rooftop. Package exchange confirmed. You’re a go.”

You didn’t reply. You never did.

Instead, you stood in one clean motion, stripped off the soft layers of sleepwear, and reached for the thin compartment hidden behind the dresser mirror. You pulled out the black suit, folded flat, lined with lightweight armor where it mattered. The zipper slid up silently. Hair tucked into a loose cap. Contact lenses. Thin gloves.

You moved like a machine.

Inside your nightstand drawer: matte-black knives, a silencer, two pins, a burner keycard.

No wasted movement. No breath out of place.

Within ninety seconds, the civilian version of you — wife, homemaker, soft-spoken newlywed — was gone.

Replaced with what you really were.

Asset. Phantom. Cleaner.

This mission wasn’t complicated.

Some idiot from the Shibuya political underground had gotten too confident. Started moving weapons between city sectors under false charity permits. You’d been tailing him for two weeks. Tonight was his final mistake.

Your job was to make sure he didn’t make another.

You slipped out the second-story window barefoot, landed on the roof tiles without so much as a whisper, and disappeared into the night — not a single trace left behind.

Not even a shadow under the door.

Sukuna’s eyes opened before the sound even reached him.

Not a sound, really. Just… a shift. An absence.

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, blinking in the dark, then sat up slowly. Something was off. The air was too still.

He pushed off the thin blanket and stepped out into the hallway.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

No kettle. No creaking floorboard. No footsteps from the kitchen. He listened harder.

Nothing.

His jaw flexed once before he moved.

Barefoot, shirtless, still wearing the same black sweats he passed out in, Sukuna made his way to your door and turned the knob slowly.

Unlocked.

Suspicious.

He pushed the door open, inch by inch.

Room empty.

The bed hadn’t been slept in. The pillows were untouched. The cover was smooth — too smooth, like it had been faked. He stepped further inside, eyes narrowing.

Everything looked ordinary at first.

Until he noticed the nightstand drawer was slightly open.

Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to be wrong.

Sukuna crossed the room, pulled the drawer fully open—

—and let out a low whistle.

Knives. Lots of them. Not cheap kitchen crap, either — military-grade carbon steel, throwing blades, a single retractable garrote, two handguns wrapped in cloth like they were precious. Hidden under the gun: a compressed file folder marked with a red dot.

“…Well, fuck me,” he muttered.

He stared at the drawer for another few seconds, then smirked.

Out of everything — the fake marriage, the creepy kid, the cheery smiles — this was the first thing that actually made sense.

He shut the drawer carefully, stood up, and chuckled under his breath.

“Of course she’s armed to the teeth,” he said to no one.

Then, a dry snort.

“…And here I thought she was just a lonely freak.”

He didn’t go back to bed.

He leaned against the frame of your door, arms crossed, that grin still half-twisted on his face.

You’d been lying. Clearly. But so had he.

And now?

Now things were finally getting interesting.

You closed the apartment door like it was glass.

Deadbolt slid silently into place.

The city still clung to you — the wet concrete, the rust smell of old metal, blood that wasn't yours drying on your cheekbone like ash. You hadn't even pulled the cap off your head. The black was still wrapped around you, silent and practical. Gloved fingers still twirled the blade slowly in your palm — a habit. Always clean your knife before you step back into softness.

You didn’t breathe until your boots were off.

But the second you stepped into the living room, everything stilled.

You froze.

He was sitting on the couch.

Bare chest, loose sweatpants, a mug of something steaming in one hand — leaned back like he'd been waiting hours just for this moment.

The TV wasn’t even on.

Sukuna raised his eyes slowly from the mug. Calm. Unbothered. Lazy smirk in place.

There was blood on your face. A knife in your hand.

He didn’t flinch.

“Have fun, sweetheart?” he asked, like he was teasing a joke out of you.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

The silence was tight. Too sharp.

You were calculating. So was he.

Your eyes scanned the room once — briefly. Couch. Table. Distance between you. The hallway to Yuuji’s room was only fifteen feet away.

If he heard anything, everything was done.

But Yuuji…

Yuuji could sleep through a fucking earthquake.

You dropped your bag on the floor, slow. The blade was still in your right hand. You kept it low.

Sukuna set his mug on the coffee table with a little click.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” he asked, voice still low, but the threat was there. "You out for a jog? In a stab vest?"

You didn’t answer.

You took one step forward.

So did he.

He moved first — fast and brutal.

You ducked under the swing of his right arm, pivoted hard, and used your elbow to jam into his ribs. He grunted, turned with it, and grabbed your wrist before you could slash. You slammed him against the back of the couch, arm against his throat — the knife pinned just behind his ear.

“You shouldn’t be up,” you hissed.

“You shouldn’t be armed,” he shot back.

You twisted.

He dropped low and swept your leg — you stumbled, caught yourself with one hand, and landed a boot against his chest, sending him staggering back.

Neither of you spoke again.

The room became a ring.

Every movement was contained — precise and vicious. You traded strikes like memory, ducking, twisting, reacting without thinking. He grabbed your arm — you broke the grip. He went for your throat — you sidestepped and elbowed his temple.

Sukuna was strong. Too strong. But he fought loud — hard bursts, heavy hits. He was all heat and forward pressure.

You were cold. Clinical. You moved like a shadow with teeth.

You used the space — the table, the couch, the walls — bouncing off each surface with quiet force.

A lamp nearly fell. You caught it mid-swing, shoved it down silently, and used the momentum to flip over the back of the couch just as he lunged at you.

He followed — and you used it.

You turned. He was too close.

You jumped.

Your legs hooked over his shoulders, brought him down. You landed hard on top of him, knees straddling his torso, your blade pressed flat across his neck.

Silence slammed into the room.

His head was pinned against the floor.

You were breathing hard — finally — sweat beading at your brow. Your hand was steady. But your body was pressed to his. Too close.

Sukuna was staring up at you.

He didn’t look scared. He looked amused.

“…Hah,” he muttered. “That’s kinda hot.”

You didn’t react.

You didn’t even blink.

But your knife stayed there.

Right above his pulse.

You didn’t move.

The blade stayed flush against the skin of his throat, pulsing beneath your fingers. Still and sharp and ready. Your knees pressed firm on either side of his ribs. The room was dark, save for the soft amber glow leaking from the kitchen light down the hall, but the tension lit every shadow around you like a fuse.

Sukuna didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even try to knock you off.

He just kept smiling.

That shit-eating, cocky smirk that made your blood pressure spike in all the wrong ways. Like he knew exactly how pissed you were — and liked it.

“You’re not supposed to see this,” you said flatly, voice like ice cracking down the center.

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered despite the knife so close to opening his carotid.

“You think I give a shit?”

Your eyes narrowed. “You should.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen worse things in morning mirrors.”

You pressed the blade in a little more.

He didn’t stop smiling. “C’mon. What were you doing, huh? Late-night charity work? Walking the neighbor’s dog in a fucking stab vest?”

You didn’t answer.

Your free hand slowly reached up to your ear, fingers brushing against the smooth curve of the comm still lodged in place. The thing had been silent since you left the field. No feedback. No questions.

Still. You didn’t trust it.

You didn’t trust anything anymore.

“You’re not dumb,” you said finally, pressing your palm to your earpiece. “So you already know.”

Sukuna’s smile dropped just enough to show he was listening now. Really listening.

“And I’m not about to sit here and let them hear this.”

With one swift motion, you plucked the comm from your ear — and stabbed it straight through with your blade, right there on his chest.

The plastic shattered with a quiet crack. Wires snapped. You dragged the knife cleanly through it, slicing into the carpet just beneath him.

Sukuna looked from the destroyed comm to you, amused.

“You always that dramatic, or is this just foreplay?”

You didn’t dignify it.

Instead, you said it plain.

“I’m a spy. Government contract. Freelance operative. They think I’m solo — no attachments. I was supposed to build a cover. Blend in. They gave me the house, the kid. Told me to pick a partner.”

You looked at him harder. “I picked you.”

“Shitty choice,” he muttered.

Your lip twitched. “Didn’t know you were an assassin when I checked the file.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were a nosy little spook either, but here we are.”

Silence stretched.

You were still sitting on top of him.

Still straddling him.

The knife hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

“The Company can’t know we figured each other out,” you said, quieter now. “If they find out we compromised the mission, they’ll burn me. And they’ll kill you.”

Sukuna tilted his head, voice low. “They can try.”

You leaned in. “Don’t be stupid. You’ve been hunted before. You know how this goes.”

He stared at you for a long second — then gave the softest, bitterest little chuckle.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was a ceasefire.

Both of you breathing hard. Both of you balancing on that thin wire between instinct and decision.

Then, finally:

“You planning on getting off my lap, sweetheart?”

The words were dry. Smug. Heat curling in every syllable.

Your body tensed as you suddenly remembered where you were — legs still bracketing his waist, hands still on him, cheeks still too hot for comfort.

You scrambled off like he was on fire.

“I wasn’t— It’s not—” you muttered, stumbling toward your bedroom door.

Sukuna didn’t move.

He just sat up, one hand reaching to wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth where you’d clipped him earlier. A thin smear across his knuckles.

Strong. Fast. Cold.

He looked at the stain, then back toward your slammed door.

And smirked to himself.

“…She’s strong for sure.”

His smile turned sharper. A little amused. A little something else.

This job just got way more interesting.

The apartment reeked of cheap weed, sweat, and the faint metallic sting of gun oil.

Choso was on the floor, shirtless, surrounded by half-assembled handguns and empty ramen cups. The TV was playing some rerun from the 90s, volume muted. There were bullet casings in the ashtray. A silencer on the toaster. A fake passport drying on the windowsill like laundry.

In other words: business as usual.

Sukuna slammed the door shut behind him.

“You’re married now?” Choso said, without looking up from the dismantled pistol in his lap, a rolled joint lazily balanced behind his ear. “That’s adorable, man. Do I get to be godfather?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna grunted, kicking a pile of tactical belts aside as he dropped onto the battered couch. “I came here for intel, not fucking bridal commentary.”

Choso cracked a grin, eyes half-lidded from the joint he'd just put out in a coffee mug.

“Could’ve fooled me. You’re glowing.”

Sukuna turned slowly, murder in his eyes.

“…say that again and I’m breaking your clavicle.”

Choso just chuckled, flicking a small lighter shut.

“Damn. Someone’s cranky. You fight with the wife already?”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Instead, he dragged a hand over his face, dropped his head against the back of the couch, and exhaled like he was about to start yelling.

“She’s a fucking spy.”

Choso blinked. Slowly.

Then blinked again.

“…what.”

“Spy,” Sukuna repeated, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “Not just some fake-happy schoolteacher. Government-grade ghost. Armor in her closet. Wears a wire to sleep. Nearly slit my throat when I caught her sneaking back from a hit job last night.”

Choso stared, mouth open.

Then said, with absolute honesty: “That’s… kinda hot.”

Sukuna glared.

Choso held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay—not the point.”

“She picked me,” Sukuna said. “I don’t know if it was random, or she knew, or if the agency thought it’d be funny to put a blade next to a bomb and see which one goes off first—”

“But she knows now?” Choso interrupted, serious all of a sudden.

Sukuna nodded once.

“And you?”

“I know everything,” Sukuna muttered, “and I’m not stupid enough to say a word to anyone but you.”

Choso sat back against the wall, expression sobering.

“Sukuna…” he said low, slow, the humor gone from his voice. “If they find out you two made contact like that—real contact, where names get said and truths get dropped? You’re both dead. Instantly. No debrief. No cleanup.”

Sukuna scoffed. “You think I don’t know that?”

“No, I know you know,” Choso said, rubbing his temples. “But you also punch first and lie later.”

They sat there in silence for a moment. Only the buzz of the television and the distant clink of a neighbor’s pan echoed through the thin walls.

Then Sukuna’s phone vibrated.

Not his burner. The real line.

The encrypted one.

His entire body tensed.

He pulled it out, stared at the screen.

URAUME.

Shit.

He answered.

“Sukuna,” came the voice — dry and silver and cold.

He exhaled. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“You’re alive longer than we expected. Progress?”

Sukuna looked toward the window — the street below, the headlights slicing through the smog.

“I’ve got a house,” he said. “Cover’s in place. Papers clean. Got the passports from Choso last week.”

“And the persona?”

Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “Married. With a kid.”

Silence on the other end.

Then: “Interesting.”

Sukuna didn’t dare say more. Didn’t mention the spy. The earpiece. The knife that almost carved his name across the floorboards.

He knew how fast Uraume could move.

And he wasn’t in the mood to bleed tonight.

“I’ll check in again soon,” Uraume said. “Stay still.”

Call ended.

Sukuna let the phone slide from his fingers to the couch cushion beside him.

Choso was staring at him again.

“You really picked a hell of a time to play house.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The silence was enough.

Then Choso stood, stretching, walking over to his scattered files, flipping through some tabs without looking.

“Oh,” he said, pulling a folder halfway out. “Forgot to tell you.”

Sukuna looked up.

“Zen’in blood’s moving again.”

Sukuna’s jaw flexed.

“Toward me?”

Choso didn’t smile, “Toward everyone. But yeah… they’re looking at you. And they’re pissed.”

Sukuna leaned back.

Smirked, sharp and bitter. “Let them come.”

