Eclipse 🌙✨

You sat upright on your ruffled bed on top of the mountain of blankets, too oversized for a singular person. Skin exposed to the wicked, maybe the chill grazing its fingertips against you made you feel alive in that moment, like you weren’t a ghost passing by.

Your cracked fingers gripped the ballpoint pen, the other hand holding a journal that had been discarded. It was meant to carry unrelenting turmoil, but they couldn’t ever reach the paper.

The tip of the pen hovered above the lined paper, hands lightly trembling as you ran through what to blurt down. 

You wished that a thunderstorm of thoughts would crystallise, but your mind stayed hollow, refusing the mercy of discordance.

You straightened your back, shorts rolling up even higher as you leaned forward. The pen reached down to touch the paper, freezing in place as the ink liquefied and stained the sheet.

‘Notice and write about when you felt that grief was the strongest in that week. What was happening? And how did you get through it? Noah’s voice vibrated across your mind. 

It should have been a particularly simple answer, but how could you explain that you felt it at nearly every moment?

That sometimes even crossing the street could stiffen your muscles, when your eyes would land on an amused mother with her child, who couldn’t even comprehend how loved they were.

A cracked, brassy harmony filtered through the window, mellow beats that were meant to blend but didn’t fully weave. Uneven notes from uneven breaths, like the sound itself was struggling to exist.

The tune didn’t settle or melt in the placidity; it disrupted it, lingering enough to be seen. 

Its grasp was strong enough for your brows to knit together and your head to tilt toward the bare window, eyes tracing where constellations begged to be seen.

You let the pen fall against the paper, neglected on the bundle of blankets as you shifted to perch at the edge of the bed, feet planted on the carpet. 

The trumpet paused for a moment, as if the player was gathering the world's breath before continuing, the sound breaking unseen barriers. 

You pushed yourself up from the bed, rising to your feet, raw skin brushing against the nylon. Each step was rhythmic to the beats, purposeful in every way.

When you stood by the glass, a puff of air surrounded you, reminding you of the late hour, when most of the city had fallen into slumber.

The street was mostly barren, except for a few people dotted across and the occasional car rushing by. The only real disparity was the broken tune pleading in the night. 

Your gaze wandered, following the harmony, and landed on the metal that could replicate gold, its glimmers reflecting.

Narrowing your heavy-lidded eyes, you discovered the player; it was hard to make out his features in the shroud of darkness.

He stood beneath a flickering amber streetlamp. The feeble light caught on his lips pressed against the mouthpiece. His shoulders were hunched forward, not just from the lingering chill that could burn skin. But from the raw power exerted in pouring his breath into an instrument that didn’t want to sing.

His coat hung loosely off his frame, awkwardly covering his body like it was enveloping him rather than protecting him from the weather. It frayed at the edges, with fur and leather that didn’t quite match.

His fingers curled around each valve, each note strained, the sound blossoming from the depths of his lungs, like it cost him more than breath to play.

The melody staggered, not obviously but just for a moment. You found yourself intently observing, leaning forward, breath fogging up the glass, eyes squinted.

The world didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t react to his presence or the harmony that left him. Cars passed, headlights flashing over him. 

An individual in a hoodie walked past him, pace unchanged, head down. 

The night continued with no regard for the sound that sank your feet into the carpet. Another drunken couple stumbled past him, the woman twirling her body to the broken notes travelling in the air.

They didn’t appreciate the man behind the instrument, eyes not darting toward him, just skipping past, smile bright under the twinkling sky.

That didn’t stop him; he played, fingers moving with haste. Another note faltered, sharper this time. Your chest tightened, not from discomfort or pity, but just from recognition as your fingers gripped the edge of the window pane.

It wasn’t polished, perfect; it was raw, unsteady and just there, something out of the realm of the inhabitants of the lands. 

The noise that polluted your mind was relentless, suffocating, and constant. But for reasons that seemed foreign to you, the broken harmony shifted something within, not stopping the chaos, but giving you some time to breathe around it.

The sound paused, air stilling. He lowered the trumpet, still gripping it between his fingers, but you could see his shoulders rise and fall like he was absorbing the calamity of the night.

In that momentary pause, his head lifted slowly, intentionally, not to search for something hidden in the abyss.

His gaze met yours for a second; neither of you moved. His features weren’t etched with any embarrassment from being watched, just a placidity you couldn’t truly understand.

A breath caught in your throat, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t divert your eyes. There was no need to, no performance to follow, no script to memorise.

Just a man standing in the night, in the hands of Boreas, holding something that uplifted the ears of the city with no celebration.

He exhaled slowly, deeply, the vapour visible even in the dark, bringing the mouthpiece back to his lips.

Breathing out another tune, it replicated the notes before, steady in a way that was never truly stable, but why would it require alteration?

Alteration would mean that the tune was for the wicked and not for the pulse thrumming within him.

Your lungs released a breath that had been trapped without your knowledge, mouth dry and throat edging toward a dull ache.

It was in these moments when the inescapable dread you shoved down crawled up your spine. Clawing at your bones as you watched the world through a lens not sculpted for your eyes.

The soles of your feet dragged across the floor, towards the disarrayed bed, notebook and pen lying out like an unfinished gospel. 

You slowly sank into the mattress, the curve of your spine resting on the mountain of pillows as your knees flexed up, heels burying into the plush material. The diary rested on your upper thigh, and the pen was gripped tightly in your hand.

Instead of trying to puzzle out answers, you let it rest, and some words finally landed on the paper.

I am not completely sure how to answer this question. 

I am not sure how to figure out what's stabbing every limb and organ I possess. 

How do I say that it felt the strongest when I was walking home from work, and someone smelled like lilies and powdery rose, like the Miss Dior she loved to wear even when the world wouldn’t smell it?

When I would ask why she would wear it even in the dullest moments, when we would be lounging in the living room, she would say that the nice things we have are meant to be used; every day was a celebration, every day was a special day, not just when we would wear pretty dresses and look nice for others.

It was for the moments when we would sit with ourselves and celebrate that we made it another day.

How could I say I also felt it was the worst this week when, on the weekend, I filled two bowls of popcorn because we would have movie nights and watch a silly rom-com she loved during her teens? 

How do I explain that it feels like this all the time?

The ink blurred splodges as streams of liquid hellfire slipped down your cheeks, dripping onto the paper. Fingers trembling and chest rising.

It was a miracle that the duplicitous had fallen into hibernation. 

There was no crowd for your vulnerability.

The clock ticked with no mercy, time rushing past like a sprint rather than a marathon. The week had already passed by, and you were standing by the looming entrance, muscles tightening without recognition.

The door handle felt colder than before; maybe it was the evening chill or just the ice growing on your organs. Fingers wrapped around the metal, you didn’t push the door open, just lingering at the step.

Steady footsteps grew louder behind your back, no urgency within them. A heavy presence hovered behind, but you didn’t turn around.

“Are you gonna open the door or just stand there like a weirdo.” An amused voice spoke out.

You looked over your shoulder, eyes landing on a tall, familiar figure. Satoru stood with his hands in his pockets, relaxed, his teeth shining in the dimming sun.

Your brows rose, eyes slightly squinted as you peered at his appearance properly for the first time. Bright blue topaz flowed through his irises, so vibrant yet dull, like they were stripped of their true gleam. Milky thick lashes decorated them, and a pair of oversized square glasses sat on the bridge of his nose.

Small indents deepened by the corners of his curved lips, stark white strands of hair falling over his forehead, swaying in the light breeze.

His brows knitted together, but the smile never faded as he watched you intently. 

Your gaze dropped to the pavement below, unable to meet his eyes anymore.”Sorry I just got distracted…” You turned toward the door, pushing down the handle and stepping through, feeling Satoru’s heavy presence trail behind you.

You heard him let out an airy chuckle, slipping past his lips like he didn’t intend to. 

When you walked into the room, the air was cool and flat, swirling against your open skin. Rubber soles squeaked against the vinyl flooring. The air con fan hummed a low-pitched tune.

It was eerily quiet in the open space; the chairs were arranged in the same circle, and the same people stood by the drinks and snacks station, pouring the same lukewarm coffee and serving stale pastries. 

You couldn’t point out why the repetitiveness was sinking into your skin. Your feet moved toward the water cooler, head low, fingers twisting the tap whilst holding the feeble plastic cup. The rim slipped between your lips, and you sipped on water that was far too warm to quench any thirst.

Satoru stood beside you a few steps away, gaze focused on nothing in particular. Leaning against the table full of pastries, he looked scruffy for a man who craved concealment. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar unbuttoned, tie loose in a carefree way.

“You’re early today.” You mumbled, turning to face him. 

His distant eyes slowly blinked at you. “I guess I was excited to pour my heart out.” He replied, his voice laced with an infinite amount of sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed, the corner of your lips upturned. “Oh my god same, I’m so excited.” 

He shook his head whilst smiling to himself, somewhat amused by your comment. His lips were about to part again, another witty comment brimming at the edge of his tongue. 

Noah’s voice cut through the desolate atmosphere. Telling the group to gather at their seats.

The lone souls floated to their seats, like ghosts passing in the wind. Satoru raised his brows at you, clearly dreading the hour. 

Your feet shuffled to your seat. He was behind you, footsteps much slower, as if he were delaying his admission.

“Good evening, everyone, I hope you have all had a good week.” He smiled as he scanned his eyes toward the individuals before him.

No words left the circle; however, there were a few polite hums of acknowledgement. “Last week I gave you all a task for the week, to reflect on when your grief was strongest, what was happening and how did you deal with it. Did anyone manage to answer it, its okay if not.” 

You looked down at your hands, the cracked skin feeling more painful in the suffocating room. A hoarse voice perked up after a few dragged-out moments. 

You instinctively searched for its owner, only to see the older man, Joseph. It was a surprise that he would volunteer for such vulnerability, but you guessed it was the hour of divergence.

He was gripping a notebook with his wrinkled fingers, so tight his knuckles were turning white. The notebook looked like it had seen better days, with a tattered cover and wrinkled pages.

Noah smiled at the older man, giving him a small nod to continue. Joseph gulped, his thick brows knitted together as he peered down at the book, hands trembling as he began to sift through the pages.

“…I found my son’s notebook….the one he used to scribble in all day and night.” He mumbled, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

”I always wondered what he must have been writing in there, what was there possibly to say every single day.” He brushed one of the ink-ridden pages with his thumb.

“Turns out there was so much he had to say….I wish he said it to us instead of the paper that couldn’t save him.” He croaked out, his voice stained with the melancholy that corrupted his mind.

”He would write that he didn’t wanna be here anymore……that he couldn’t breathe, that he couldn’t keep walking through a world that wasn’t meant for him.” 

Maria, the woman who sat next to you, had begun to shake and tremble, her own rivers of peril seeping from her eyes. Joseph looked up to her, silently watching her, but maybe horror and treachery recognised that his own dark eyes were filled with the same peril that ignited Maria.

His skin burned red, wrinkled hands moving to cover his eyes as he audibly sobbed. 

Satoru, who was sitting next to him, had his head down, fingers interlocked; however, as soon as the older man’s sobs filled the room, he looked up, expression sombre, and he carefully moved his own hand to reach Joseph.

His thin fingers enveloped Joseph’s, holding him, grounding him. 

Your own eyes blinked at the scene before you; a man who probably never uttered his own dismay to even the Gods had now yielded to the very thing that haunted him.

His now wet hand fell from his face as he took a few deep breaths. Satoru squeezed his hand one more time before letting him go.

”….I saw that there was a few pages empty….and I didn’t want the last words to be of his misery…so I wrote something of my own.”

He cleared his throat and began to read his own scripture. 

“My dear son, it has been 778 days since I have seen you, since I have seen you sitting smiling next to your mother, laughing at her inability to use her phone, you explained to us how to TV properly and giggled when I would press random buttons, at the time I believed you were feeling better and wanted to help your confused parents, but what I didn’t realise is that you wanted to make sure we could survive without you, we could move on without you.” He read out, words shaky as he took a breath.

“I remember when your mother and I were talking in bed, we felt as though a spark had glimmered within you, that you seemed happier than before and were ecstatic that we could start to recognise the smile that was hidden for the past few years. You did help us with the TV; you did help us with whom to call when the wifi stops working, and from each button we press, each movement we make in the house, we are reminded of you.” He squeezed his eyes shut as though he was preventing the avalanche of ache that would destroy him yet again.

“We remember you from sunrise to sunset, when it reaches the late hours of the night, stretching into the day when the stars twinkle, we remember you when going grocery shopping and buy your favourite snacks even though I was never a fan of them, we eat them while watching dead poets society, a movie you would rewatch all the time saying it was powerful, you would be an incredible writer my boy, I reread the poetry you wrote when you were thirteen and am in awe everytime. You may not be stepping on the same soil I walk on, but you are with me every day, you are here with me, in my soul, my heart and very being. I love you.” 

The last syllable that left his lips was shakier than the rest; his fingers grew tighter as the avalanche that he attempted to bury broke, his already red skin burning up as a flood of tears cascaded down his cheeks. The ink-stained pages began to blur from the liquid.

Satoru slowly reached over, gently taking the book from his fingers. Joseph’s hand fell limp as his chest rose and fell.

Satoru placed the notebook on the floor beside them and shifted his chair closer, the scraping sound of the chair legs and Joseph's blubbering the only sounds in the room.

The white-haired man leaned in and wrapped his long arms around Joseph, an action that was neither calculated nor well thought out, just pure impulse.

Both of their bodies were stiff, clearly not used to such affection, but slowly Satoru’s body relaxed, and Joseph melted into the embrace.

Your own fingers trembled against your upper thighs, mouth dry and eyes stinging as a wave of despair washed over. 

The rest of the lonesome souls were completely silent, observing the intense surge of emotions they knew all too well; some were tearing up, some straight-lipped, cold-eyed. 

Each individual was lamenting their own loss, their own heartbreak, and yet you felt as though gloom was a facade in the making, a dam which seemed more sturdy than unstable.

Noah rose to his feet, taking careful steps towards the tissue box and passing them to the older man with both hands. Satoru cautiously released Joseph from the embrace and moved back to his seat.

The older man’s head rose to peer at the facilitator, accepting the box as he thanked him with a voice so quiet you could have sworn it was the wind.

Noah returned to his seat, lips not moving just yet as he let Joseph take a moment to process the words that left his lips and the havoc that surrounded them.

“That was beautiful Joseph, thank you for sharing that, it must be incredibly difficult to not only reflect on the pain you felt but also the pain you feel now.” He spoke with tenderness, eyes never leaving the tearful man.

“I can hear and feel how much love there is in your words, and that can be tough to carry by yourself. Grief doesn’t have a set shape, and there isn’t a right way to hold it. What matters is that you’re here and that you’re trying to make sense of it in a way that feels manageable but also that you’re trying to sit with what you’re feeling instead of pushing it away.”

Noah’s brows knitted together, and the corner of his mouth curved up ever so slightly just to create a crack in the solemn atmosphere. 

Joseph’s avalanche ceased, the tears no longer flowing. His own thin lips mirrored the facilitators' for a few beats. 

Noah’s gaze drifted back to the circle, his smile not blurring away. “Does anyone else have anything to share?” he offered to the room.

Maybe it was the aftermath of the sorrow that pervaded the vast space, the lingering feeling of one's misery that seeped through each layer of skin and muscle, and the weeping of a man who had probably never let his eyes dampen.

That feeling may have prevented any more volunteers from echoing their equal despair. The room fell into a stillness that was hard to breathe in. Your eyes wandered to each empty face, heads down, fingers fidgeting, eyes closed. 

It was as though they wanted to hide behind the invisible barriers and disappear. 

Was the echo of shared agony enough to scar the heart?

Noah took the silence as an answer, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as the forced smile settled on his lips and grew once again. You almost wanted to understand what circled his own mind.

“Sometimes hearing someone talk about their grief can bring up your own.” Noah paused for a moment. “Especially when it’s said so honestly and directly, it can stir feelings that you don’t really understand at first, and that’s okay.” His words landed on each lone figure in the room; it would be a lie if they didn’t strike a chord within your own soul.

“I think we have landed on an interesting discussion point for today’s session.” He stated, with the palms of his hands lying flat on his thighs. “I want you to each briefly explain what you wish people understood about your grief, and remember if you don’t feel comfortable answering, you can pass.”

His gaze slowly moved through the crowd and then eventually landed on you, much to your dismay. You wished his expression wasn’t so empathetic that you could just pass and move on with the day, however, he always held a look of utmost care that was too hard to ignore.

You darted your eyes from his manufactured expression to the desolate room, to the worn flooring. 

“...I wish people understood that my grief isn’t something I can control all the time…I try to turn it on and off when necessary, but sometimes I can’t, and I never know what to do….” you trailed off, eventually looking up.

Your eyes caught onto the milky-haired man, whose gaze was settled on you, not intruding or intense, just steady. 

You couldn’t read his expression; his eyebrows were slightly crinkled, but the rest of his face gave no explanation.

Were your words not controlled enough, did you expose your raw wound instead of covering it with the many dressings? It was hard to tell, but you darted your head to face Noah, who always held the same look of soft understanding.

“Hmm in what way do you try control it?” He inquired, leaning forward in his seat toward you. 

You swallowed, biting the inside of your cheek as you scrambled for an appropriate answer to appease the crowd. 

“Trying to contain it so no one can tell how I’m feeling…it’s how I can stay working as a competent doctor. Anytime feelings have come in the way, I hesitate, which can create problems that wouldn’t only affect me but the patients.” You explained smoothly; your words were tight and woven, a tightly knitted sweater that could suffocate its user.

Noah raised a brow, almost like he was challenging you; your acute awareness of his own analytical nature, reading through it, made your own words pour like sewage rather than water, anything but pleasant and pure.

“I understand that when your work depends on focus and precision, even a small mistake could feel detrimental. But sometimes trying to control everything can build pressure instead of easing it. Learning to notice what you’re feeling, instead of pushing it away can make you stronger in your role.” He spoke with a cadence that flowed so smoothly that it seemed rehearsed, but scrutiny wasn’t going to save you from his words.

You gave him a small nod and his lips curved into his token smile. He moved onto Mariah, the woman beside you; however, her words blurred, like you were thrown underwater. 