— Chapter 01 — Chapter 03 —

.

.

.

Your best friend was acting strange.

Given, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for his fawn eyes to linger on you just a little more than what’s considered appropriate for a “friend”, or for him to burn with the prettiest blush whenever you caught him. 

But these days it was almost like he was avoiding you on purpose. 

Taking the longer routes after lectures, being struck pale as a ghost mid-conversation, always muttering away underneath his breath. 

Hell, one day you even had half the mind to jokingly ask him whether he was talking to someone you couldn’t see - to which Choso had sputtered and all but sprinted away from you. 

And here he was right now - towering right at your apartment doorway in just a snug undershirt and the sexiest grey sweatpants.

“Ch-Choso?” Your jaw drops slightly at his disheveled, heaving state. 

Milky skin simmered with a sheen of sweat that made his dark tank top glue to his broad chest, chestnut strands of his bangs falling out of his bun to hide his eyes from you, almost…feverish.

Frantic gaze bouncing off the beefy arm he’d kept leaned over your doorframe for support, “What happened- are you sick? Are you drunk?” A quick glance at the clock showed that it was well past 12AM, “Are you okay, Cho-”

And then he flinches.

Fuck- he flinches as if the sound of that very nickname falling from your cute lips made his entire body shudder with a thousand bolts of lightning. 

Baritone voice hot and murky once he utters, “Baby…”

Oh. 

You could feel the goosebumps starting to slither down your spine already, and you tug nervously at the paper-thin pyjama shirt you had on. Too-aware of the fact that it was the only thing you were wearing other than your thin panties- damn.

Noticing the way that every minute movement of yours seemed to make Choso’s pants grow heavier; you dare to take a step closer, and it only makes him grip onto the mahogany doorway until it splinters. 

Teeth grit. Nostrils flaring. Barely holding himself together.

Gasping, “Cho?”

“I need you.”

“Wha-” And it’s the last thing escaping your mouth before Choso surges forward like he’s being jerked, movements twitchy - desperate - he falls a few steps forward until he’s in your heated proximity. 

Your saccharine scent so sweet that he’d be on his damn knees if you hadn’t clawed a hand on one of his flexing biceps- a gruff whimper departing from Choso’s plush, pink lips. “K-kiss me.” 

Oh, fuck.

You watch with a carnal sort of desire at the way that he scorches with a breezing blush all the way from the tips of his ears, down to his collarbones. Fisting your dominant hand in the flimsy cotton of your best friend’s undershirt, just the tiniest, weakest tug makes him gulp.

Now that he started, he couldn’t stop.

“Kiss me- kiss me, p-please.” He’s finally darting his hazy peripheries up from the floor to look at you, you, and only you. Dragging in a deeeep breath of your air, his half-lidded pupils were begging- “Kiss me, baby.”

You’re humming, the curved edges of your fingertips curling ‘round Choso’s nape and pulling him in. 

He’s melting.

He’s melting and melting into the kiss - as if he’d been dreaming of this for just as long as you have. Even longer. 

Strong, sturdy hands wrapping around your waist to tug you against his hardened front, you gasp at the sweltering hot temperature he was radiating. Already feeling beads of perspiration starting to form across your forehead-

He’s sucking in a sharp breath, “Need to- need to tell you something.” 

Words huffin’ out through glides of his berry-pink lips across yours, each one wrenching out like it pained him to part from your candied mouth with each sloppy mwah! Blindly, he slams the door shut with the heeled back of his foot. “There’s- a- a thing-”

You’re grinning once his voice breaks - breaks, as soon as you’re sipping on the cold spherical piercing homed at the edge of his tongue like your favorite gummy candy. “A…thing?”

Through a slightly-cracked eyelid, your gaze sinks down between Choso’s thick, meaty thighs. Instantly feeling a wave of sap flood your mouth at the massive cylindrical bulge that tightened his sweatpants uncomfortably.

He was just too cute. 

“A ‘thing’, hm?” You’re breaking off to smirk, twisting a silky lock of his hair around your index in a way that makes the looming man in front of you shiver. Chasing and chasing your lips- he was so weak for you. 

Giving in, you’re just about getting ready to kiss your best friend silly once more - but what meets your ravenous mouth isn’t his soft, plump lips anymore. 

No, it doesn’t even feel human. 

What instead greets you is something frigid and slimy. Something that crushes you to him with a strength tenfold of what Choso had been using - almost animalistic - until you’re lurching back and gaping at the fact that your feet were now dangling almost two whole feet off of the ground.

Snapping your head to his face and- 

What…the…f-

“Don’t scream!” In a startling split-second, that black mass of goop masking Choso’s face slithers away in tiny tendrils to reveal, well, Choso. 

And honestly, you’re not sure if that wants to make you scream even more or just shuts you up completely. But whilst you ogle whatever it is in front of you, Choso keeps plowing on. 

“This- ah, this is what I meant by a…thing.” He’s stammering out nervously, dark brows crinkling with nervousness as he watches on for your reaction. “Basically- a few weeks ago- my body got infected by this alien thing- a ‘symbiote’, it said, and I-”

“Improved.”

You’re feeling that temptation to exhaust your lungs with yells once more as Choso’s swallowed up within that dark matter. 

Muscular and big. 

Except this time it was formulating a mouth - all wide and decorated in tiny, jagged canines - and slanted white eyes with not a pupil in sight. A dexterous tongue gliiiides down the crevice of its sharp mouth, glittered with strands of slobber. “We are Venom, pretty girl. And you smell…”

Venom’s voice was deep. Coarse. A rumbling bass that made the very bottom of your stomach quiver- you’re distracted only by the growling sniff he lets out. Monstrous ivory eyes locked right between your heated core-

“-delicious.”

Oh…he was reaching well near eight feet and twitching from the inside out once Choso fights to regain control. 

“A-as you can see-” Smiling sheepishly down at you - you blink, and your best friend was suddenly back. Eyes hooded, mouth snarling, looking ruined. What the fuck. “-he really seems to like your scent and it’s driving me-”

“Stop talking, boy, and mate the girl.”

“Shut up.” 

You blink almost owlishly in disbelief, and in something…else, as you feel your thighs clench together. A slight motion that Venom surely doesn’t miss, if the way that Choso’s lungs heave with more gulps of your sweet, sweet leaking pheromones was anything to go by.

And then, you’re finally piping up– “Let…let me see that tongue of Venom’s again?”

.

.

.

“A-are you sure? W-we’re best friends, and I’ve never…”

You’d be rolling your eyes at the repeated question if it wasn’t for the fact that Choso Kamo just looked so pretty when he was knelt obediently at the very foot of your bed. 

A thin sliver of sweat sliding down his temple, breaths coming out in heated gusts, slender hands balling into a fist and shivering once you smear your legs open just a fraction more. Twitching, white-knuckled like he was forcing himself to not just ruin you right then and there. 

“Mhm.” You’re nodding, and the very action is enough for him to snap his eyes down where your cotton panties were starting to dampen and swallow. “Please, handsome- don’t be coy.”

It was almost too good to be true. 

But, fuck, Choso wasn’t waiting around ‘till he wakes up from this dream.

With so much pent-up eagerness that he felt his lips twist into a sleazy grin- Choso’s crawling himself the few inches it was to stuff himself nose-deep between your pretty legs. 

“O-oh.”

First it was the tiniest tug on your restless hips, then it was a sniff- and then it was a bite of his honed, glossy pearly whites over the lacy lil’ bow homed on the hem of your underwear. A throaty groan snarling through his teeth– “Oh, baby…”

That did it-

Quick as a flash, he’s snagging his teeth on the flimsy fabric of your panties and all but tearing it off of you. Rip-rip-ripping to simply push its tatters to the side, Choso doesn’t even fully take it off before he was simply drooooling. 

Gulping and gulping the scent of your leaking hole. 

“Sweet.” He gasps out, words taking on a dark edge. And you swear the chocolate color of his irises looked as if they were almost glowing, “So sweet.”

“Hurry, the symbiote hungers.”

Sharp jaw ticking as he ignores Venom’s request, the fattened pad of his thumb spanks down on your swollen pussylips and spreads you all wide open. Cock twitching at the deafening wet squelch! that chimes once he gathers copious wads of saliva and spits. 

All over your lustrous cunt, slicking out a mess so great that it was already starting to form a puddle underneath your silken sheets. 

“And mine.”

“Tch.”

And Choso wasn’t just greedy - he was outright gluttonous. 

“You…you taste this sweet, baby?”

“Oh- ohhhh fuck–!” You’re shrilling out a syrupy moan once his chilly tongue piercing flicks at the tippy-top hood of your clit like a lollipop. Taking extra care to press down hard so that it has you thrashing-

“There? S’that good?” He’s roaming his mouth over your puffed-up lips eagerly, yearning. Not knowing what he was doing, just addicted. “You’re so wet, baby- s’this for me- r-really, really f’me?”

He just couldn’t believe it- and the only answer he’s getting is a few soft gasps of oh! and yes! Spit n’ whines overflowing your tongue with every slap of his textured tastebuds. You couldn’t help but nod your head down and admire just how drunken Choso was as he’s suckin’ away on your perky clit. 

The hollows of his cheeks sucked-in and flushed red, spit-glossed mouth wrapped snugly ‘round your sensitive nub. 

You’re whimpering, head thrown back at the grunts he muffles out between your legs. 

“M-more, Cho–” You mewl out in a tone that makes his tensed hips rut forward like an animal, immediately grinding against the firm base of your bedframe. Fuck. Snaking a hand down to intertwine with his mussed-up bangs, and tugging them free of his bun- “Wan’ more.”

“More.”

“Hear that? I wanna taste.”

His tongue’s so thirsty - throat so parched - that it lets out the most sinful sluuuuurp at the very first slobbery drag from the dewy base of your quivering pussy, openin’ up your plump folds so widely agape to lather down on the very top of your clit. 

Nodding and nodding and nodding- grinding up to tease the mushy tip of his tongue past your slippery folds just the tiniest bit. “More- please.”

And it’s not like Choso didn’t hear you - fuck, it’s that you’d broken him.

Because it happens in a singular nanosecond, it happens so fast you’re seeing cartoonish stars in your vision when he’s hauling you halfway across the bed like some glorified ragdoll. 

Thighs thrown over his shoulder, trembly hands guided through his sweaty scalp, mouth wolfish- 

“Keh. No wonder you’re a virgin, boy.”

“Sh-shut up.” He’s answering out loud, sending the most electric buzzes down your spine as he nips on the fleshy slope of your pussylips. His own ears pop! as the pointed curve of his chin hits your treacly cunt with a smack of skin-on-skin, so deep. Nose-deep till those lined tattoos on his face. 

Ready to suffocate if he has to.

“Oi- give me a taste, and I’ll give her…more.”

Upper lip glueing to your pussy, Choso’s making you scream every time the sharp ends of his fangs snag on your clit. “Shut up shut up shut up-‘

“Ch-Cho?” Fuck, it takes you every ounce of strength in your body to lift your head up from your creaky bedsprings. Glassily eyeing the way that his grip on your hips turns bruising with semi-circular claw-marks of his, “Everything hah! alright?”

And shit- he breaks off slightly from your dripping wet pussy once- twice. Thrice, each n’ every time letting off a pained grunt that forces him back to stuff himself at his favorite spot between your legs.

He couldn’t even break off to speak. To breathe.

Still murmuring his response at the outer edges of your saturated core, with so many numerous strings of slick dangling from his rovering, swollen lips. Gingerly, “It’s V-Venom, he…wants a taste too.”

“Oh.”

And shit- Choso didn’t need Venom’s superhuman abilities to notice the instant that you’re growing so much wetter. A silky torrent of sap gushing out of you to lacquer your inner thighs like a fountain, already making him lurch- and suck and suck up every pearly droplet.

“I…” You’re starting off, lip chewed underneath your teeth in a way that almost makes him jealous. The memory of his extravagant tongue still fresh in your mind, “-wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh? Well…”

“-about time.”

As Choso lets Venom take over, you can’t help but gasp.

Oh, you were never getting used to this. 

He was about two feet taller, hulking, monstrous. And the only thing more lecherous than that toothy grin he wore was his tongue - sliiiiding out all its endless inches and swaying teasingly to n’ fro in midair. Big. 

So, so big. 

“Eyes…” He’s looming over until scalding hot breath humidifies your features, tonality so gruff that it rumbles your very bones. Oh, he already knows of his effect on you - can flick his tastebuds out and taste it in the saccharine air. “Lungs…pancreas…”

The curly, reddened end of it stingingly slapping down on your thigh, Venom’s tongue is oh-so-long enough that he can lace it all over your shivering leg and wrench them further and further open–

“Pussy.”

And then it feels like you’re being split apart- just a few solid, thorough inches of Venom’s slimy tongue burrowing past your puffy folds, keeping your jolting legs pinned firmly by a few of his Stygian spirals. 

One taste. One taste is all it takes. 

You’re being rendered utterly stupid by the swashing flicks of his pointed muscle stirrin’ up your insides, wriggling in circular slurps around and around and around your gummy walls. Scarfing you down until his tongue reaches the very gooey bottom of your cunt and kisses your cervix. 

So hard that you’re pushed up the mattress and he’s forced to wrap a few tendrils that reel you back down again. 

“Heh, finish line.”

“What- oh…oh my god-” Tears drip down in constant rivers from your heavy lids, wailing whimpers breaking off from your larynx at every smack-smack-smack he left on that spongy end. Further pushing aside your panties, retracting aaaaaalll the way back to thruuuust- “Y-your tongue is sooo big.”

“So many snacks. How good.” He’s tittering out with a thundering pant, spiked ends of his canines littering your skin with gnawing bites. “How delicious. How…”

He’s sloshing his tongue almost aggressively inside, whacking your g-spot in-between his barreling journey to fuck you with his tongue just as much as he wanted to with his cock. 

Lolling sloppily, thrusting, dragging the ridges of his tastebuds across your g-spot. 

And it takes you a few more vulgar strokes, it takes you the sound of that familiarly melodic voice for you to flap your tear-heavy lashes open and finally look once more between your legs. “-mine.”

It’s almost as if both Choso and Venom couldn’t decide on who wanted to make out with your soft, candied pussy more. 

Because it was your best friend’s pretty upper half of his face peeking out from between your splattered legs, but Venom’s mouth that was pumpin’ addictively past your rubbery entrance. Over and over. 

“N-ngh pleeease!” Comes out your repeated record of whines, every mushy gyration so good that you can’t help but rock into every second of his frenzied cadence. Creeping down one of your hands to smear your pussylips wider with a soppy slurp so that he could go even deeper, “I-it’s so good- don’t stop don’t stop.”

And the look in Choso’s dark eyes is the most raw glint of disbelief that you’ve ever seen.

Unsteady thighs clenching as he hits his v-line against the wooden board of your bed and grinds, unwilling to angrily fist his raging cock the way he ached n’ leaked to, unwilling to take his hands off of you for a mere second.

“N-no no, move that hand, baby. Lemme see her- Please.” You’ve never seen your cute best friend dare to be so rude- urgently swatting away those few fingers of yours to replace with his own knobbly, greedy ones. 

Pressin’ on your weeping, swollen clit with the flat end of his digit - you’re coating his chipped black nail polish with so many layers of goopy slick that it trickles down to his wrist. 

And oh, you’d almost forgotten just got many frigid metal rings that Choso wore on his hot fingers. Sappily nuzzling the inside of your left thigh the very moment he’s slipping his middle past your widely messy hole and curling–

 “How could I? How c-could I stop?” He’s muttering away - octaves higher than you’re used to, hitting and hitting your bruised and battered g-spot at the very same tempo that Venom was, too.

Double whack after whack that made your spine arch curvaceously off of the dampened mattress, icy edges of his rings scraping your walls. Choso just salivates at the heavenly sight of you below him, “How could you even- think- I’m-”

“-addicted.”

And Venom chooses just this precise moment to make your stupidly muddled mind remember his presence until you can’t think at all. 

Prolonging his plumply constricted tongue - using his symbiotic powers and extending it even more feet stuffed inside your tightly cozy walls, slashing the very tip to become split-ended. 

“Pretty. Pretty pussy.” He’s groaning out carnally, and your throat rips with a scream once he’s starting up a thrusting pace that flicks at your weeping cunt with those two slithering ends of his monstrous tongue. “Don’t know who’s prettier- you or…”

You’re shivering then - shivering at the windy gust of air inhaled once Venom tugs you even closer by his black coils and sniffs. Breath hot, his French kiss on your pussy hotter. “-her.”

“Fuck- fuck, you’re making such a mess, Choso.”

“Mhmmmm—”

Shifting between both his tongue and Venom’s - every transformation had you dizzy. Alternating between Venom’s hard, almost violent thrusts with his split-end tongue to Choso’s sensual tickling of his piercing into your most favorite spots. 

Glittery slick and spittle dripping down like a glazing polish, Choso’s swallowing down every sweet gumdrop like he’s a man starved. 

Like a damn dog in heat, every pant of the honeyed pheromones between your legs was driving him fucking mad. Making his hips thrust-

“Sh-she’s drooling almost as much as ngh- me, baby.” He’s fighting back that damn parasite for more more more of you- for every squelch! once he’s mazing his second, third lengthy finger inside. 

Searching for your g-spot like treasure trove - hitting and hitting, you’re so pretty and gone that Choso’s chuckling. “Ride it.” Pap-pap-pap goes his hits to your delicate, most tender spots, faster. “Ride it- yeah, ride m’f-face like it’s yours, baby- ride it.”

“S-shoooo much–” And you don’t know whether it’s the torrents of slicked saliva falling from your mouth or the sheer overstimulation that has you jumbling up your syllables - but it’s enough to make both Choso and Venom grin. “It’s so ngh- haaaa–”

“She’s close.”

“Fuh-fuck.” He’s spitting into your drooling lips, right above your pulsating nub. Ringed digits so thick that it makes your knees shake and weaken. Sloppy. “Faster. Harder. Use me, baby-”

Again and again and again.

Your brain’s fuzzily stupid by the time you finally recognize that familiar twist at the bottom of your tummy, too. Blubbering out an unsteady, “P-please! M’not gonna- ngh! last, Cho.”

“I know- I know I know I know– make a mess.” He’s spitting out once more, letting a wad of saliva stream straightly down your slit and liiicking it all up before Venom overtakes him to keep on probin’ your entrance fully. Swirling every speckled tastebud until it was like the symbiote was trying to brand you–

And with a gluttonous swipe at the fresh beads of slick homed on top of your nub, Choso wastes no time before pinching your clit- 

“Cum. Cum on my tongue, baby. Mine.”

-and making your field of vision simply shatter with tears once you’re crashing into that built-up high. 

“Shit- shiiiiit. I-it feels so good, Cho- I’m- nghhh I’m…” It was an orgasm like no other- fuck, any of your toys were paling in comparison to Choso and his…parasite. 

Fully himself now, you gawk with your mouth unlatched into a sagging oh! at the primal way that Choso’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with each eager swallow. Thin lines of sappy slick falling from the pink, puckered corners of his lips and waterfalling all down the side of his damn throat. 

“Th-tha’s it-” His sopping wet tongue drags uuuup n’ down your open folds to trawl you through your euphoria, every lolling flick of the curled end jostling against your thoroughly-stuffed folds.

Pumping, pounding your glutinous walls until they’re sticking to his barreling digits like adhesive, the metallic band curving his fingers smooches your g-spot softly. Dimly-lit molten eyes widening at the sheer ribbons of sap you’re letting off with every white-hot bolt of pleasure.

“This- this is all f’me–?” He’s crooning out, dazed. Letting his jaw fall open with every quiver you’re instinctively clenching with your cunt, “All for me- me. More- more, baby.”

“For me, you mean.”

Choso- Venom- Choso just keeps on alternating their slobbering drags of your hips until you’re completely wrung dry. Even the tiniest spank of their rugged tastebuds making you squeal with overstimulation, tears pinpricking behind your eyes. 

“Aw, c-c’mon–” Your best friend slurs out in a tingling, pussydrunken tone - so gone that his perspired head falls n’ cuddles your thigh. Begging, “M-more…?”

“But Cho…m’sensitive.”

And he’s perking his head up like the thought didn’t even occur to him - only then do you get a final, filthy look at your best friend after so long. 

Grinning, he sucks on each of his polished, soppy fingers. Each and every one - looking right into your dilated pupils, “That was my first time.”

Fuck.

He was pretty. 

Granted, you always did know that, but right now - with Choso’s dark strands of hair hooding his half-opened gaze, what little you could see of his eyes gleaming, cheekbones burning scorched red - he was dreamy.

He’s wearing your saccharine wads of slick like a medal of honor. 

Thickly coating everywhere from the tattoo on his nose, to the lower half of his face, to bubble all down his jaw. A slippery wire of it spills from the corner of his mouth as it starts moving, an almost airy tone seeping into his voice. “I-I’m never wiping this off- hey!”

Before he knows it, Venom’s tendrils dart out to filthily lick off the remnant excess his host cherished so much.

Grinning, “Delicious.”

Fighting back his damn alien acquaintance, you stifle a giggle as Choso’s rosy lips jut out into a pout. Lifting his knee onto the bed- well, grindin’ it right between your legs so that he’s putting pressure on your throbbing slope. 

Fleshy thumb and index squeezing your cheeks together, “Spit in my mouth.”

“Wh-what?”

“Spit-” His sweaty forehead sticks against yours, humid breath clouding up your senses. And you could count every long lash, every smudge of his dark eyeliner. Hiccuping, “-in my mouth.”

And the moment you do- fuck, the moment you’re pursing your spit-glued lips to let out a saccharine web of saliva that slops right down his pinkish tongue with a splat! So loud and filthy and sinful that Choso only as the time to breath out a shallow ‘fuck!’ before he’s cumming.

Burning hot and feverish. Right then and there to create a dripping damp spot in his trousers- “Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit- you’re t-too-”

“Great going, virgin.”

“Shut up-” Choso grits through clenched teeth, desperately trying to heave his breaths back into some semblance of normalcy. Failing, once you immediately reach over and tug his sweatpants down-

He was cumming and cumming so much that you’re met with a white, streaming wet mess that gleams down both of Choso’s meaty thighs. They’re shivering with each ribbony string of seed that oozes down his long limbs, “O-oh, so pretty, Cho.”

“Oho? She’s an interesting one.”

“I-I know…”

And you’re not just talking about his orgasm.

Because when you’d imagined - on those long, lonely nights - that your best friend would be big…you didn’t expect that he’d be big. 

Damn near ten- no, maybe even eleven inches of fat, hot girth that swelled his mushroomy tip to be as cutely pink as a strawberry and just as thick. 

Your mouth waters as you follow the winding lightning patterns of his puffy veins, oh-so-prominently bloated that you swear you could count every throb-throb-throb. 

And what- what was that?

No, you weren’t imagining it. Choso Kamo had a tiny studded Prince Albert’s piercing right near the tip-top of his bulging cockhead. Cold and sparkling underneath the dim bedroom lighting. 

Mindlessly, you’re darting over to swipe one of your thumbs across a creamy bead of cum that’d started drenching his dark happy trail.

“O-oh.” Choso grunts at the look on your gorgeous face once he’s letting his chubby balls twitch n’ soak your skin with yet another splurging streak of seed. Again. Just from you touching him. “No one’s ever touched me like this- fuck!”

And you just had to find out whether he tasted as sweet as he looked.

Planting your mouth over his juice-capped head with a wet plop! you hum with utter delight at the caramel salted taste of him. Aching and pulsing underneath his piercing with just the tiniest kitten lick to his leaking orifice. 

“Do it, boy.”

“Wh-what?”

“Do it. I’m inside your mind, do it.”

And Choso really wouldn’t have considered being that rude - really. 

He really, really wanted to take his time slow n’ sultry with the one person who’s been the girl of his dreams from the moment he met you.

But fuck- Venom was jerking his body so that with the slightest rock, he’s rutting like a fucking animal deep inside the hot cavern of your mouth. Staining a milky white lipgloss around your plumpened lips, pushing his seed inside—

Venom wanted to see you choke.

“M-mmpf—!” And you can’t lie about the way the sheer force and heady musk of Choso’s v-line made your thighs squeeze.

“That’s it- cry. Cry on my cock- atta girl.”

“Fuck! I’m sorry-” He’s panicking from above as your pretty nose detaches from the curly black tuft of hair at his toned pelvis. “I’m sorry I’m sorry, baby. Are you-”

Only…for all his concerned apologies to shrivel up on Choso’s tongue when he catches the way you’re smiling. 

Cockdrunk and stinging at the back of your throat with the way that Venom had actually elongated Choso’s already-massive cock just a few more centimeters by accident. Oh, fuck…

The hazed look that’d crept into your eyes as you look up makes the towering man shiver. Striking him to his very cock, “C’mon- fuck me, Cho.”

“C’mon. Don’t wanna disappoint the pretty girl.”

Choso doesn’t even remember getting rid of his undershirt, his sweatpants, everything but his silver rings and necklace - but what he does remember is the way your eyes had widened just the slightest fraction as you took in all of him.

Shit, was he sculpted by the Greek gods or what?

You could count every one of his eight, toned washboard abs - making the broad width of his pecs look so thick. So engulfing as they tense n’ ripple once your best friend slouches sexily on top of you to pull off your cotton t-shirt.

“Oh.” He’s gasping- you’re not wearing a bra. Completely naked underneath him except for the lecherous remnants of your torn panties still hanging on. 

Ones that he keeps on - even when you try to shuffle them down with a whine - once he’s flipping the two of you over to let you straddle his slenderly sculptured hips. 

“Keh- this position.”

“Shut up and watch.”

Blushing and pretty.

Choso’s teary lashes knock against the apples of his cheeks as he blinks furiously up at you, throat scratchily raw. Gulping more of your scent, “R-ride me, baby.”

“Cho–” You’re sliding the mounds of your ass gingerly against his aching hot length, shudders skittering down your spine at the sheer size of him pressing up into you. “Y-you’re so big, though- don’t know if it’ll fit.”

“I’ll make it fit-”

“A-am I actually that big?” He’s whispering, in awe. Watching with damply bated breath as he’s spanking his cock against your right ass cheek with a wet smack! smack! smack!

Pointing that curved, bulbous tip right between your pussylips and sliiiiiding it up n’ down so that you’re coating him in all your sweet juices, Choso’s guiding his girth until your hole was quivering for something - anything. 