You reluctantly looked back to Satoru, who hadn’t moved his attention away from you even after you had finished speaking. 

The corner of his lips curved up so lightly that you wouldn’t be able to notice unless you really focused.

He sat with his arms crossed, reading you so clearly, aware that your words had been carefully chosen and that no real vulnerability had slipped through. You wished you could pick apart his thoughts and claim the answer as your prize, but enigmas were never easy to break.

The circled move with no real haste, answers spilling through clenched teeth; your mind drifted across to lands across the galaxy, thoughts never stagnant, but you picked up on a shaky voice stating they wished others understood that their sorrow would never vanish.

Your head felt heavier than before, filling up slowly like a balloon about to pop. You pressed your fingers against your temple, trying to soothe the ache away. 

As you looked up, you saw that the baton had finally reached Satoru, the man so resistant to any sort of saving.

“I wish people understood that just because I’m functioning doesn’t mean I'm fine.” 

His eyes flicked from Noah to you, remaining there for a few beats. His previous small smile had melted, the whirlpool of blue in his eyes mellowing into something unknown.

Looking at him, you could see the hollow shadows under his eyes, a stark bruise-like shade. 

Had the chambour of mourning entangled his voice? 

His words were brief, guarded to some, but to you it seemed as though he was peeling away the Band-Aid, letting the wound breathe.

He glanced back at Noah, who seemed just as surprised by his candour; his expression hadn’t changed, but a flicker of intrigue passed through his gaze.

“What do you mean by functioning Satoru?” Noah questioned, dark eyes narrowing; like the root he was pulling was finally starting to loosen.

The moment the words spilt from the facilitator's lips, Satoru’s sombre expression shifted back to one you could recognise, the whirlpool halting and the wound covered yet again.

A momentary lull filled the room. “Working, joking around, living a quote-on-quote normal life that everyone lives.” He replied, voice sharper now compared to his confession.

Noah let go of the root, understanding that it was far too deep to loosen. He nodded, “Do you feel like you are forcing yourself to function like those around you?” He attempted yet again.

You swallowed in the suffocation of the room, lungs filling with tainted oxygen and bulwarked spirits. 

Satoru let out a short breath through his nose and looked down at his hands.

“Maybe. I think it’s just easier to act like everyone else than let them know I can’t.” He lifted his head, eyes meeting the prying facilitator.

Noah watched him quietly, voice softer. “Does that help?” 

Satoru swallowed, looking down at his hands again. Silence poured into the room until it felt deliberate.

“..No, it doesn’t.” He admitted.

You always knew that grief had different stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance; you knew that each human would walk through them as it feasted upon what remained. 

But as you sat in the chamber of sorrow, you realised that the neat labels psychologists would categorise were far too simple for something that would devour anything it touched.

Something in your chest tightened as you looked upon the man before you, his shoulders hunched ever so slightly as he leaned forward, veins visible on his forearms beneath sleeves dressed too neatly for a man with chaos seeping through his skin.  

You were always told that tidiness was a reflection of a clean mind; however, as you watched his jaw tighten, you realised most ideologies were facades cloaked in delusion.

Maybe your stare was too intense, too intrusive, leading the milky-haired man to meet your gaze, brows knitted together.

You quickly snapped your head to face Noah, trying to avoid his prying eyes. 

The last member of the group had unloaded their truth; a momentary calmness remained, the hum of the AC in the background as the clock ticked closer to the end of the hour.

“All your answers were so honest and must have been extremely difficult to share, and I appreciate you all for showing up to the sessions and trying.” Noah sympathised, the creases under his eyes more pronounced; you wondered if it must hurt his face trying to smile so much.

“As we are short on time I don’t think we can go around the circle again but I do have another task for you all which is simple but effective. Pair up with someone you feel comfortable around, it could even be someone in the group, and spend a few minutes walking or sitting together, and notice what changes when you don’t do it alone.” 

Your attention was focused on the cracked skin on your wrists and palms whilst he trailed off. Were the rest of the souls forced to try to find a solution to their dismay, or did they realise on their own that being open is true acceptance? 

The older man who sat opposite, had deep wrinkles around his mouth; were they lines from scowls or smiles? If a man who scorned any vulnerability could sit and confide with strangers, who were you to not?

The sound of footsteps and low murmurs started to dominate the room; your thoughts had started to spiral unbeknownst to you.

Without thinking, you slipped your bag over your shoulder, trying to escape the chamber of sorrow, but you weren’t the first one out this time. It seemed you were the last, as the others were taking their time, pace slow and steady, but patience wasn’t bred within you, so you gently pushed past and made it to the other side.

The sky was starting to darken, no elegant sunset blooming on the horizon, just dark clouds and streetlights twinkling. Cars sped by, and voices flowed through the breeze. It was like freedom compared to the exposure reeking from the building behind you.

Slipping on your earphones, you drank in the cool air and silence like chugging a glass of ice-cold water. 

Your body loosened as your feet moved on autopilot towards your final destination of the day. 

The neglected phone that sat between your fingers glowed, your thumb moving mindlessly as you scrolled, reading your unread notifications; a few messages from the past few hours were waiting for you.

BUFF DADDIES

17 March 16:50

CHOSO

I hope today’s session goes well :)

17 March 16:51

YUKI

WE LOVE YOU HOPE IT GOES WELL!!

A small smile tugged at your lips whilst you read their messages, always so sweet.

YOU

17 March 18:03

You guys are so cute. I luh you both; it was intense like no foreplay and straight raw

YUKI

Girl??

A single snort escaped, biting the inside of your cheek; you scrolled to find a message from the strawberry blonde, chuckling silently at his texts.

LIL YUJI

17 March 17:32

I HOPE THE THERAPY IS GOING WELL

ITS THERAPY RIGHT???

LOVE YOU

YOU

17 March 18:05

Yes, it is lol

It went alright

As good as being emo with randoms can be

A soft melody and gentle voice drowned the noise clouding your mind as you stepped across the concrete sidewalk. The cold air wrapped around your open skin, slipping beneath your clothes and playing with your sleeves.

The amber streetlights blinked as you walked, nameless faces passing you; it was pretty quiet for six pm but this side of the city was always eerily calm, like the area itself was stained with torment.

Your phone was now resting in your pocket as you tried to appreciate the scarce nature and Jhené Aiko singing sweet nothings in your ear, but it was becoming increasingly difficult when you spotted chalk white hair in front of you.

He was only a few meters away, hands buried into his slack pockets, hair tousled into loose spikes, his shirt tighter on his back, like his muscles didn’t know anything else.

You wished for nothing but for the ground to swallow you; your eyes darted across the street, searching for any shortcut or alternative route, but alas, the Gods must have despised you, as that was your only way home.

You were still embarrassed that he caught you looking at him; you were merely observing him like how a researcher would watch their test subject, but you knew that he was the type to tease and poke at you at any chance he could.

The only thing that came to mind was to slow your steps and delay your journey even more, but it was safer than being even more embarrassed. 

It must have been a few minutes of you walking, acutely aware of him striding forward; somehow the gap had closed in; it seemed as though you were the only ones who remained walking, as if everyone had vanished out of existence.

Suddenly, the man in front of you halted in his tracks, standing still for a few moments; mimicking him, you stopped walking, blinking in confusion.

Satoru slowly turned around to face you, head tilting to the side as a ghost of a smile swept his face.

“Are you following me?” He questioned, his voice cloaked in amusement.

You stepped back, throwing your hands in the air defensively, nose crinkling. “Huh?? I am not following you; this is my way home.” 

He shook his head, a soft chuckle passing through his lips. “Are you sure? Seems a bit stalkery the way you’re tryna be discreet.” He taunted as he strolled towards you, the gap closing even more.

“I am not a stalker and if I was why would I ever stalk you.” You rolled your eyes dismissively

Satoru was now right in front of you, his tall stature towering over you. The tie that previously decorated his neck had now been discarded, hands still in his pockets, posture so carefree and loose but muscles so tense like his body didn’t know balance.

He stared down at you, glasses perched on his nose, eyes narrowing at you playfully. “Why wouldn’t you wanna stalk me? That's the question.”

You couldn’t help but side-eye him even though no one else was there. “I don’t know who gave you this much confidence, but you gotta pipe down, marshmallow.”  

His brows raised, taken aback by your response. Then he laughed, a short chuckle that sounded airier than intended.

“Damn thats harsh doctor and I hope you know marshmallows are sweet so that was a compliment.” He quipped, his arms now crossing over his broad chest.

A sharp sigh slipped past your lips; it was clear from this interaction he wasn’t going to stop bugging you, so you pulled your earphones from your ear, shoving them in your pocket.

A look of curiosity shaped his features. “What were you listening to?” 

You pulled your phone out to show your homescreen, which had Living Room Flow paused. For some reason, that seemed to humour him and a glint of something you couldn’t read flashed in his vivid blue eyes.

“Did talking about death and shit get you in the mood or something?” He ribbed, grinning at your growing annoyance.

A grimaced expression overtook your features, shoving the phone back in your pocket. You decided not to let his taunting bother you and tried to redirect the conversation to save you from jabbing back.

“No I was just tryna increase my dopamine levels after that depressing session.” You clarified.