Him him him. 

Panting at the first squeeze of his reddened, blushing tip- “Oh, you feel like th-this?” His pitched voice wavers almost as much as his heavy eyelids, falling apart with just that first taste of your perfect cunt. “Fuh-fuuuuuck fuck fuck fuck! Baby- you feel like this?”

This was heaven.

And he’s spurting out a few stray wads of cum just from feeling your velvety walls, letting it thwack! against your goopy innards n’ stick to your trembling folds. 

“You got it- you got it.” Choso’s voicebox cracks with a lil’ whimper at that snug resistance, “You can take it- you can take it. I’ll make it fit.”

“Oh- oh my god- Choso- Cho–!”

“S’it too biiig for my girl, hmm?” Croaking out in unison with the aged bedcoils of your mattress, each and every time Choso jerks his hips off the bed and pushes. Just to fit in. “Baby-” Choso gasps as you throw your head back with a mewl at the sheer size of him.

His painfully-aching cock was so big that just the stoutest inch being bullied inside was enough to make your vision blotch with white. Rounded circumference stretching n’ stretching your slick-flooded walls stupid- “I’m sorry, baby- sorry s’big. But you’re my girl- my girl can take it- you can…you can take it.”

It’s inch by overlarge inch.

Choso’s scraping his way down your walls so sensually that you could feel your fuzzy brain sparking every time one of his prominent veins was draaaagging a zig-zagging pattern along.

Curled toes twitching with each passing second, “S-s’it almost all the way in, baby–?”

“Mhm—” And you’re just letting out the cutest cry once he finally eases himself all the way in, practically impaling you. Head throwing back, tits bouncing, cunt overspilling. 

“Hmmm…maybe this position isn’t so bad.”

Choso didn’t disagree, but it took every single shred of rationality left inside of him to push back Venom’s rasping voice and wrench out a desperate thrust. Allll the way from the globular ends of his ruby-red tip till your sensitive pussy tickled against his soaked-through happy trail.

Tenderly caressing your palm down his hardened front, “I-it’s in–?” Your hitched tone makes his eyes roll back, and yet- and yet, he’s fighting to bring them back down n’ watch your gaped bounces back into his sloppy pace. “It’s in. O-oh my god, c-can feel you all the way in hck! here.”

He’s just so big.

And you’re swearing that Choso only fattens himself even bigger, fatter, wider once you slide your hand about halfway up your tummy. Feeling for that one spot he was bruisin’ right into your spongy cervix.

Biting his lip not to cum again, “Yeah-” You’re jostled ever-so-slightly on top of him as he’s sucking in a deeeep breath, “Yeah yeah yeah- you got it. Y-you better take all of it hngh! Take every. Single. Inch.”

Every vein, every sliding ridge, every throb that was bucked into your readily-awaiting entrance- Choso wasn’t just mazing open your cunt- 

He was spearheading you with such thorough thrusts that made your back curve backwards just so.

“Tch- I’d fuck her even better.”

“No you w-wouldn’t.”

Lazily weaving tendrils start tickling your outer pussy, threatening to slip n’ slide their greedy way past your lips. “Is that a challenge? Summon Venom, if you dare.”

“What’s he saying, Cho?” You coo, tear-shimmered lashes blinking adorably down at his internal argument. And as if he could ever say no to you - hell, the response is dripping from his tongue before he even realizes it.

Grouching out, though he couldn’t deny the way his own cock was jolting at the very idea- “H-he wants a try, too…says he’ll be even better.”

A cockdrunk smile plasters itself onto your face- “Prove it.”

And you were right in your prediction - Venom didn’t just make Choso meaner, it made him bigger. 

So big, in fact, that the bawling tip gently kissin’ your g-spot was instantaneously skidding past to give your cervix a longer, harsher probe. 

So hard that you’re sure there’s now a permanent crater of his exact meaty circumference. And you’re being filled with the distinct feeling that Venom could’ve gone bigger - he just didn’t want to break you…yet. 

Draping across his oversized pectorals, you’re nothing against his over eight foot height. “Y-you…”

Those slimy raven molasses covering his half-fucked face once more to form a rude Cheshire-cat smile. “Me.” Planting an Earth-shattering, mind-numbing ram you’re feeling all the way in your lungs, his pulsing length is so widely thick that Venom has to bite down on his lips and manhandle you for his thrusts to move to and fro. “I am inside your pussy, greedy girl. Me.”

Flicking his dexterous shaft to brush your tingling g-spot, he’s using his powers so much that you could almost feel yourself bonding with the symbiote, with Choso.

“I know every inch, nerve, and spot inside of you. I can make you scream-” Coiling mass contracting to barrel your elastic walls even wider, you’re rightfully crying out at the way he molds himself deliciously into your very walls. 

“Nghhh- fuck! Fuck, y-you’re in sooo deep-”

Stealing your sweetened scent, making him heated. “Hmmm, kiss me.”

But that didn’t mean that your best friend- your…Choso was going down that easy.

In a few more brushstrokes of his ravaging cock against your softest spot - before you can kiss him - Choso’s blinking back the cobwebs of his symbiote so that his face spies out. Only the lower half of his body - his length - partially-covered–

“Keh- annoying.”

“Should’ve- should’ve done this sooner-” He hisses out through a narrowed pant, flecks of spittle flying angrily across the non-existent space between your two faces. “-done this muuuuch sooner- you h-have no idea.”

“O-oh nghhh fuck fuck fuck–” The backs of your thighs ache after every slamming pap! you’re bouncing back into his swervin’ hips. 

Pounding away like he was crazed, every jackhammer only makes Choso grow more feral. Every swab of his prolonged cock inside your silken pussy feral-

His rummaging, fat-tipped shaft was so large that you could feel the way his ridged cockhead scraped your cervix with his studded Prince Albert’s, roaming like a searchlight to spot your most favorite angles.

Eyeliner practically staining down his cheeks now, “Should’ve fuh-fucked you the moment I ngh- met you. Should’ve fucked you r-right there on the lecture table in front of everyone- sh-should’ve—” You’re squealing once his doughy, ringed fingertips dart down to toy with that pretty lil’ clit of yours. “-should’ve let her drive me hck! crazy sooner, baby.”

Oh, he was babbling. 

Cooing, you slither one of your hands through the dampened valleys of his dark hair, “Awww– d-drivin’ you crazy, Cho–?”

“Yes.” He’s seething, he’s heaving. Saturated pheromones driving him mad, he can’t help but flop his pierced tongue across your lips and suck. “S-s’not even that damn parasite anymore-”

Pace growing sloppier by the minute, barely even noticing when those same digits coddling your clit had started to twist and turn in shape. Overtaken by Venom and his meeeean tendrils that alternate between dragging on your overstimulated clit and slipping inside…

“Sh-shit– Venom?”

“Sayin’ another man’s name when I-I’m here- ngh–” Choso’s nosebridge crinkles as he teases you, watery honeypool eyes dropping down to where your glossy hole was swallowing him whole. 

Mouth falling into an ah! at the way Venom’s wisping vines were still wrapped snugly to smooch your walls wiiiide open. And fuck- fuck, the sight. The sight of you bulging with all of his staggering cock still taking in more, more, more of him.

“I see…” He’s giggling - giggling, glassy eyes boring dead-on up at you through his curtained bangs and oh- they were shaped into hearts. Baritone voice rasping as one of his veins itches your walls, snagging past your underwear. “Greedy girl.”

It’s almost as if you didn’t know whether it was Choso or Venom taking over now, only fucked dumb with every sharp jut. Both his cock- his tentacle-like strands spreading you open, targeting your g-spot over n’ over with his plummy, split-ended tip. 

Digging inside, scouring so wetly.

Spread twice as open that the squelch! squelch! squelch! of it resonating each nanosecond was quickly becoming Choso’s favorite song. 

You were damn near shattered.

“I-I’m so close-” You’re hiccuping through your salty tears, brows scrunching at the stormy wave of bliss that was surely oncoming. “-f-fuck! Choso m’gonna cum.”

“Fuck- fuck, m’not gonna last either–” His response comes out guttural, and it’s just so sexy the way that he’s forced to gnaw on the strawberry gummy texture of the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from filling you up right then and there. 

Tender, aching balls squeezing dangerously before-

“Breed her.” Venom’s voice thunders out enough for the both of you to hear, excitement spiking down your spine and straight to where your pussy was drooling. “I know you want to. I know you both want it.”

Shocked, Choso sounds as if he could still barely even believe this was all real. “I-is that true, baby?” Tentatively craning you over to drag his lips softly against yours, “Can I really…inside…my girl?”

“Mhm– please- please, I wan’ it all inside—!” 

“G-get ready.” 

The plush, cushy tip of his cock outlines a water-logged line straight down your cervix as Choso leans further into the bed. Feet planting down flatly so that he can pressurize his powerful, inhuman hips to thrust-

“She’s about t-to be full- so full.” You can feel such pangs of desire as his teeth pull back into a primal snarl, tear-glinted eyes locked permanently where his red, swollen cock was disappearing between your legs. “So full that you won’t even remember what it ngh- feels like w-without me stuffed inside this cunt.”

Squirming with a yearning for sweet, sweet release once he hovers a fingertip over to about halfway up your tummy and draws an invisible line there.

“H-here.” Deepening it with the pressure of his rude digits, Choso’s right hand still rolls over your clit with a few shapes of hearts. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Get ready here–”

Whining, “I’m- I’m gonna-”

Before Venom’s slimy tendrils pinch it once more and you’re cumming- and so is he. 

But Choso doesn’t even realize it - doesn’t even remember to breathe the very moment you’re creaming all down his pummeling cock. Such cute twitches taking over your body as you shut your eyes and riiiide it all out. 

Using his sloppily saturated shaft like a dart that was pokin’ the bullseye of your pussy again and again. Every brushing skid straight across slapping your g-spot repeatedly to drag out your high with a squeeeelch.

And Choso’s licking his lips at the glossy lathering that glued to your folds, then - and only then - catching sight of the dollops of creamy white that was frothing out of your glistening entrance. 

Thick and hot. 

Every splat! of his ribbony sap hits the back of your pussy like heavily condensed cream, swashing inside of you like a sizzling second skin. It feels so filthy to have his mess beading down your walls and forming such a soaking ring ‘round his bulky hilt. 

Your meaty folds spread to smear the puddle that was forming up his happy trail, “You- you feel so good inside.”

“O-oh-” Almost thankful as Venom’s dark strands push aside your torn, sullied panties further for his host to take a better look. Blushing all the way to the tattoos across his nosebridge, “A…a creampie.” 

He’d cum- he’d really, really cum - inside of you. Pressing down on the prettily jiggling tummy bulge he was fucking into you- and it’s enough to make you scream. “Want more.”

And you’re just tapering off from your own orgasm, eardrums nearly popped yet still managing to register those words. Clenching, “Wh-what? Will it- hngh- even fit, Choso?”

“No- nononono it will- it will.” Urgent, rapidly he’s flipping the two of you immediately over to hover on top of you and rut- like an animal. 

You’re gasping once your head plops down on the soft mattress, heels struggling to cling onto Choso’s sweat-laminated hips until he’s trekking his beefy arms underneath and hauling them over his shoulders. Bending, bending, bending into a–

Oh, a mating press. 

He had you manhandled like some lawnchair into a mating press. The sloppiest of its kind, he’s using Venom’s tendrils to lock your ankles together in just two blinks of his eye.

“I can make it fit–” Growling through the tiniest gaps of his grit pearly whites, he kisses his forehead to yours and inhales that sweet scent of yours still permeating the heady air. The chilly heard pendant of his necklace hits the front of your chin and makes you keen. Rough, rugged through punctuating rams, “I will- I will I will- it’ll fit- It will.”

Shivering and shuddering. 

He struggles to even focus his eyesight on you properly - and Choso’s heated maw droooops at the deafening squelch! your pussy pushes out once he sinks all the way back in.

A thick capping of white syrup rising all the way to the top once his massive girth once more fills out your every nook and cranny. He’s still so ravenous that the sight down there is enough to make his mouth water. 

And this position, this angle made Choso’s elongated shaft lean into your g-spot so bruisingly that with only a few more strokes you’re cumming again. 

Fleeting, and faster than you both know it.

It’s only once Choso sniffs at the air and grins that he realizes the rapidly pulsing ba-dump–! of your velveteen walls was because you’re bein’ his good girl and cumming once more. 

Heavy breeder balls striking the treacly slope of your cunt until they were raw and red - you’re sure that the both of you are bruised everywhere. His thighs on your own, your ass on his pelvis, you can’t even wriggle your ankles free because Venom’s keeping a firm grip on them.

Rendering you at the full mercy of Choso’s thrashes dragging out your high, “P-please- fuck- it just f-feels too good, Cho-!”

“S’good- s’good-” He’s flushing out in something that looks like a mix of relief and need. No sooner milking himself on your tightly clenched pussy until you’re being filled all over again.

This time with white, wispy ropes of seed that ache his sensitive shaft to spray out, still coating your gummy walls with viscid layers upon layers. So much.

“So good f’me- so good. Look how much sh-she’s ngh- suckin’ in, sooooo full and- and warm…” He was practically twitching right now, trembling. “Jus’ look at that greedy girl.”

You couldn’t even be moved without feeling all its wads splosh inside of you.

And he still wanted more. 

Yelping, your legs struggle to shut once his sloppy cadence turns even sloppier. Lazier. 

“O-one more-” Choso’s puffing out in a clouded pant, “Keep- keep those pretty legs hck! open f’me- I beg. M’begging- take it, baby.”

Vein-covered forearms placing attractively upon either side of your head to lace right on top of your crowned scalp and push- Weaving wines of the symbiote winding down to furiously pump his cock.

To bloat himself up oh-so-thick straight after two whole orgasms, flying up and down up and down up and down to make his cherry-red divot start weeping once more. “One more- one more.”

“Nghh fuck fuck- Choso–!” Your lower lip wobbles cutely at the carnal glissade of his washboard abs down your own front, he was so strong that you could count every flex and ripple. “S-shooo sensitive-” Eyes shuttering tearfully, you can only jerk your hips up weakly. “-so much. Too much.”

“Never too much.”

Venom’s voice speaks up from somewhere, and you’re feeling the snaking, slimy journey of his tendrils twistin’ around your tits to grope. A greedy handful that teases your hardened nipples so–

“Less talking. More fucking.”

“W-woah-” Choso breathes at the sight before him. You were ruined in only ways he’d seen in his wettest dreams - and it’s not like he was doing any better. Because the way your hips were moving…“B-birthing hips- look at h-her take that big fuckin’ cock. So pretty- so pretty so pretty so pretty.”

You’re so overstimulated that even the slightest brush of his lightning bolted veins makes you gasp- tears springing up to your eyes. “F-feels so…oh.” So good, his stamina was maddening. 

“Yeah? Yeahhh? S’all for you- only for you-” Purposefully pressing up close so that your poor clit gets rubbed over by that patch of tawny brown at the base of his abs. 

And by now, even Choso’s swivellin’ cold piercing was molten hot and drawing wet slides of cum across your walls. Fervently. 

He was fucking you like he couldn’t get enough - would never possibly be able to get enough. Every thrust had him pushing you down once more after the papping recoil, gliding your feverishly sweat-slicked bodies against each other because Choso couldn’t bear to part. “Only for you only for you only for you-”

So gone that he almost doesn’t even register Venom’s deep tone muttering in his ear– “Three.”

Every heated bang of his mushroomy tip plummeting to the back of your overspilling cunt was meant to milk himself. Over and over, he’s tempting out just one more orgasm - just one more to fill you up with more cream. “Two.”

And in your rambling stupor, you’re being drilled into the mattress so spellbound that you don’t even notice the way your unfastened mouth nibbles on Choso’s sexy silver necklace. 

“One.”

Gnawing on for dear life as you squirt.

“Oh.”

Simply spraying him with a voluminous heap of your sweet, sappy juices - Choso has the mindless audacity to crane his head even further downwards and catch whatever stray remnants hit his awaiting maw.

“F-fuck…” You feel like you’ve just been put through ten thousand wringers and milked dry from your poor, tingling core. Gushing and gushing- it’s almost embarrassing how much you’re leaking around Choso’s meaty base. 

Well, embarrassing for everyone but Choso…and Venom.

He was mesmerized - he was hypnotized. A glistening few droplets of pussydrunken drool slipping from the corner of his mouth as he just watched himself get drenched in all your torrential orgasm whilst he emptied out for the third- fourth, fuck he doesn’t even know - inside you.

Raw, and messy - milking himself until he’s hitting a damn dry orgasm. 

“O-oh.” Choso doesn’t even know what to fucking say above your cutely trilling mewls, every languid pump of his flinching cock sending massive shockwaves through both of you. He blushes, “Oh.”

“That was fun. Now, make her yours or I will.” Venom grumbles, the symbiote already starting to take over Choso’s body with its blackened mass. 

And the man jolts- remembering all at once that this was you you you underneath him. Thumb absent-mindedly reaching down to write his last name over the mess spurted across your tummy. 

You, who he’s wanted all his life- 

“M-marry me, my girl.”

The smile that breaks across your face is one he’ll remember for eons. 

“I love you, too, Cho–” You’re purring, tucking one of the mahogany strands plastered onto his forehead behind his ear. 

“I love you.” He’s bursting out at once- rose-pink lips wobbly and wet against your own. He’s kissing you like he needed you to breathe, “I love you- oh, how I love you.”

“Satisfying. But we need more.” 

“Dammit.”

And Venom doesn’t care - Venom cackles to himself as he seethes in yet another gust of your honey-dipped scent and pulls out. The sensitivity startling through your body is so shocking that he’s shooting out a dark web that attaches your hips to the bed. Unmoving. 

But, of course, he takes his leisurely time to stroll near the edge of your bed. Monstrously hulking over it to sweep apart your bloated pussylips and watch the way Choso’s cum driiiiips out.

Now completely encompassing his body— “A three course meal. Yum.”

He was far from done.

You’re sobbing at the sloooooow draaaag of his glistening, large tastebuds down your weeping hole. Unapologetic and primal. “F-fuck! Your stamina…” It was truly monstrous just how pent-up that he was right now, being pushed off by your new boyfriend- fiancé? for so long now.  

Holding you tight with a few tendrils ‘round your waist to keep you from running—

“We’re going to keep this one.” His long, venomous teeth sink into your inner-thigh, not toxic to you. Not at all, but claiming; and the feeling was as good as cumming again. “You’re ours now, pretty girl.”

A/N. RAHHH I TOLD Y’ALL I’D DO IT MWAHAHAHAH-

february sneaks in with cold mornings and quiet afternoons. your apartment smells like cinnamon from the candle jason insisted on lighting last night, and the windows are fogged from the heat of the shower you just stepped out of.

you’re still in your robe, fingers curled around a mug of tea you haven’t sipped yet. your other hand rests over your stomach—not dramatically, not in a movie-scene way. just… gently. like your body already knows something your brain’s still trying to process.

you hadn’t been trying.

not really.

not yet.

but lately your body’s felt just a little off—tired in a different way. hungrier at odd hours. your favorite coffee suddenly smelled like motor oil. and this morning, after staring at the little box on the bathroom counter long enough to forget how to breathe… the second line appeared.

positive. — and now everything is still.

you hear the front door open, the familiar shuffle of boots, the soft creak of your floors as jason walks in from his morning run.

“babe?” he calls. “i brought you that muffin you like—blueberry. they only had one left, so i fought a grandma for it.”

you laugh quietly, setting the mug down and stepping into the hallway just as he kicks his shoes off.

he looks up at you and instantly pauses. something in your face must give it away—something soft and shining and a little breathless.

he tilts his head, concerned. “hey… everything okay?”

you nod slowly, taking a step closer. “i… yeah. i think everything’s about to be.”

he sets the bag down. “what dose that mean?”

you reach into your robe pocket and pull out the test, holding it in your palm like it’s made of glass. — jason stares… and stares.

and then blinks. “is that—?” his voice catches. “are you—?”

you nod.

his whole expression crumbles. the kind of shift that only happens when something hits too hard and too beautifully to be fully understood in the moment. his mouth opens, like he wants to say something clever or brave or perfect—

but what comes out is small. raw. “you’re pregnant?”

you smile, a little teary now. “we’re gonna have a baby.”

jason stumbles forward and wraps his arms around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. one hand cradles the back of your head, the other trembling slightly as it presses to your lower stomach.

“holy shit,” he breathes into your hair. “we’re having a baby.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide and wet, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks like he’s scared you’ll fade.

“are you okay? like—really okay? you feel alright?” he asks quickly, too quickly. “is anything hurting? should we call someone?”

“i’m fine,” you promise, laughing a little through your tears. “i’m okay, jase. really.”

he nods, but you can see the way his thoughts are spiraling—half joy, half panic, all love.

“you’re gonna grow a whole baby,” he whispers, voice full of awe. “you’re… incredible.”

you cup his face with both hands. “we are.”

he leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “you’re sure you’re not scared?”

“i am,” you admit. “but it’s the good kind. the kind that means this is real.”

he presses his forehead to yours, breathing deeply. “i’m gonna take care of you. both of you. whatever you need—i’ll do it.”

“i know.”

“i’m not gonna be perfect,” he says quietly. “but i swear, i’m gonna love this baby more than anything in the world. and i’m gonna love you even more for giving them to me.”

your heart swells so full it aches. “we’re really doing this,” he whispers.

you nod, blinking away tears. “yeah. we are.”

and then he kisses you, soft and slow, like he’s memorizing the beginning of a brand-new chapter. his hands cradle your sides like he’s holding something sacred.

because he is. — because now, there’s three heartbeats in this little apartment. and jason’s daydream? it just started coming true.

“we need to make a doctor’s appointment,” jason said his head over filling with questions, incredibly nervous to mess up.

“i’ll make one for next week.” smiling down at his hands, holding you steady in place.

and you did, you made an appointment later on for next week. they got you in fairly quickly. the waiting room is too bright.

soft jazz plays from a corner speaker like it’s trying too hard to be soothing. the walls are covered in pastel posters and diagrams of smiling cartoon babies that don’t make any sense unless you’re already half asleep.

you’re sitting in a stiff plastic chair with jason next to you, his hand laced through yours. he’s been silent for the last five minutes—too focused, too still. but it’s not nerves. it’s something else. a quiet intensity, like the kind he gets before patrol, when every thought is narrowed to one single moment.

except this time, that moment is here— and it’s you.

you nudge his leg with your knee. “you good?”

he turns to look at you and softens instantly. “better than good. just trying to stay calm.”

you smile. “you’re squeezing my hand like you’re about to disarm a bomb.”

he loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “sorry. can’t help it. you’re… you’re in there growing an actual person. i still haven’t wrapped my head around that.”

before you can reply, a nurse pokes her head through the door and calls your name. “ (y/n)—“ jason stands with you, helping you out of the chair like you’re made of glass, his hand on your lower back the entire walk down the hall.

the exam room is colder than expected, and the paper on the bed crinkles under you as you lie back.

the nurse is kind. she asks a series of routine questions—when was your last period, are you taking prenatal vitamins, any morning sickness? jason answers half of them for you, the kind of eager that would normally make you laugh if it weren’t so endearing.

when the gel is squeezed onto your belly, his hand finds yours again. he strokes your hair back behind your ear without even thinking about it. he keeps watching your face instead of the monitor like he’s searching for any sign that you’re okay.

and then— a soft fluttering sound fills the room. your heartbeat stills.

the nurse turns the screen toward you both and points. “there’s baby,” she says gently. “and that—” she increases the volume slightly, “is the heartbeat.”

jason stiffens like someone just knocked the air from his lungs.

his grip on your hand tightens. and then he’s crying. quietly, but undeniably.

his free hand covers his mouth, shoulders shaking with the kind of silent, overwhelmed happiness that only comes once in a lifetime. his eyes stay fixed on the tiny flickering image on the monitor—unbelieving, awestruck.

“that’s our kid,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, a prayer, a dream coming to life in front of him.

you can barely see through your own tears, but all you can do is nod and squeeze his hand back.

he turns to you, eyes red, face glowing in a way you’ve never seen before. “you’re amazing,” he says. “you’re so amazing. you’re doing this. you’re making life. i’m just—i don’t know how i got this lucky, im so so proud of you sweetheart.”

you laugh through a sob, and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then one to your damp cheeks.

“you okay?” he asks, brushing your hair back again.

“i am now,” you whisper.

jason just stares at you a little longer, like he’s committing this moment to memory. because he is.

because this feeling? this overwhelming, impossible joy?

he never wants it to end. and in his arms, with you beside him and the sound of your baby’s heartbeat echoing in the air— he knows he’s never been happier.

“so who’s gonna be the one to tell your fami— nose goes!” you shout quickly bringing your finger to your nose laughing with tears still in the corner of your eyes carelessly dangling.

“nos—damnit!” jason sighed “i hate that game.”

the sun is still high when you and jason pull up to wayne manor.

the engine cuts off with a low purr, but neither of you move right away. your hands stay folded in your lap, heart thudding in your chest. jason glances at you from the driver’s seat—eyes soft, mouth twitching with a mix of nerves and excitement.

“you ready?” he asks, voice quiet.

you turn to him and nod. “are you?

he huffs a laugh, fingers reaching across the console to gently take yours. “nope. absolutely not.”

but he squeezes your hand anyway, and the look on his face says everything. he’s ready in the way that counts. terrified, maybe—but glowing with it.

the front door opens before either of you knock. dick waves from the threshold, wearing a smile and an apron dusted with flour. “you guys are late. dinner’s almost ready.”

“we were, uh, taking our time,” jason says, helping you out of the car like you’re suddenly fragile china, even though you’re not even showing yet.

dick raises an eyebrow. “is that code for something?”

“we’ll explain inside,” you say, smiling softly as you head up the steps.

inside the manor — the smell of garlic bread and roasted vegetables wafts through the massive foyer. you can hear tim and damian bickering in the distance, steph’s laugh cutting through the noise. alfred passes through the hallway with a wine glass in one hand and a towel draped over his shoulder, nodding to you both with a kind smile.

“you’re just in time,” he says. “i’ve made enough for ten. though, knowing master grayson, that may only cover seconds.”