Satoru’s grin faltered for half a second like he was deciding what emotion to express. “Yeah…it was more draining this time.” He admitted. Despite the half smile on his face, his voice projected the honesty buried within, octave dropping a few levels.

“Yeah it really was, and I always feel like Noah is always tryna psycho analyse everything I say no matter what.” You remarked, frustration edging your words.

“This is what you get for not practicing my art of avointandism.” He shrugged, acting like he met any of his own guidelines.

You raised a brow, with a knowing look. “Says you.” 

Even though you simply said two words, that managed to inflict something onto Satoru as his grin dissipated for a second yet again. 

“Hey, I was just caught in the moment; that won’t be happening again.” He shifted his weight like the floor underneath him had become uncomfortable.

You softened your gaze. “You know there’s nothing wrong with what you said.” You reassured him, wanting to offer some encouragement without overstepping.

He smiled, but not one of happiness or amusement, just one of armour, as if that’s all he knew. “I guess so.” He mumbled, gaze dropping to the floor for a beat.

You weren’t sure if the breeze had cooled even more or if Boreos was conducting his orchestra; however, you felt a chill graze past your hands, skin cracking even more.

A short silence stretched between the two of you as some cars rushed past; the sound of the crossing beeping and distant voices was white noise to the sombre night.

“I think avoindatism is hard to apply in those sessions.. Noah is always tryna get something out of us.” He added after a few moments, his tone more playful.

You couldn’t help but huff a quiet laugh, the sound short but genuine. “He really is, he’s probably already betted who’s gonna break first.”

“Well, it’s not gonna be me that’s for sure.” He pointed finger guns at you while winking.

You stared at him blankly, not wanting to feed his ‘avointadism’ gimmick he was trying to cement. 

“You’re so strange.” You sighed, walking away from him, leaving him to stand alone on the sidewalk.

He turned to face your retreating figure, chasing after you. “I’m not stalking you either; it’s my way back too!”

You plugged your earphones into your ears whilst he walked beside you silently, hands shoved in his pockets as he glanced around the rows of houses and artificial nature; the sky had darkened to a navy blue, time passing with no regard. 

Time had no regard for the mourning.

EVEN THE ANGELS COULD NOT CONTEST THEIR DETERMINED FATE

A/N:

IM SO SORRY FOR POSTING THE CHAPTER SO LATE ITS BEEN TOO LONG I KNOW, exams were killing me..... but i hope this makes up for it

i hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!!

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ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ: © ᴄᴀʀᴀᴍᴇʟᴀɪꜱᴇ

his stomach does a weird flip, and he can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the fact that you’re looking at him like you’re actually considering—like it’s not just some convenient excuse.

“c’mon, satoru.” your voice drops into something softer, almost teasing, but still urgent. “it’s not like you haven’t thought about it.”

his brain short-circuits for the second time tonight.

before he can respond, you’re tugging at his shirt, and suddenly, your lips are on his—warm, and tasting faintly of whatever cheap cocktail you’ve been nursing all night.

satoru stiffens at first, hands hovering uncertainly in the air, brain scrambling to catch up. he’s drunk, sure, but not drunk enough to miss the fact that this is you—his best friend barring suguru, the person he’s known for years, the one person who shouldn’t be kissing him like this.

but you are.

and worse? he’s kissing you back.

your fingers twist into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, and a little noise escapes the back of his throat before he can stop it. his hands finally move, one settling hesitantly at your waist while the other cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. you smell like your shampoo, the same scent he’s gotten whiffs of on his hoodies after you’ve stolen them, and everything is too much.

he pulls back slightly, breathing hard. “you—” his voice cracks, so he swallows and tries again. “you sure that guy’s even looking?”

you blink up at him, dazed. “huh?” 

“i mean, if you were just trying to make a point—”

“oh. oh!” you glance over your shoulder, looking a little lost, then turn back to him with a sheepish grin. “yeah. i forgot about that.”

he lets out a rough, incredulous laugh. “you forgot?”

you nod, still gripping his shirt. your thumb brushes against the skin at his collarbone, and his stomach flips again.

“in my defense,” you say, quieter. “you kiss really well.”

satoru lets loose a breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. his heart is pounding, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore—if he should step away and put distance between you, or if he should just pull you back in, consequences be damned.

you must notice the hesitation because you’re much closer, now, tipping your chin up and whispering, “we can stop if you want.”

it doesn’t feel like you want to stop. and god help him, he doesn’t want to stop either.

his fingers tighten at your waist. “you’re gonna regret this in the morning.”

you smile, all soft and lazy. “guess we’ll find out.”

The sun soaked palace is not how he remembered it all those years ago. The orientation of these stone walls are the same, it takes the same amount of steps to lead from the main hall to your guarded chambers. The lingering scent of the sea still drafts in through the cracks in the walls. The same chill that shocks his body when his knuckles brush the cool bronze plates lining his... crowded dining tables.

A spark of rage strikes his brow, forcing it to twitch at the very thought of those suitors clanging his challises loudly at dusk, feasting over his food, lusting over his wife in his absence. To think of how loyalty has soured with him gone, to think that men from across the Mediterranean have damned his glory, his respect, his very name for the chance to steal you away as their wife, to become king of his castle.

He will see to it that they will pay. They will all pay.

Satoru allows himself to peak upward when he hears the familiar rustle of your gowns as you rise, your sweet smell drifting through the intricate grating of your sliding walls soon following. His nose twitches, his heart lurches at the scent, the distant memory that springs to life in mere miliseconds.

The ivory haired warrior has conquered Troy, escaped the clutches of a wailing Cyclops, wrecked his ears and very soul with the screech of a siren's delicious song, watched his man love him, hate him, turn on him, and die just as Tyresius promised him before the gates of hell, where all of Satoru's mistakes stood before him in a crowd of soiled men hungry for vengeance, hungry for answers that death did not provide. Satoru has lived a thousand years within his mind, allowing the fruits of the earth to tear the memory of you, sweet you, from his head, along with the sting of a million miles separating you from him.

Satoru has looked into the very eyes of the gods' wrath, of death itself, and yet, his heart has never beat with such brutality the way it does now, when he allows himself a sliver of light to catch a glimpse of you as you stand before your barrier with your hands clasped polited before you. Satoru lets out a strained sigh, ducking his head once more, tearing his eyes away from your beauty, for he knows you too well. If he allows you even just a peak of his face, you'll know. You'd know your husband anywhere.

But even the slightest glance at you without being able to throw himself against your gates, ripping them open, and pulling you into his arms, smashing his lips against yours to make up for the two decades he spent away, he spent making you wait, chips away at Satoru's heart. He never thought himself to be much of a patient man before the gods forced him to know it up close, forced him to trust in fate rather than his own control.

You're encased in emerald that flutters around your ankles, gold necklaces stacked up the expanse of your lovely neck, flittering earrings shining in the firelight crackling behind you. You're a vision of grace, one that keeps these crumbling walls hardly intact. Raw beauty that spites the likes of Aphrodite, that lures men of ill intent to your doors like vermin.

But Satoru did not see your eyes. He couldn't bring himself to look into them, for he'd see the years of heartache he inspired, the grief that you have yet to accept, the life lost in your gaze.

He settles down to sit slowly, back pressing to the gate. He listens intently to every step you make. The way your sandled feet grace the floor, the way the flutter of your gown cuts through the air as you sit just inches away.

Satoru’s eyes flutter shut and his throat runs dry when you speak. “Hello, traveler,” you greet kindly despite the thick blanket of sorrow that lingers in your once airy tone.

Satoru gulps. His heart flips. Whispers of his name on your breath, that very same voice, flutter through his mind from a past long cherished, long abandoned, and he aches with anticipation. Fighting against his own will to remain disguised.

“Please, make yourself welcome. My maid will return to wash your feet so that you may rest in comfort.”

Satoru’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he presses his lips together to maintain strength. After twenty years, he’s finally made it home to you, but you still feel so far away. He attempts to evade the sting of your amiability, so distant and unfamiliar, driven by duty and generosity rather than love. Rather than knowledge.

He clears his throat. “You’re too kind, but that’s unnecessary. Please don’t waste your water on someone like me.” When he speaks, his voice is gravelly, worn, and hoarse with age and nerves and exhaustion and anger and desperation. All of which he keeps burrowed just at the surface, blanketed by the croak of exaggerated starvation.

He tenses slightly when you take a moment to respond, registering the sound of his weathered voice, toying with it in your mind. He prays you do not recognize him. He prays you’ve at least forgotten the sound of his weariness. “Someone like you?” you repeat slowly. “In Ithaca, we welcome all. We treat the needy and hungry as family. You would not impose. I insist.”

Still, so kind. So thoughtlessly, beautifully generous. It's that very generosity which pulled those men to your door, which allow them to trample over your grace.

At that moment, your elderly servant returns with a basin of water and cloth. Satoru recognizes her, sees the definition of wrinkles worn over her skin. He remembers her careful, maternal touch. How she always mended his split flesh after foolish accidents. If the ocean eyed warrior were less distracted by your warmth radiating just behind his back, he would have remembered the chunk of flesh that was torn away from his shin long ago during a hunting accident with a boar which she patched up herself. He would have been more cognizant of the way her cautious, trembling hands gently unwind the tassles of his sandles, removing the footwear from his person slowly.