“appreciate you, alfred,” jason says, patting his shoulder.

you walk through the manor side by side, surrounded by the easy chaos of family. and the longer it takes to get to the dining room, the more the nerves grow. it isn’t fear, exactly. just… weight. the kind that comes with sharing something real. permanent. world-changing.

jason’s thumb brushes yours. “we’ll do it after dinner. once everyone’s in one place.”

you nod again, your stomach fluttering for reasons that have nothing to do with morning sickness.

at the dinner table — by the time the entire family is seated—bruce at the head, alfred near the kitchen doors, and the rest of the siblings scattered down both sides—it’s noisy, messy, and full of laughter.

dick tells a story about stephanie beating him in a sparring match, and she doesn’t even try to deny it. damian rolls his eyes but can’t hide the smirk creeping across his face. tim’s already halfway through his second helping, duke close behind. cass and barbara are on either side of him, teasing them between bites.

you’re tucked beside jason, his arm brushing yours every so often. and the moment feels golden.

but jason hasn’t stopped glancing your way, and you haven’t stopped feeling the secret burn beneath your ribs.

“we should tell them,” you whisper to him between bites of garlic bread. “before dessert.”

“yeah,” he whispers back, eyes flicking toward bruce. “before someone starts guessing.” — as if on cue, bruce glances your way, then jason’s, with that subtle, unreadable batman stare.

“you two are unusually quiet,” he says mildly.

“just thinking,” jason replies smoothly. “about how to say something important.”

the table quiets just a little—not fully, but enough for the tension to thicken.

you press your hand lightly against jason’s knee beneath the table.

he clears his throat. “so. uh. we’ve got news.” — cass is the first to go still, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.

tim glances up from his plate. “what kind of news?”

you look around at the people who have become family in more ways than one—people who have fought beside each other, bled together, laughed together.

and now, you were about to hand them something fragile. something that meant everything.

“we’re having a baby,” you say softly, voice shaking just enough.

silence. full, pin-drop silence. then—

“NO WAY,” dick shouts, practically launching out of his chair.

“holy crap,” steph yells right after, hands flying to her mouth. “are you serious?”

barb’s eyes go wide. “you’re pregnant?”

jason grins like he can’t hold it back anymore. “yeah. we are.”

chaos breaks loose. tim drops his fork onto his plate and just stares at you both, jaw slack. damian blinks once, then twice, trying to process it. barbara claps her hands together in pure excitement. and dick? dick practically vaults over the table to hug jason, nearly knocking over a pitcher of water in the process.

“DUDE,” he says, squeezing him tight. “you’re gonna be a dad?!”

jason laughs, hugging him back. “apparently.”

“i’m gonna be an uncle!” he yells, turning to you with wide eyes. “you’re gonna be a mom?!”

you laugh, covering your face with your hands as he pulls you into the hug next. “yes! i am!”

steph runs around the table to tackle you both next. “your glowing!” — cass gently nudges steph aside to wrap her arms around you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder.

tim finally finds his voice. “wow. just—wow. congratulations. seriously.”

and damian—stoic, sharp damian—leans back in his chair and stares at you both for a long, unreadable moment. then, with a quiet nod: “i suppose this means the next generation of vigilantes is on the way.”

everyone groans. “not even born yet and you’re already recruiting them?” tim mutters.

“shut up, drake,” damian replies, though there’s no real heat in it.

at the head of the table, bruce hasn’t spoken yet. but when you look at him, his eyes are wet.

not enough to spill. just enough to shine.

“you’re really going to be parents,” he says, voice low.

“yeah,” jason says again, a little quieter now. “we are.”

bruce nods slowly. “i’m happy for you. for both of you.”

then—so softly it nearly gets lost in the noise— “i hope i’ll be a good grandfather.”

the table falls quiet again. jason’s breath catches.

and in a rare moment, one almost no one would believe unless they saw it with their own eyes—

jason rounds the table, hugs bruce, and holds on for a full five seconds.

just five. but it’s enough. it says everything.

after dinner but before the dessert is cut, you and jason slip away from the dining room. not for long—after the laughter and the hugs and the congratulations, the manor slowly starts to breathe again. jason squeezes your hand and leans close to your ear, his voice quiet beneath the hum of voices around the dining room.

“come with me?” he murmurs. “want to talk to alfred, just us.”

you nod, heart full. he doesn’t flinch when you enter. doesn’t turn around with surprise. he just speaks in that warm, knowing voice: “i wondered when the two of you would find me.”

you smile gently and walk up beside him, standing close enough for the soft scent of bergamot to curl around you. jason steps behind you and rests his hand on the small of your back.

“we didn’t want to tell you in front of everyone else,” you say softly. “you deserved something quieter.”

alfred finishes pouring the hot water, then finally turns to face you both. his eyes are kind, his hands still, waiting. “we’re having a baby,” jason says. simple. honest.

and that’s all it takes. — alfred’s face shifts in that slow, subtle way only he can manage. not dramatic. not surprised. just… reverent. like the words have landed somewhere deep in his chest and are still echoing there.

“i thought as much,” he murmurs, voice velvet and pride. “but to hear it confirmed… what a gift.” he reaches for your hand first, holding it between both of his, fingers gentle and steady.

“you will be a remarkable mother,” he says. “i can already see it in the way you carry yourself. with warmth. with care.”

your throat tightens. then he looks to jason, and the silence between them stretches—not heavy, just full. thick with unspoken history and all the moments that led to this one. “and you,” alfred says quietly. “i have never been more proud of you than i am right now.”

jason blinks. his jaw tightens, like he’s trying to hold something back. “you mean that?”

“with every fiber of my being.” alfred moves forward and rests a hand against jason’s cheek—something he hasn’t done since jason was much younger. “you will be a kind, strong, devoted father. the sort of man you once feared you could never be.”

jason’s eyes shine, and he nods once. “i’m scared,” he admits.

“good,” alfred replies with a small smile. “that means you care deeply.”

he pulls them both into a hug. tight, long, grounding. — you think maybe it’s the best moment of the night.

but you haven’t seen what’s coming in the living room yet.

the couch cushions are sunken with the weight of so many bodies. duke has claimed the arm of the chair like it’s a throne. steph and tim are tangled up in a blanket on the floor. barbara perches near the fire, her eyes full of light. cass sits quietly on a cushion with a faint smile on her face, watching the room with quiet happiness.

you’re curled up next to jason on the couch, your knees tucked under you, his arm loose around your shoulders.

and that’s when you hear the soft thud of paws. — titus enters the room slowly, sniffing once, then twice, before making a direct line to you. his tail wags just slightly.

“hey, baby,” you say softly, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.

he steps closer, then gently rests his heavy head right on your stomach. jason freezes beside you, watching like he’s afraid to breathe. you smile, petting titus gently, your fingers threading through his fur. “he knows.”

titus lets out a deep sigh, then pushes himself a little higher—climbing halfway onto the couch before resting one massive paw across your thigh and his head against both you and jason.

“hey—” damian’s voice cuts in, sharp. “titus. get down.” titus ignores him entirely, clearly thrilled with himself.

“he’s being protective,” barbara says with a laugh. “he loves them.”

“he loves me,” damian says, visibly scowling. “he was trained to respond to my commands—”

“he’s got priorities now,” duke says with a grin. “he’s got a baby to watch over.”

“he’ll still love you, d,” steph teases. “you’re still the firstborn in his heart.”

damian doesn’t dignify that with a response, but the tips of his ears are pink. you laugh gently as titus shifts again, now practically in your lap, his chest pressed to your belly and nose nudging under jason’s arm. “he’s not going anywhere,” you murmur, hand still stroking his fur.

“good,” jason says softly, kissing your temple. “i want the baby to know him.” there’s a pause as the fire crackles softly.

then— “wait,” tim says, suddenly sitting up straighter. “does anyone remember the bet?”

steph gasps. “the baby bet from the barbecue!”

duke whistles low. “oh, yeah. we all threw in guesses for when they’d announce.”

barbara points a finger in the air. “i said christmas.”

“i said summer,” duke adds.

“thanksgiving,” tim mutters.

steph holds up her hand like she’s in court. “i said mother’s day!”

all heads turn toward bruce, who sits quietly in the corner armchair with a glass of something dark in his hand. he doesn’t smirk. doesn’t gloat. just lifts his brow like he already knows what’s coming. “new year’s,” dick says, groaning. “he said new year’s is when you’d announce, so technically he’s the closest”

“so… bruce wins?” steph says, groaning.

bruce sips his drink. doesn’t say a word. “ugh,” tim groans, flopping backward onto the rug. “of course the batman wins the baby bet.”

“he wins everything,” duke says, pointing at him.

“wait you guys made a bet on when we’d get pregnant?” you say, sitting up for a second grinning at the family while jason fake gasped, not entirely surprised by the family’s decision, more surprised someone didn’t offer him to help them out on the bet to get you pregnant sooner.

“well.. duh. did you see the way jason had that baby craving at the barbecue? we all knew someday soon it was gonna happen.” tim poked a joke and some half humming in agreement, others laughing.

“baby craving and barbecue don’t sound right together, i just can’t believe bruce won though! ” you laughed laying back down on jason,

jason grins, eyes flicking toward you. “he’s probably been planning his grandpa debut since the barbecue.”

“i can neither confirm nor deny,” bruce says, finally letting the corners of his mouth tilt up.

then barbara leans forward, eyes shining. “so… when are you due?” you glance at jason, who’s already smiling. “october thirty-first,” you say softly.

there’s a beat of silence. then— “halloween?!” dick laughs. “you’re having a baby bat on halloween?!”

“that’s the most gotham thing i’ve ever heard,” tim says.

“no capes for the baby,” steph says. “not until they’re at least walking.”

“i’m designing the first onesie,” barb adds. “it’ll have a tiny utility belt on it.”

damian glares at the room. “you’re all ridiculous.”

you sigh against jason, heart full, his hand resting over your stomach again—right where titus still snoozes contentedly. laughter and warmth fill the air like golden smoke. and for a moment, the world outside doesn’t matter.

just this. your family. your baby bat. and all the love waiting to meet them. the days pass like a soft breeze—gentle, slow, golden.

you blink and it’s august.

you stretch and it’s september.

you exhale and suddenly october is whispering around the corners of your apartment.

the light is different now. golden and low. afternoons spill through the windows like honey, and the air tastes like cinnamon and cool breeze. leaves have started to fall outside, painting the sidewalks in deep reds and soft golds.

your belly has grown, round and lovely, full of life. your skin glows with it. your body moves differently, gently, carefully, but your laughter still comes easily when jason is near. he doesn’t let you carry anything anymore. not a grocery bag, not a folded blanket, not even a mug of tea.

“you’re carrying a baby,” he says, brushing your hair back one night as he tucks a pillow behind your back on the couch. “let me carry everything else.”

he’s serious about it. borderline obsessive, even. but you let him fuss. mostly because it makes him happy. and maybe a little because you like seeing the way his eyes go all soft and focused when he’s looking at you. — especially now.

jason wakes up early—earlier than he needs to on a weekend—but he moves quietly, careful not to wake you. the second he hears you stir, he’s back at your side, pressing a kiss to your temple. “breakfast?” he asks, rubbing your shoulder gently.

you nod, still sleepy, and that’s when he leaves to meet alfred at the manor.

you found out from bruce that jason started asking for cooking lessons. just a few things here and there. mostly your favorite comfort foods. especially the ones that still don’t trigger nausea. “gotta keep her happy,” jason told alfred, scratching the back of his neck. “baby too.”

they make a list. soups. light pasta dishes. herby potatoes. the exact way you like your toast. how to time it so you don’t smell it cooking too much, just in case the scent turns your stomach.

he writes it all down. bruce catches him once, leaning over the stove with a furrowed brow, stirring something with absolute focus. “you’re taking this very seriously,” bruce had said.

jason just shrugged, a towel slung over his shoulder. “it’s for her. and the baby.” and then quietly, under his breath: “i don’t want to mess this up.”

your family comes into town for the weekend, the baby shower just a few days away. your little niece—is bigger now, walking stronger, speaking more words. and the second she sees jason again, her face lights up like a sunbeam. “jayjay!” she squeals, arms flung wide as she waddles toward him.

jason is toast. he crouches instantly, catching her mid-run and lifting her high into the air, spinning her gently with a laugh.

“there she is,” he grins, kissing her cheek. “my favorite partner in crime.”

she babbles something incomprehensible, then grabs his face in her little hands and squishes his cheeks. he lets her. he just laughs, holding her like she’s the best gift in the world.

you watch them from the doorway with your hand on your belly, your heart aching in the best way. you and jason don’t want anything over the top. so it’s simple. a mix of both families. your parents help set up in the backyard of the manor. your aunt brings homemade pies and little favors. cass helps hang streamers. steph handles the playlist. dick handles the jokes.

your niece follows jason around like a little duckling. she insists he sit next to her during cake. insists he play with her in the leaves scattered across the yard. she even tries to share her juice box with him, which he pretends to sip from with a grin. “you’re gonna be such a good dad,” you hear barbara whisper to him when she catches them sitting on the lawn together, the toddler’s tiny hand in his.

he doesn’t say anything at first. but his smile grows—quiet, proud, a little overwhelmed. “i really hope so,” he murmurs. “i really want to be.”

the manor gets quieter, cozier. sunday dinners become a routine again—alfred always insists you sit with your feet up, and bruce somehow always ends up next to you, asking quiet questions about how you’re feeling.

cass sits close, brushing a protective hand over your shoulder now and then. damian keeps sliding books about parenting across the table to jason like he’s passing secret files. and every week, someone brings something for the baby—booties, blankets, soft clothes in soft colors. — you swear even titus has started lying a little closer to you than normal.

you and jason spend your nights curled up on the couch, watching old movies, his hand always on your belly. sometimes feeling for movement. sometimes just needing to touch you, to remind himself that this is real.

that this dream is alive and growing. “how’s our little bat today?” he whispers, kissing your bump one evening.

you smile, carding your fingers through his hair. “kicking me all day. strong little thing.”

he smiles. then kisses again. then rests his cheek there, eyes fluttering shut. “can’t wait to meet them,” he murmurs.

“me too,” you whisper back. — you’re almost there.

that’s what everyone keeps saying.

“you’re so close.”

“any day now.”

“you’ve got that glow.”

you smile when they say it. or at least, you try to.

but god—if they only knew.

if they knew how your feet throb just from standing. how you haven’t slept more than two hours straight in weeks. how tying your shoes is officially impossible without assistance.

you’re not glowing—you’re sweating. you’re swollen. you’re exhausted.

and worst of all…

you’re hungry. all the time.

but everything makes you nauseous again.

your favorite meals? suddenly your stomach’s worst enemy.

things you craved just last month? now send you running for the bathroom.

you cry about it once at two in the morning, sitting on the kitchen floor in one of jason’s hoodies, staring at a piece of toast like it’s betrayed you.

he finds you there, bare feet cold on the tile, eyes wet and tired. he doesn’t ask what happened. he just sits next to you, pulls your legs over his lap, and wraps his arms around your middle.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, wiping your face. “i know i’m being dramatic.”

“you’re growing a human,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “you can be as dramatic as you want.”

you don’t even realize you’re shaking until his hand starts rubbing slow circles into your back. your forehead leans against his neck and you just… breathe.

jason.

he’s the only thing making this bearable, the only thing not making you nauseous or upset. only makes him you cry because of how understanding he’s become.

years ago a different version of jason would be incredibly impatient, and tried all the time. but growing with you for so long and filling in all the gaps of his personality has made him a better person for you, and your baby. gratitude on both sides of the story. 

your body hated everything but him

he helps you out of bed in the mornings, kneeling at your side before you even ask. your ankles ache. your back hurts. there’s pressure—so much pressure—deep in your hips, and some days your belly feels too heavy to even carry. “you’re doing so good,” he says, easing your weight into his arms.

“i feel like a elephant,” you mumble.

“a very cute elephant,” he grins. you swat at him halfheartedly.

he helps you into the shower. sits on the closed toilet lid while you rinse off, just in case you feel dizzy. he wraps you in the biggest towel you own, kisses the crown of your head, tells you how strong you are. tells you how beautiful you are. tells you he’s proud of you.

you cry again one night when you try to roll over in bed and can’t.

you’re stuck.

actually stuck.

you groan in frustration, tears prickling at your lashes from how uncomfortable you are. your legs feel like lead, your belly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and your pillows are all wrong. “babe?” jason mumbles, half-asleep.

“i can’t move,” you whisper, feeling defeated.

his eyes snap open. “okay—hang on, i got you.”

he’s gentle. careful. strong in the ways you need him to be. his arms slide under your back and legs, easing you with such softness that it makes your chest ache. once you’re shifted, he cups your face.

“better?”

“a little,” you breathe.

he grabs an extra pillow, fits it behind you just right, and kisses your temple. “you need anything else?”

you shake your head. and your voice cracks when you say, “just stay close.” his hand finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining. — “always.”

you hit thirty-nine weeks on a thursday

the doctor says everything looks good. baby’s strong. heartbeat steady. but you? you’re ready. so ready.

“how are you feeling?” your OB asks kindly.

“like my ribs are being karate-chopped from the inside,” you deadpan. she laughs, and jason does too—but his hand never leaves your back. his thumb strokes your spine. his other hand is braced on your thigh like he’s anchoring you to the earth.

you feel so worn thin. so… done. but when you look at him—messy hair, tired eyes, t-shirt wrinkled from worry—you feel a little less overwhelmed. after the appointment, you don’t feel like going home. you sit in the car in the clinic parking lot, both of you quiet.

then jason reaches across the console and gently places your hand on your belly. “you know what i think?”

“hmm?”

“i think they’re gonna be kind. like you.” his voice is soft. so, so soft. “i think they’re gonna have your eyes.” — he kisses your palm. “and i think i’m the luckiest bastard in the world.”

you turn your head, lean into his shoulder, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—you don’t feel so tired. just full.

full of love. full of something so big and gentle it makes you forget about the pain for a little while.

the final week creeps by

jason starts working from home more, just in case. he puts together the bassinet with dick. tim installs the car seat. duke helps you organize baby clothes. cass leaves post-it notes with hearts and smiley faces in every drawer. damian makes sure titus is trained to stay gentle and close.

and bruce? bruce quietly offers to be on-call for anything.

“day or night,” he tells you both. “whatever you need. just say the word, there’s enough room for you to stay at the mansion too.. don’t be afraid to ask.” silently hoping you’d take him on the offer.

alfred checks in with food daily. he starts prepping snacks you can stomach again—things he knows won’t trigger nausea. small containers left in your fridge. teas that soothe your heartburn.

“you’re almost there,” he says kindly, helping you into a chair one night at dinner. “and you’ve done wonderfully.” you glance at jason—already sitting beside you, already moving to rub your aching back—and you smile softly.

“we’ve done it,” you whisper.

it’s quiet. too quiet, almost. but not in a bad way.

the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath. like time has slowed just for the two of you. outside the windows, the sky is painted in gentle blues and sleepy grays. the wind rustles the early fall leaves, and there’s a softness in the air that only comes in the stillness of the night.

jason’s hand is warm in yours as you walk down the hallway helping you after dinner, just the two of you. no family tonight, no phones buzzing, no background noise. it’s just him. you. the soft rhythm of your hearts.

you stop in front of the nursery. — the door is open just a crack. golden light spills out from the small lamp inside. the room smells like fresh cotton and baby soap. faint hints of wood polish and lavender from the drawer sachets alfred insisted on tucking into the dresser.

you take a slow breath. and then you step inside together.

the nursery feels like a dream it’s not overly fancy. not too perfect. but it’s yours.

there’s a soft, plush rug under your toes. calming colors on the wall. a bookshelf already half full with bedtime stories and soft-spined fairytales. a rocking chair in the corner that dick and barbara had fixed up themselves. and right there in the center of the room—the crib. the crib jason built with bruce, over a weekend in early september, hands calloused but careful, sanding the edges to perfection.

you both stand in the doorway for a long moment. not saying anything. just looking. “we did good,” you finally whisper.

jason lets out a breathy laugh. “we did great.”

you turn to look at him—his face lit gently by the warm lamp light, his expression soft and full of something so open and vulnerable it makes your heart squeeze. “come here,” you say gently.

he follows without hesitation, wrapping an arm around your waist, his hand settling right where your belly curves. your baby kicks once—just a soft flutter—but it makes both of you smile.

“they like your voice,” you whisper, resting your head on his shoulder.

“they like you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “they’ve got good taste.” — you stand there a while, just holding each other

then jason leans down, hands on your belly, voice barely above a whisper. “hey, little bat,” he says. “we’re ready for you. whenever you’re ready to come meet us.”

you feel your throat tighten. your chest swell. there’s so much love in this room it feels impossible to hold all at once. and when jason stands again, you reach for him. cup his face between your hands. trace your thumbs over his cheekbones. and he just—melts under your touch.

your voice is quiet but steady. “jason peter todd, i love you.”

his eyes soften instantly. “i love you too.”

you shake your head a little, laughing through the tears starting to prick your lashes. “no—i mean i really love you. like… i didn’t even know a love like this existed until you. you’ve been everything i’ve ever needed without me even knowing i needed it.”

you take a shaky breath, thumb brushing under his eye. “you take care of me like it’s second nature. you protect me without ever making me feel small. you make me laugh even when i feel like crying. and you’ve made this—this whole thing—feel like the most beautiful adventure, even when it’s been hard.”

his jaw tightens. eyes glassy. “you’ve made me feel safe in my body when it’s been the most uncomfortable it’s ever been,” you continue, voice thick with emotion. “and not just that—you’ve made me feel beautiful. powerful. like i can do this. because you believe in me so deeply that sometimes i forget to be afraid.”

you pause. smile, small and teary. “you’ve always been my home, jason. and now… we’re about to build one. with our baby. and i couldn’t be more grateful that it’s with you.”

you don’t expect the tear that spills down his cheek—but when it does, you’re there. kissing it. holding him like he’s held you through every ache, every sleepless night, every emotional spiral. he pulls you into his arms, careful of your belly, careful of your everything, and just breathes you in.

“you’re my safe place, my homeland,” he whispers into your hair. “you’ve bewitched me, and im so honored to make you feel these ways” he leans in to deeply kiss you “i will love you permanently….endlessly…until we’re both dead in the dirt, and even then, i will find you in the next life…i will find my way home to you.”

the two of you stay there until the moon’s high

rocking slowly in the chair. your hand in his. the soft light of the nursery casting shadows that dance gently on the walls. the room is quiet. safe. sacred. you don’t know it yet, but you’ll go into labor in the morning.

but tonight? — tonight is soft. and warm. and full of everything that matters.

you and jason.

in the nursery.

wrapped in each other’s arms. waiting for your next adventure to begin.

you wake up to sunlight— it slips through the curtains in long, soft beams—painting gold across the floor, the blankets, jason’s cheek. you lie still for a moment, soaking it in.

the apartment is quiet. still. warm. and jason is right beside you, deep in sleep.

he’s on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other hand still curled loosely in yours. his chest rises and falls with a steady rhythm, and there’s a softness to his face you rarely get to see outside moments like this. no tension. no shadows. just peace.

it’s rare—so rare—that he sleeps this deeply. without jerking awake from a nightmare. without the haunted edge to his breath. without flinching from invisible memories. and it makes you feel warm inside. honored. protective.

he deserves mornings like this. he deserves every good thing. so you try not to wake him.

you shift slowly, carefully easing his hand from yours. your belly is heavy—so heavy—and the ache in your back reminds you you’re nearly at the finish line. the baby is still. calm. and for a moment, so are you.

you swing your legs over the edge of the bed with a quiet breath. your slippers are just a few steps away. you’ll just get up, stretch, maybe make some tea. let him sleep a little longer.

you press your hands to the mattress, count to three in your head, and push yourself up— and then you freeze. the first thing you feel is the pop—a subtle, strange sensation deep in your lower abdomen.

and then comes the warmth. sudden. unmistakable. soaking down your legs and onto the floor in seconds. your breath catches. you stare down, stunned. “noway…”

you whisper it under your breath like saying it softer might make it untrue. but it’s true. you know it is. your water just broke.

you freeze for a second—then panic sets in “oh my god—oh god—” you reach behind you blindly, grabbing the edge of the bed for support.

jason stirs at the sudden shift in movement. you try to stay quiet—try to breathe, to stay calm—but your hand’s already shaking when you reach out and whisper his name. “jay…?”

he hums, half-asleep. “mm?”

“jay—baby—i think it’s time…”

his eyes snap open. and the moment he sees your face—wide-eyed, tearful, panicked—he’s up in a heartbeat. “what—what’s wrong? what happened?”

you swallow thickly, gesturing to the growing wet spot on the rug. “my water broke.” — he stares. blinks. processes. then moves.

the switch in him is immediate. he helps you back onto the bed with practiced, gentle hands, brushing damp hair from your face. his voice stays calm—steady—but you can see the storm in his eyes. “okay. okay. we’re good. i’ve got you,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “i’m calling the doctor. don’t move. breathe.”

you nod. trying to. your heart is racing. your hands are clammy. it’s too early. it’s real. it’s happening.

you blink away the nerves, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of sensation rolls through your belly. not quite pain. not yet. but pressure. the kind that makes you feel like everything is beginning to shift.

jason’s voice is low as he talks to the OB’s office, repeating things back with mechanical calm. “yes. yeah—contractions haven’t started yet. water broke just now. no blood, no pain yet. we’ll head in right away.”

he hangs up and turns to you, dropping to one knee at your side.bhis hands are on your thighs, grounding you. “we’re okay. you’re okay.”

you stare at him. wide-eyed. overwhelmed. “you were sleeping so soundly,” you whisper, guilt creeping in despite everything, a tear wanting to form.