"You are... too kind," he mumbles in response to you, as well as to the servant before him.

She moves to bring a soaked cloth to his scarred shin, but when her hand drags his leg forward by the back of his ankle, the strangely familiar callous of his heel brushing her palms, she jumps when her eyes land on the brutish, healed wound, the battered flesh she sewed all those years ago.

She jumps. The water topples over and splatters down the stairs. Satoru's son jolts at the sight, and Satoru's eyes jerk up in slow panic at the commotion.

His eyes go wide when they meet hers accidentally, and he watches as stun gradually morphs her expression, the light catching emotionally in her glistening gaze. Satoru acts quickly, his scarred hand shooting forward to knowingly graze her chin, an urgent fire in his crystal hues.

She shudders a breath of disbelief, awed smile catching her lips. Satoru shakes his head, the corners of his lips curving with nostalgia, and she blinks in her stupor before nodding slowly in understanding, scrambling to get more water.

"It is not kindness. Just humanity. Acknowledgement," you argue softly, and Satoru ducks his head once more as an amused, warm smile tugs at his lips, for you always deny your goodness even when it is presented before you. Satoru hums, allowing his cloak to shield his face once more, tugging the fabric forward. "What is your name?"

"...Senon," he lies.

"Senon," you try the name on your tongue warmly, scooching slightly forward. "Where are you from, Senon?"

"...I am a veteran of the Trojan war. I've... traveled very far."

He hears you pause, feels you tense behind him.

You bring yourself closer to the gate, eyes glittering with mourning as your brows pull together in a hopeful tug. You have been wearing your grief on your sleeve for twenty years now, the very mention of the war that stole your love away bringing a lump to your throat and making something hard and hot and unforgiving settle in your chest. Your breath hitches as you inhale, and he hears you swallow, feels the ghost of your breath.

Gods, he's missed you. He misses the breath warm against his lips. He misses your sighs against his heated, balmy skin.

He's so close, but still not quite home.

"A veteran...?" you whisper. "Then... you knew my - my husband?"

Your voice falters under the mere word, shattering into something momenterily fragile and week. Satoru clenches his jaw. He wants to assure you of his safety so badly. He wants to tell you that he is here. That you have to wait no longer, but he would be lying. The fight is not yet won, and his home - you, his son - are not yet saved.

He must wait. Play his cards correctly.

Satoru angles his head slightly to the left, into your direction. "I did," he says. "Very well."

You lick your lips, failing to hide your hope. Not even trying to. "And? What of him...? Do you... is there any word of..."

"He's alive."

You gasp out.

"And he will return. He swears it." He swears it.

"Then where is he?" you urge, abandoning your poise, voice dipping into something heated and desperate and drastic, yet achingly quiet, as though you are afraid to let your hope ring out too loudly for the fear that it will be crushed. "How is it that you were able to return before him? Do you know where he is?"

"He's close," he says.

"Close?" you almost laugh, eyes wide. "How close? It's been years. I've waited - how close?"

Oh, you are so sweet. You are still the same, after all those years. So fiercely loyal. So unapologetically in love. Satoru was truly blessed in this life to have been able to take you as his wife, to know that you have waited so long knowing, praying that he would one day fight his way back to you against all odds, against all unfavorable winds.

"I don't know," he elects to say. He feels you sink. "But I know that he will return."

"How," you shake. "How do you know? When was the last time you saw him, last spoke to him? How could you know that he is coming, that he is close, if he is still not here?" you ask.

He is here, he wants to say. He's here for you. He's come home to you. He will fight for you.

"The Satoru Gojo I know would have fought with all his life to make it back to me," you shudder out, and Satoru aches, for if only you knew. If only he could show you.

"He still is," Satoru says. "Fighting his way back."

"Then where. Is he," you ask once more.

Satoru sighs softly, looking down at his crooked, scarred hands, a reminder of the years away, of the war that waged within the walls of Troy and against his mind for years to come. “He’ll be here when you need him most,” he answers.

You scoff a sound that Satoru knows so well, your irritation bleeding through the devastation over word of your husband always being just out of reach. You attempt to fight the tears that have come so easily in his absence. You look away for a moment as your eyes sting, your nose scrunching and brows curling.

You catch sight of your son sitting afar in the corner, the eyes of his father shining brightly throughout the room, eying your interaction with this stranger. You assume that he was startled by the commotion of your maid fumbling the bowl of water, your mind too clouded by this stranger’s apparent closeness to your husband to see the knowing tension in your boy’s eyes.

Twenty years. Twenty years have dragged by with no word of your husband but a cloaked stranger’s distance promise. Twenty years since you’ve gazed into the sapphire ocean in Satoru’s eyes. Twenty years since you’ve felt those warm hands caress over your own, traveling teasingly up your arms and over your skin, bringing you close, his voice whispering declarations of passion in your ear. Twenty years since you’ve heard his laugh, since you’ve seen his pretty smile wrinkle his eyes and cheeks, since his humor has poured through the halls in thunderous echoes.

Twenty years without his prideful performances, without the familiar bend of a bow that only he can mold to his will, with his muscles tensing with focus and concentration as he strings his weapon, finishing with the triumphant pluck of a taut string for show.

Twenty years without his sound reign. His wisdom. His control. His heart.

Twenty years not knowing whether your husband is alive or dead. If he’ll ever come back to you.

“Promise me,” you recall him pleading with you in the intimacy of your bedroom all those years ago, before he left for the war.

His large hands had clutched your face, his eyes holding your gaze assertively as your chin wrinkles and your lip trembles. Ocean pools attempt to ease you as he looks into your (e/c) eyes, his thumb smoothing over the curve of your cheek.

“Promise me that if I don’t come back, you’ll remarry.”

The sentiment offended you then just as it offends you now. You frown, nose flaring as your hand instinctively raises to slap him. It’s a swift clap against his jaw that startles him, wide eyes blinking before something soft and tender melts over his gaze despite the subtle sting buzzing over his cheek. So stubborn.

“How dare you ask me to do that, Satoru?” you growl, eyes glistening over. Satoru smiles sadly, with all the world’s knowledge brewing behind his eyes. You shake your head, raising your own hands to hold his face in turn. Snowy lashes flutter, his pupils expanding as you bring yourself closer. “You promise me you will come back.”

Ever the ordinarily sure man, Satoru hesitates. He brings his forehead to yours, and you whimper out something broken, your nose brushing, your hands keeping one another connected. You’ve seen your husband overcome the impossible. You’ve seen his wonderful strength. You’ve seen his power.

But here, before you, with uncertainty lying ahead, he is just a man. Unsure.

“What if I can’t, baby?” he murmurs as though it pains him to say, but it is the reality. Many men die overseas at war. Even more die trying to get back home. “I’ll fight with everything I can to come back to you, but what if I can’t?”

“I won’t remarry,” you hiss. “I’ll never remarry.”

“This home will need a king of I’m gone too long.”

“It will already have one. You.”

“(Y/n)…”

“I won’t.”

He smiled again, full of love and despair. “You’re stubborn.”

“You’re worse,” you bite, and Satoru huffs a weak laugh, closing his eyes, feeling you close against him. “Toru, what if we just run away?”

His eyes peel open, meeting yours as he lifts his forehead from you slightly. A desperate craze holds your gaze as you speak.

“You wouldn’t have to fight in this silly war. We could take Telemachus and go. Get a ship. Take the loyal. Chase the escaping sun on the horizon.”

Satoru clenches his jaw, allowing himself to imagine your fantasy. He feels the imaginary salten wind toss through his white strands as he holds you to his chest, your head tucked under his chin as you watch the sun set behind the line of the sea.

“You know it’s not possible,” he tells you longingly. “I’d rather be killed in war, or trying to return to you than for mutiny. I won't soil my legacy or yours, or my son’s for a dream. I have to go, my love. It’s my responsibility.”

You, of course, know this is true. That does not prevent you from trembling with sadness as you stare into your husband’s eyes, knowing from just a glance that he will be gone for a very, very long time.

“I’d rather you not be killed at all,” you say in a hushed voice. He frowns.

"(Y/n), I'll do everything I can," he promises urgently. "We'll win the war, and I will rage against the gods to return to you."

"Gods do not want your rage, Satoru. Rage is what will anger them in turn. Trust them as you trust me," you say. You catch the hesitant look in Satoru's eye. You release him to fumble with your nightgown, unpinning the golden brooch that frequents your sleeve. He keeps his hands on you, touching, tracing, watching tenderly.

You bring the brooch to his eye level, holding it tight in your grip. He glances down at it: a brooch of the goddess Athena shimmering in the firelight.

“Take this with you. Keep it on your person. Wear it always. Athena will look after you as I long to. I’ll be with you throughout your journey, and so will she.”

Your words are whispered against the bow of his pink lips as his hands pull you back in closer, eyes lidded as your skin brushes. He nods slowly against you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

Your mind plays that night on repeat as you listen to this stranger's broken words. You replay the way Satory climbed over you in a haze of dizzy kisses, a long night of passion following that still could not account for how long he would be away.

You miss him terribly.

"I've needed him for twenty years," you tell the beggar who you do not know is your husband. "What is keeping him from me now, if you are here and not him?"

...What could Satoru tell you?

That on the night of Agamemnon's infiltration of Troy, he watched a city light ablaze at the hand of him and his men? That he watched women's knees drop to the dirt as his comrades held swords to their throats? Their pitched screams haunting him to this day, before the merciless slice of a blade cut their cries short?

What could he tell his grievihg wife, desperate for answers, that Satoru Gojo's conscience could not bear the weight of what he'd done to those people - so much so that he allowed the tides to pull himself and his men further away from you while he thought that he was bringing them back home by his own accord? Untethered to Agamemnon's curse of glory?

He feels the blister of fear hot against his skin. Sees the shadows of the dead marching in the back of his mind when he is ripped from his sleep. Remembers the face of that young girl as his men dragged her to the top of a temple's stairs, hands firmly outstretching her arms as she begged for her life at Satoru's feet. And he could do nothing but watch as her head was sliced from her body, and could do nothing but fear as the very same face came to him in the guise of Athena, haunting him, forcing him to remember the blood that stains his hands.

How could he have brought himself back to you, knowing that he had done to the Trojans what he would slaughter millions for if the very same had been done to Ithaca, to you?

Your breaths grow shaky as you listen to the stranger's weathered, intimate tale of your husband's perspective of the war, of all that he and his men did in the sake of Helen's name. Anger bubbles beneath you as you envision the tolls this violence has taken on your husband, who never shied away from battle, but always wore his heart on his sleeve like armor.

The tears come as easily as they have for the past twenty years. You pinch your lips together, fighting sobs as you listen, such familiarity in the beggar's voice that reminds you so much of him, so much of the fact that he is still not here with you.

And if he isn't now, he never will be.

You tear yourself away from the stranger with finality, bidding him a bitter good night as you retreat to wail. As you retreat to succumb to the reality that you know your husband wanted you to live, to the reality that Satoru has manipulated you into fulfilling.

You will seek a new husband.

And your husband will come. He will make sure of it.

"Just a little longer, baby," he murmurs to himself, to the space you just left. "I promise. I'm here."

ׂ╰┈➤

Suitors crowd the very room that Satoru occupied the previous night. He sits on a stump of stone stairs in the very back, cloak shading his figure as he eyes the monsters who seek to take you for their own. His brows angle, a potent rage simmering in the silent stun of your presentation.

There you are, at the front of the room, looking like a vision the very gods sculpted themselves. Your pain is raw on your expression as you stare resentfully out at the sea of suitors before you with your husband's bow gripped tight in your hands.

Before the suitors, in the middle of the room, lies a row of bound pairs of axes, one before the other, lined up in front of a wooden board. Those who were around to witness Satoru Gojo's old performances of strength and accuracy recognize this set up, for it is the very same party trick that the old king used to showcase during warm nights after filling dinners, when the wine has numbed his cares and the bashful look in his wife's eye encouraged him to parade his strength about.

Telemachus, his son, lingers in the corner beside an old, blind friend, his jaw set as he ruminates over the last twenty years. Satoru, having mistakenly unveiled his identity to his son when he approached his old, weak hunting dog, and the very animal relinquished life the moment his master returned to him with the touch of his warm hand against his fur, keeps his eyes elsewhere to preserve himself from others. Telemachus knew instantly then, recalling that his father's pet was waiting for his master to return home before giving into death.

Satoru had ordered for all the weapons to be stored away by entrusted servants, and for the room to be boarded shut when all the suitors gathered. He knew what was coming. He knew by the determination of his wife's depart from his conversation with her.

And he is ready. Finally ready to reclaim what is his, to return home rightfully.

"I will marry any one of you in this room," your voice booms out, ringing against the stone. "If you are able to complete my challenge."

You hold out your husband's bow, attempting not to break away at the feel of its weathered wood in your hands, the memory of the man you love before those who wish to wipe him away.

The room is still, hanging onto your every word, and Satoru’s eyes gleam at the sight of his prized possession in your dainty palms.

“Whoever can string this bow,” you begin. “And shoot an arrow through these six pairs of axes, hitting the wood behind them, is the man I will take as my husband… and the new king of Ithaca.”

Murmurs rise. Chuckles of the unknowing ring out confidently. The silence of those who are knowing is steady.

Satoru grins.

“Who’s first?” you ask.

The low rumble of voices eventually evens out into hesitant silence before the first suitor steps up arrogantly.

“I’ll go,” he grits. You nod, pressing your lips together, before handing the bow off to your son, who passes it to the eager man.

Tension fills the room as he props the bow upright, pinching the string between his fingers, and stretching it up, up, up.

He grunts, hand trembling, string hovering inches away from the tip of the bow. He remains struggling that way for a moment, bent on one knee, before giving in with a huff, the string snapping back to the floor.

A rumble of laughter erupts and you roll your eyes. “Not enough protein in the diet, huh?” some man shouts out, further encouraging guffaws and chuckles.

The suitor scoffs and turns away with the flick of a dismissive hand, pride wounded. Then comes the next suitor, believing he can show the previous up.

He takes the bow. Kneels down. Brings the string up, up, up. It stretches, he grits his teeth and trembles, cheeks flushing, before stumbling with the snap of the string back to the ground.

More laughter.

“It’s impossible!” he hisses. “No one could do it!”

“My husband could,” you cut in, and the room goes silent once more with resentment and a sudden urge to prove you wrong, to prove that any one of them could take Satoru Gojo’s place. "Who's next?" you raise your brows challengingly.

Satoru swoons. Oh, how he loves you. How he will make up for all the time spent away once he proves himself worthy again, once he rids his home of the plague that is these stupid men.

One by one, suitor after suitor lines up to try and fail miserably at stringing the bow that only Satoru is known to be capable of stringing. The laughter soon dips into gradual panic, and the realization that the task truly is impossible settles in, the challenge unbeatable for all those who are not the very owner of the weapon himself.

"My queen, we get it," one suitor speaks up bravely, wearing a mask of vulnerability and sympathy that Satoru assumes is meant to gain your good graces. The ivory haired warrior scowls and your eyes turn to the man talking.

Dark hair and eyes. A handsome smile. Something snaky behind his eyes that he attempts to soften for you. He steps forward.

"We know what this means. Nearly all of us have attempted to beat this challenge that none of us could ever overcome. We understand what you are trying to say, that we will never fill Satoru Gojo's shoes. But if I may offer myself up as a man who will try, knowing the great shadow that looms over me. Knowing that I will fail. I will do all that I can to please you, to mend this kingdom. I may not be able to win your challenge, but I am eager to win your heart."

No one says a word. Telemachus' eyes fly around the hardened faces of the suitors, discouraged by their own failure, and the mischief of the man who just spoke up. He swallows, and you merely look the man in the eye, doing all you can to remain polite. To stand tall. To give him a chance, when what you truly wish to do is lock the doors behind you and set the entire room ablaze.

Satoru has had enough.

Slowly, he rises, his cloak fluttering around his figure. He is cautious to keep his posture slightly slumped, his head bowd, and his voice low. As if unsure.

"I haven't tried yet."

All heads turn to the back of the room where the former king stands as a beggar. The silence is piercing before it is interrupted by an outburst of laughter, laughter that makes the suitors' inadequacy feel much lighter.

The suitor who had just spoken freely to you chortles particularly loud. "You? A beggar?!" he sputters. "What could possibly make you think that you would succeed if none of us could? You're nothing," he spits.

You watch the beggar slowly step past the man taunting him, his footsteps echoing throughout the space. Your brows knit with curiousity, and something you don't quite allow yourself to acknowledge gnaws at the back of your mind.

The dark haired suitor scoffs as the beggar stands before him, throwing his arm out in disdain. "Your majesty, you can't possibly-"

You raise your hand, and the man immediately cuts himself off. You keep your eyes on the cloaked face before you, the way this stranger approaches so humbly, so surprisingly willing to try after watching everyone fall short of what your husband was - is.

Something is... off here. You can't quite name it, but your heart knows.

The beggar stands still, presenting only himself before you. No titles. No land. No pride. Merely his own hands, a veteran's status, and a face you have yet to see.

You inhale slowly, something scratching at the back of your throat as you lower your hand. You nod toward Telemachus, who holds the bow toward his father.

"Please. By all means," you encourage him. "Good luck."

Satoru reaches his hand out and wraps his worn fingers around the wood soundly. He expels a long, gentle breath as he reunites with the weapon, taking it carefully out of his son's hands, who slowly backs away to stand at the far end of the room, knowing what is to come.

You notice. You notice every movement that occurs from this moment forward.

Sunkissed hands trace over the intricate detailing, following the curve of the bow as he sinks slowly down to his knee. Memories of hunts, of teaching children archery, of battle come to his mind as he methodically fiddles with the bow, then soon comes the memory of his performances in the banquet hall. The roar of triumph. The raise of his bow in the air. Your proud grin and flushed cheeks.

Satoru breathes in. Taking his time. You hang onto each second, brows coming together as you watch this stranger touch your husband's bow just as he would, pinching that string between all thick digits.