“baby—i don’t give a shit about sleep right now.” he smiles through the nerves, voice thick with love. “you’re about to have our baby. of course you wake me up.”

your laugh is watery. tired. real. brushing his sleepy hair with your nails through his scalp. “you’re not scared?”

he looks at you for a long moment. and his eyes are gentle when he says— “i’m terrified. but i’ve never wanted anything more.”

everything becomes a blur after that. you change into the softest clothes you can manage. he lays towels on the car seat. grabs the hospital bag. calls alfred. calls bruce. tries to keep from pacing holes into the carpet when your first contraction hits in the hallway.

it’s mild. more pressure than pain. but it stops you in your tracks—and jason is right there, supporting you with both arms. “breathe,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you. just breathe.”

he keeps whispering to you the whole car ride. rubbing circles into your hand. kissing the back of it at red lights. promising you that everything is going to be okay. and somehow—you believe him.

by the time the hospital comes into view, the sky is a perfect watercolor soft pinks. sleepy oranges. the kind of morning light that makes everything look a little sacred.

you close your eyes against the sun filtering in through the windshield, resting your hand over your belly. jason glances over and sees it. he doesn’t say anything—just reaches for your hand and links your fingers together. he lifts them to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. then your wrist. then the ring on your finger. you meet his eyes. and he smiles, teary-eyed and full of everything he doesn’t know how to say.

“we’re gonna meet them soon,” he whispers. you nod.

“we’re gonna be parents.”

the hospital room is quiet. soft beeping. the sound of nurses moving gently behind the curtain. the monitor beside you blinking in slow, steady rhythm.

your hand rests over your stomach, and jason hasn’t let go of your other one since they settled you in. he sits in the chair pulled close to the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

but there’s a knock at the door. gentle. polite.

and when it opens, bruce steps in first, tall and still in his long dark coat, followed by alfred—warm-eyed and careful, holding a small thermos in his hands. “sorry,” bruce says softly, his voice lower than usual. “we didn’t want to intrude.”

you sit up a little, smiling tiredly. “you’re not, please, come in.”

jason straightens beside you, glancing over. there’s that flicker in his expression—still not used to this side of things. to being cared for by the people who used to only see him bleeding or bruised.

but they’re here now. and that means everything.

bruce steps closer, settling near the edge of the window. his eyes flicker from the monitor to your stomach, then to jason.

you expect him to look stoic. but instead, he looks… proud.

“i know your parents are on their way,” he says after a moment, voice quiet, “but if anything happens before then—i want you to know you’re not alone.”

you blink slowly, heart tight. “thank you,” you whisper. “they’re trying their best. flight leaves in a few hours but… they’re pretty upset they can’t be here for this part.”

“we’ll take care of you,” alfred says softly, stepping forward and setting the thermos down on the little side table. “your mother asked me to tell you she packed extra socks in your go-bag. and your father wanted me to remind you not to forget your phone charger.”

you smile at that, feeling your throat tighten. “they really did try to plan for everything,” you laugh, teary-eyed. “they’re so nervous.”

“as they should be,” alfred says gently. “it’s no small thing, after all. your world is about to change.”

you nod slowly, swallowing hard. bruce steps forward now, one hand resting on the rail of your hospital bed. “i’ll be right down the hall,” he says. “if you need anything. if jason needs anything. just press the button and i’ll be here.”

you glance at jason—and he’s just staring at bruce like he’s seeing him clearly for the first time. “thanks, bruce,” he murmurs.

bruce nods. then does something unexpected.

he reaches out and clasps jason’s shoulder. a firm grip. full of meaning. “you’re going to be a great father.” — jason swallows. hard.

his jaw flexes like he’s trying not to fall apart from just those words alone. bruce lets go. steps back. gives you both a final, warm look before slipping quietly out of the room to give you space.

alfred stays behind for a moment he sits carefully at the end of the bed, his hands folded in his lap, eyes soft.

“may i?” he asks. you nod. and he gently takes your free hand between his. his palms are warm and familiar, worn from years of care. “when jason was little,” he says slowly, “and he first came to live with us… he used to ask me to read him bedtime stories. not every night. not at first. but once he felt safe enough. once he knew i wouldn’t leave.”

jason shifts beside you, blinking hard. “his favorites were the ones with found families,” alfred continues. “ones where broken boys were loved anyway. where someone stayed. where someone always came back.” you feel your eyes sting.

“and now,” alfred smiles, eyes shining, “he gets to give that story to someone else.” you reach out with your other hand and squeeze jason’s knee. — he squeezes back, too overwhelmed to speak. “you’ll do beautifully,” alfred says, looking between you both. “i know it.” you nod, voice thick with tears.

“thank you for everything, alfred.” he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. the same one he’s given a hundred times to the boys who grew up under his care. “always,” he whispers.

then he stands and quietly excuses himself—leaving you and jason alone once more. — you sit in the silence for a while

your head tilted against the pillow. jason leaning closer, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.

“they love us,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “they really do, they love you so much… you brought us together again.. ”

and for a while, that’s all you need. your family is on their way.

the family you chose is right here.

and the one you’re building?

is just about ready to meet you.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

:3 yayay!!! im not gonna leave you on a cliffhanger, i hate them so much so im currently writing pt.3 rn!! lmk what you’d like to see more of in it!!

also what do u think the gender will be :o

THANK U SM FOR READING MWAAHH right on the forehead <3 also i see the comments, u guys are so sweet ☹️ lemme just smother you with hugs, or give you a solid high five that echos yk! haha

A pause permeated the foyer and kitchen when he heard you open the door and for a moment his throat felt tight, you hadn't seen him yet. His grip on the rag he was "washing dishes" with tightened. He heard a light gasp and spun around. Finally.

"Toji! I didn't realize you were here, I didn't see your car." You spun around to peek out the window, Toji dropped the towel and moved to the island. Closer to you. To observe you. You looked fine.

"Glad you made it back. He's been waiting for you." Toji pointed to the dog that was currently bounding around you in a show of tender love.

You kneeled down and scratched the dog's neck. "Thank you so much for watching him, I know how much he loved your company, but, Toji, how did you get here?"

He smiles, "Took the bus, needed gas." He didn't, he just wanted an excuse to stay. But by the look on your face, this was clearly the wrong response.

"Oh, my- Toji! Oh! You should have said, I would pay for your gas!" You had shot up at his statement and were looking at him with embarrassed disappointment.

"Oh please" He rolled his eyes, "You're plenty generous enough."

"I don't want you riding the bus at night, I'll give you a ride, or I can order you an Uber, like before."

Toji was thinking fast, why were you so keen on his leaving? Was it because you were uncomfortable? Or did you feel like it was a burden for him to stay? Whatever the answer, he was still caught up on the fact that you didn't want him riding the bus. How silly, to worry about his safety.

"Nah, it's no problem, I was staying here regardless." He shrugged.

"Was everything alright? Did you have everything you needed?" You smile at him and he eases a breath, okay, no more talk of leaving.

"Everything and then some. You've got a real nice place." He took a step closer to scratch the dog's ear. "Good trip?"

He didn't want to push. He wouldn't. But he couldn't help the curiosity. Especially when he watched your face falling at his question.

"Oh... yes, well" You sighed, shrugged, and avoided eye contact. "Work, you know."

"So..... not a good time." Toji tried for a tone of joviality but your eyes did not brighten.

"No. Wish I could've been here." You spoke so quietly that he could barely hear. He was worried that, within a moment, you would call him a cab, or usher him to your BMW. This was it.

Toji had been hungry for information since your text. It was for no reason other than his experience with law enforcement that he stayed up last night. Thinking about what type of situation you were in.

"Can I ask you a question?" Toji began, your head whipping to his face, nodding slightly, "It's about last night."

He noticed instantly- your eyebrows rose, along with your shoulders. You took a breath in as your chin lifted up. Unaware to you, your arms encircled your torso. You were so easy to read.

You didn't speak though. Toji took the silence once again. "Something happened, while you were away." Not a question, he realized as it came out. Damn, what was he saying? You didn't respond and he scrambled for the right words.

"Did-I mean. Did something happen?" So eloquent.

You sighed, looking at your shoes. Right on cue, your dog whimpered at your feet. "Yeah...' You draw it out, there's humor in your tone. "I didn't want to go on the trip anyway." Sighing, you look up at the ceiling, Toji gets the feeling that you were speaking to yourself.

"Didn't realize you saw a lot of crime in your business." How is it he can hold eye contact so steadily? How is it he can look through to your soul?

"Hmm?" You raise a brow, and then your eyes grow, "Oh! No! No! I don't." He laughs from his chest. The prospect of criminal activity leaves you aghast. "It wasn't a crime! Well..." You begin that mumbling "talking-to-yourself" way of speech, "Not a serious one, I've had problems with him for ages now."

Toji stops. You stop. You said too much.

"Him?" Toji's brows are stitched tightly together. Had he misheard?

"Oh!" You begin, catching his eyes that are glued to you. "It's not serious. If it was I would do something. It's not that!" You huff out, “Not like that…”

But Toji hadn't said anything. He remains silent. Waiting for you to continue. The dog begins to pace. You run a hand through your hair and then wave nonsensically as if to ward off the air around you.

"Who are we talking about." Toji's voice has only once sounded like this. It had sounded this way over the phone that night he carried your dog a mile, drove him to the vet, and silently watched you bandage his hands.

It had sounded like this when he was desperate.

"Aagh!" You shook your head. Dispelling some unhappy thought or memory. "I'm not... really supposed to be speaking about all this. It's been handled." You wave your hands dramatically, making a show of finding the time, you start up again, "Oh goodness, look at the clock, Toji let me get you a ride so you can be home for dinner!"

"I'd like to hear about this actually." He doesn't move. He slowly maneuvers his head to follow your gaze. "Having trouble with a co-worker?"

Toji had his fair share of experiences with unsavory characters in his time working in different industries. They were never too difficult to handle, though.

You laugh painfully, "Unfortunately, yeah, but there's really nothing to do..." Your making "shooing" motions with your hands again, motioning between him and the door.

"That why you didn't wanna go on this trip?" He watches your motion - ignores it.

"Gosh, yes. You know how it goes." Toji hums.

"Police involved?" He watches you. Your hands shiver to a stop, you turn to meet his eyes, suddenly still.

"No." You look at him. "No, it was handled before that."

"But he wasn't fired." His head slants to the left.

"No reason to fire him." You're looking at him differently now. You sound different now. Finite. Tired.

"Well, if police could be involved, there has to be some reason." He looks at you, but you're not speaking. You're not smiling. You're not moving.

"He was the one to make you cry that night." He asks, but it's not a question this time either.

"I think you should go get dinner, Toji." You speak softly, but there is really no room for disagreement allowed.

"There's gotta be something, just tell your boss if you don't wanna work with some dickhead." He's trying to help, he is, but it's coming out all wrong. He doesn't know the situation, and he's never had a real job before, he doesn't know - that even though your position is one of power - although you are high up in a huge conglomerate - although you have a million opportunities in front of you that he's never been offered - although you make real, honest money - some of the most evil people are in those positions as well.

And things that, he, a killer, a prostitute, a gambler, a criminal, could never imagine even in his most dark moments, go on, under the veil of the shiny "opulence" so easily desired.

"He's not just a colleague, Toji." Your sentences are chopped as they leave your lips. Toji realized suddenly that the only reason you're speaking now is because he has obviously made you upset. "He's a stakeholder's son. And everyone loves him. Trust me. I've reported him before. But nothing comes of it. It just." You sigh, detached. "It just makes me look bad. He's popular and charismatic, and everyone thinks he's.... he's the best! So there. He can do what he wants. He can touch who he wants. He can make decisions for everyone else. And there's nothing I can do, actually."

Toji is taken aback, and your dog huffs at your legs, "I'm sorry..." You mutter behind your hands. Likely embarrassed at your lengthy diatribe. But Toji takes no notice of your apology.

"He touched you?" There is something new now, something Toji does understand, and this, this will not happen again, he is sure of it.

"Just briefly. And he was drunk. So what does it matter." Your hands remain in front of your face. A grievously aggravated tone in your voice for the first time.

"It matters all the same. It matters- it matters-" Toji is racing for the right thing to say but he’s never been good with words.

He has experienced being touched when he did not like it. He had experienced allowing somethings to happen for a dollar. But he had never been in the position of being attacked. He had never been the weaker of two people. But you, he cannot image such a feeling. Such a feeling being completely uncontrolled.

And suddenly he's remembering your texts, your jittery voice, your apologies and he wants to puke.

"Why not go to the police. Something must be done. Y/n, please."

"I can't." He bends down to see your sunken face, trying to spot any tears. "What if nothing happens? What if I make a fool of myself? What if- Toji, what if I lose my job?"

Seeing now, the darkness within what he believed to be grandeur, he wonders if you are really any better off than he.

"You won't. Y/n- I, I can do it. I can get this... handled." His mind is flooded with memories, a man, someone who worked for his handler, he was good with technology, good with blackmail. His thoughts were interrupted by a chuckle.

"No-Toji, that can't happen. It just... I don't think that's possible. I'm just." You heave a breath, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said a thing. I think I'm just tired. It's okay."

"No." He's shaking his head. Slow. But you don't hear him. You've closed him off. You've resigned yourself and he wonders, sickeningly, how long you have been resigned for.

That night grew dark faster than either of you knew. You had told him not to think about it. You told him to let it go. But that night, reminded of a similar evening he spent in a car that was paid to bring him back to his apartment. He considered the situation.

When he climbed his way into his dark apartment, he did not hesitate. Measured steps brought him to the ventilation above the stove in his kitchen. He reached up, grabbed the flip phone found there, a burner he knew remained.

He didn't even mull it over before he sent the text.

"Need a favor. Call me."

And he didn't sleep that night until he'd been back in contact with the man he thought he was done working with for good.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

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