Suddenly, arms curve inward and biceps puff. Veins bulge in the strangers muscular forearms and hands as he clutches the top of the bow with one and the string with the other, arching his body inward as the weapon curves and stretches under his force.

Your heart drops.

The beggar gives way for a moment, releasing the string due to misuse, and takes a breath. A rumble of further laughter comes once more as the suitors prepare to throw more doubt at the man, but the room goes silent again when the beggar repeats the action.

He stretches the string. He curves the bow inward. His muscles flex, and his shoulders round. The bow folds, the room freezes, the string catches, and connects.

The bow is strung.

The breath leaves you as your knees suddenly go weak. Your mind spins, dizziness overcoming you, and before you can allow your emotions to get the best of your senses, he does it.

He grips the wooden arch in one hand and plucks the string with the other, a resounding single, daunting note ringing out into the space.

A predator warning its prey for what is to come.

And with the force of his pluck, you almost faint. For you know this motion. You know this presentation. You know those hands, those veins and the way that body curves to match his weapon's mold.

Your husband has returned.

You gasp out a shuddering sigh before retreating back to your chambers. You have no time to think, to process, for you know what is coming the second that bow is strung.

The room is heavy with shock as Satoru rises to his feet, taking the arrow, hooking it, and shooting it through the axes. The arrow flies with a sharp whistle and hits the target in one shot.

Telemachus, who has only heard stories of such demonstrations, lets a grin slip onto his face. The room remains eerily still in the man's victory, and his shoulders gradually ease back, his posture straightening to reveal his true height.

You make it to your doors, hand on either one as you watch from the top of the steps. Your world goes quiet. The beggar you spoke to the previous night stands suddenly tall, and his cloak slips away from his face with such stature.

Sapphire pools. The same ones that have haunted you every night for two decades meet your gaze.

Tears stray past your lashes, dribbling down your cheeks like shooting stars as you take in his face, your heartbeat and his steady breath the only things your ears can catch.

Skin tanned and aged by the merciless beat of the sun. Snowy hair bright and graceful, slipping down to his ears, swiping across his forehead in ivory tendrils. Sharp cheekbones, facial stucture matured, hardened, a beard that garaces his once clean shaven face, and his heart on his sleeve.

Your love incarnate. Disguised as a beggar. Nothing but a man before you, once more seeking your hand the only way he knows how.

He's come back to you.

"You're..." a suitor begins. "You're him. You're Satoru Gojo-"

An arrow pierces his neck before he can finish his sentence, and when everyone focuses, they see the stance for battle that Satoru has taken. Ocean eyes ablaze, arrows hidden under his cloak, teeth grinding.

One down. The rest to go.

A breathless grin breaks across your face, your teary eyes blurring your vision as you close the doors shut before you, granting your husband complete free reign. To kill every last one of them.

Satoru's focus is the sharpest it has every been as his arrows fly and strike through the flesh of one man after another. Chaos breaks out as suitors attempt to search for weapons that were hidden from them. Servants fly to the boarded doors, banging helplessly, pleading for escape as Satoru lays waste to every man he sees.

His hair flies about his face as he whips his head around, locating each incoming attack and stopping it before it could reach him. His pupils are shrunken, face straight and seemingly calm, eyes edged with a hint of insanity and anger.

These men think they can walk into his home? Make themselves cozy within his walls? Drink his wine? Kick his son and dog around? Pursue his wife, the very love of his life, the greatest thing to ever happen to him, and walk away without punishment? Without paying?

Satoru's teeth bear as he reaches forward to grab one pair of the bound axes from the challenge, swinging it around to thrust into an attacking suitors face, the blades chopping away at his flesh, knocking him dead and backward onto the ground. He uses the hilt of the axes to thrust backward, plowing into another suitor's gut blindly, sending him rocketing back into the stone walls.

Satoru huffs. Not a fucking chance.

Droplets of blood splatter as the suitor who spoke freely to you orders for someone to find and retrieve the weapons. One disloyal servant manages to thrust himself out of the wooden barred doors and run for the storage room, a tip having been provided by another servant. Telemachus pursues, engaging in a brawl with the bald headed man as punches are thrown. The servant manages to send Telemachus flying across the room and to the floor with a bloody nose as he thrusts a hole into the wooden floor below, leading into the room where Satoru's murder spree transpires.

He throws spears through the hole, equipping some suitors with weapons to corner the King of Itchaca. Satoru persists, rocketing arrows left and right, when he feels sharp blades pierce his shoulder blades from behind, the long weapons trapping him inside a small circle at a distance.

Telemachus, eager to assist his war hero father, scrambles to his feet and tackles the servant once more. He plunges his fist into his face, pinning him against the wall of weapons. The blue eyed boy stretches his arm to reach for another spear, which he hastily grabs and tosses through the hole for his father to catch. The servant finds an opening, reaching behind him for a dagger, and thrusting it into Telemachus' side. The boy hisses and stumbles back, and the war between the loyal and disloyal persists.

Satoru catches the spear tossed overhead to him and slices it through the air, knocking the other spears into a strayed direction, allowing him the freedom to use his bow once more before thrusting the spear into the hearts of other men.

Above, Telemachus scrambles beneath the weight of the servant pinning him down. His eyes shoot up to the table next to him, spotting a sword dangling off the edge of the wood. Just as the servant raises the dagger high above the boy's face, he narrowly dodges, mustering up all the strength he can find to flip himself over, rolling over to the side as the dagger comes down to split the wood. Telemachus jumps for the sword on the table as the servant rises to his feet, and in a flash, he pulls a swift move, sweeping the blade under the servant's neck stealthily, watching as blood sprays and the body falls limp at his feet.

Beneath him, broken spears impale Satoru's back, but he moves on, three weapons wielded in his hands, alternating between each like a monster as men continue to follow around him. A spear thrusts for your honor. An arrow flies for his son's safety. Two axes slice for his home.

And as blood trickles through the crevices and cracks of stone, heaps of bodies scatter the ground. Those who no longer wish to fight, who no longer desire to risk their lives for an unbeatable battle against and unbeatable foe, drop to their knees and the weapons they happened upon, ducking their heads in homage.

It is not over until Satoru finally corners the dark haired suitor who was mouthy enough to present himself to you in isolation, using the hilt of the axes to thrust against his chest and pin him down to the floor. He stares up in horror as blazing sapphire eyes glare down at him wide, disconnected, furious.

The king's chest rises and falls slowly, his cloth now half ripped from his exposed body. His skin is bare, pectorals swelling and falling with his heavy breaths, lines of blood trickling down his well defined abdominals from the wounds that pierce his flesh. His foot raises to press down into the suitor's shoulder, all of Ithaca's might and Troy's victory hovering over the man who thought he could stand a chance, who spoke far more than he could ever take action. A pitiful coward who Satoru recognizes from youth, who once wanted to follow his footsteps into battle at such a young age.

He grew into a pathetic excuse for a man.

Satoru bends over, leaning in close as the suitor watches with frightened, blown eyes. "My wife," he grits out huskily. "would sooner see you in Hades than by her side. And I'll be sure to fulfill her wishes."

With that, Satoru raises his spear gripped in his right hand and thrusts it down into the man's chest with a strained rumble in his throat.

With the leading suitor dead, all other contendors go mute and drop their weapons in defeat. The ivory haired man slowly lifts his foot from the corpse before him, lowering his arms at his sides to turn around. Before him, the sight of all those who attempted to kill him moments ago now kneeling in a crescent around the room greets him.

The hilts of spears thud into the ground, the rhythm of victory, the beat of recognition for the king's homecoming. Satoru stumbles slightly, muscles stinging under to pierce of spears. He looks around, and finally drops his weapons to the ground with a resounding clang.

He won. The King has finally come home.

But Satoru cares not for the men who kneel at his feet. He cares not for the walls he has reclaimed, for the title he has settled back into, for the fame that his name brings.

What he cares for now lies behind those deep, wooden doors just at the other side of the room.

He shuffles, slightly dazed from bloodlust and domination. The remainders of his cloak drop softly to the ground, revealing him in all of his six foot three mass, all of his rippling, sweat drenched, blood smeared muscles. The very sight of him speaks volumes, exudes power, and strength unbridled.

But he does not care for such things as he trudges toward your doors, limping in a trance. He can hardly feel the little blades sheathed into his skin as he walks, for his mind is fuzzy with adrenaline and the image of you that he can now savor, hold, treasure.

Telemachus rushes back through the busted doors in search of his father, finding that he has already won, and that he is already making his way toward his mother.

Satoru stops before the few steps leading up to your doors. They slide open cautiously, revealing you standing there, awe scribbled over your gorgeous features.

You're as beautiful as the day he left you behind.

You shiver, tears staining your (s/c) cheeks as you stare into your husband's eyes. You ask yourself if this is a trick of the gods, of the light, or of your mind, but as your eyes momentarily sweep over the damage he has done, taking into the kneeled stances of the surviving suitors, you finally breathe.

Your husband came back to you after all those years.

You tremble with soft cries as Satoru stares at you with all the love and relief the world has to afar. His eyes have softened, his pupils growing in your presence, and he carefully reaches back into his pants, lifting his hand to reveal the golden brooch that he promised he'd bring back to you after keeping it on his person at all times.

You blubber out a laugh, overjoyed, overwhelmed, and you rush to your husband. The moment your arms reach out to him longingly, he submits to the exhastion and collapses to his knees with a warm grin and creased eyes. You follow him instantly, dropping to your knees in turn and gathering his body, bringing him close to you. You lay him over your knee as you cry gently, droplets of your tears dotting onto his skin as he looks up at you like you've hung the moon and the stars. His hands grip your waist and upper arm as you prop him up to meet your gaze.

"Satoru," you whisper tenderly, his name no longer a hush that torments your dreams at night. Your shaky fingers trace over his skin as his always did yours, experimentally stroking over his white beard, tracing the lines beside his eyes, his sharp nose, his pink bowed lips. Your heart races, your skin flushed, your mind at ease.

"Hi, baby," he beams despite himself and his wounds, all sap and softness in your embrace, a stark contrast to the raging monster he was moments before. "I'm home."

You laugh, or sob - you aren't sure, disbelievingly. "My love. My Toru," you coo, stroking his lengthened hair. "You came back to me."

"Of course I did," he mumbles, reaching a bloody hand to your cheek. "I'm sorry I took so long."

You shake your head, uncaring of the time anymore. Your husband is here, after so very long, and that's all that matters. "I thought you were dead," you croak. "I thought you were never coming back."

"I know, pretty. I know," he soothes, brushing a piece of your hair from your face. "But I'm here now. It's been a long journey, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere ever again."

"You better not," you sniff. "I won't let you. Twenty years, Satoru. I spent twenty years without you."

"I know," his eyes crinkle with happiness, a weight surging from his chest now that he has made it back into your embrace. "I know. It was torture. I know I left you waiting so long. I'm so sorry," he apologizes again. "I carried you with me the whole time. I couldn't rest until I made it back to you. I'm yours. Here. Always."

You don't wait any longer. You've waited long enough.

Your heads both move in unison, your hands hold his face as your lips meet in a hungry, desperate lock. Your body slumps, and Satoru lifts himself higher to chase the taste of your salty lips, years of anguish slipping away at the very contact.

Satoru almost forgot your sweetness. The sugary taste that always lingers in your mouth as though you were made of pomegranate and sugar, as if his tongue was made to taste you. His fingers curl into your hair, eyes lashes fluttering blissfully against his cheek, brow arching as your lips glide together like the sway of a perfect wave.

You cry into the kiss, and Satoru presses in deeper.

Telemachus smiles warmly from afar, clutching his side, forgetting his wounds. The suitors turn their gazes away shamefully, and Satoru shamelessly marks his territory, kisses you as though it is the last time to make up for all the damage he's caused you. Your kiss so addicting, more addicting than the Lotus Calypso fed him and the insatiable song of the sirens, that he has no plans to part from you any time soon.

The two of you are nothing but heated breaths and smacks of lips, sniffles and gentle chuckles.

A string of saliva connects you when Satoru mistakenly parts, the curve of his shoulder shooting lightning up his back from the arrows still embedded there. He hisses with a wince, and you watch him with concerned eyes, looking over his state.

He catches the worry in your expression, and smiles warm again, only ecstatic to see your face before him and not in his tormented nightmares of failing to reach you. You frown as his thumb slides down your cheek and over your chin, light shimmering in his gaze.

"Do you like the rugged look or should I shave?"

You laugh loud, unrestrained, free, for you have longed to here such stupid jokes told at the most inappropriate times for as long as you can remember. You duck back down to kiss Satoru's lips as his head falls back against your knee.

"You're perfect," you whisper against him.

ׂ╰┈➤

You can't put words to the way Satoru looks at you as you finish cleaning the cut on his neck, the wounds on his back having been patched by the servant who washed his feet the previous night.

A thick film of heat occupies your once vacant bedroom, firelight crackling against the distant walls. Celebrations have long concluded, the night's recognition of the king's return and all his accomplishments cut short by your urgency to disinfect Satoru's wounds.

He lay with his back against the wall of your bed, eyes watching every movement you make as you dab cloth over his soothed gash, his face clean shaven and fresh thanks to your steady hand. You sit upon his lap, warm thighs straddling him, your night gown spilling over the exposed spaces of your skin, barefeet tickling the silk comforters.

Satoru feels as though stuck in a dream, watching your calmed face as you bring the cloth away from his skin, placing it back into the water on the side table beside you. You feel your husband's eyes following you, his warm palm soothing over the skin of your bare thigh, his gaze hazy, his body warm under yours.

He is still adjusting to his return, not fulling trusting that he is finally safe and sound within well earned royalty, and renewed by his lovely wife's touch. His son, once a baby, is now over twenty years old, and when he looked in his eyes earlier that day, he saw himself. Brave. Responsible. Noble.

His family has grown up without him.

The king can't quite name what he feels right now, but he knows that a good chunk of it is love as his eyes graze over the signals of beautiful age on your face. How you've managed to keep everything together in his absence continues to baffle him, but he shouldn't be surprised. After all, he's never met a woman quite like you.

Gods, he loves you. He loves the way your lashes curl and the way your teeth sink into your soft lips. He loves the way your hair falls and the way your skin melts in the orange hue of fire. He loves the way your thighs squeeze over him as if he never left, as he if he will never leave again, and he's sure that he won't. After twenty years away, Satoru plans to stay buried beneath your body for his long as he possibly can, unmoving. Sound.

"I'm sorry."

You look up at the sound of his gentle voice, his soft tone ringing out like a whisper in the dark. You tilt your head slightly, abandoning the cloth to turn your attention to your long awaited husband and king.

"Honey, you've apologized so many times," you sigh, smoothing a hand over his chest. You feel Satoru jolt beneath you, feel the way he still reacclimates to your touch, afraid that it isn't real. "It's not your fault that you were away so long. The gods were angry. So were you."

"It is my fault," he denies. "I made them angry. I let my pride get in the way. I let it ruin me. I let it kill my men, and steal away my life with you... with our son..."

"Satoru," you say his name tenderly, yet assertively. He looks you in the eye, brow curving pensively. "You can't take back all those years. What happened is in the past. I don't care about any of that anymore now that you're here."

"You should," he argues. "Look at what I left you to deal with."

"I never gave up hope," you counter. "I always knew you were coming back. Everyone told me you were dead. I didn't believe them."

You reach for his hand, pulling it from your thigh to press to your chest. His palm flattens over your heart, the precious thump pounding against his touch. You see the way he sinks into the feeling, jaw tight.

"I felt you in my heart. All these years."

His eyes flicker back up to you, darker now. "Baby, I'm so sorry I left you alone."

"Satoru, you have to stop apologizing. I'm not angry anymore. I'm happy. I'm relieved," you urge, holding his hand to you soundly. "My husband is back. That's all I care about now."

"You should care about more," he says solemnly.

You furrow your brows. "Did you find someone else out there while you were gone?"

Your husband's eyes go wide at the sentiment, disgust crossing his features momentarily. "What?"

"Well, did you?" you raise a brow.

"Baby," Satoru starts. "There's no one else across the oceans for me but you. I only ever thought of you when I allowed myself to remember. When I didn't block out the pain of being away. How could you even as me that?"

You know there's weight to the things Satoru says, but you don't press it any further. You'd rather not discuss all that happened to him when he wasn't with you. "Then why do you keep talking like I shouldn't forgive you?"

"...Because..."

"Because you haven't forgiven yourself for everything that happened."

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. You know him well.

"My love," you shift, bringing his hand from your chest to clutch between your palms as you look at him. "You've crossed the sea. You've watched your comrades fall. You've burdened the weight of thousands on your shoulders. You almost lost yourself and you found your way back. To your mind. To your home. To your son. To me," you speak passionately. Satoru watches you with great emotion, his nose flaring as you keep his gaze. "You must extend yourself grace. If you can't forgive yourself for everything, or believe that I could forgive you, then what of all that you've been through? What of me?"

Satoru's lips curve downward. "What of you?" he repeats.

You gulp. "I don't want to think about what we lost any more than we have, Toru. I don't want you to look at me and be sad... I want to start building our life again from where we've just picked up. What of me if you can't look past your own guilt to see that all I care about is having you with me again?"

Somehow, even as Satoru torments himself for his sins, you still look at him and see the man you love instead of all his mistakes. You don't blame him for what he took from you. You don't resent him for all his time spent so far away.

He does not understand how, except for the fact that he loves you so very dearly, and you love him in turn. He refuses to argue with you on his first night back, especially if you insist on leaving it all behind when the two of you are in each other's company the way you used to be.

Satoru's other hand slide up to your chin, caresses just beneath your bottom lip. Dark pupils observe you sweetly, his heart aching with want as he watches the way your plush lip drags beneath the pad of his thumb when he touches you. "What of you?" he says again. "You're everything, (Y/n). You're all that's been keeping me together. Just because I'm burrowed in self deprocation doesn't mean you're any less of the woman you have always been to me," he tells you earnestly.

You feel his hand shift in yours to clutch tightly in return, your other hand still holding over his.

"I love you," he says for the first time in twenty years. You fall apart. "You have been and always will be my perfect girl. My queen. Don't ever question where you stand in my mind. Our separation has tormented me for decades. I haven't been able to sleep. My soul ached to be away from you, baby. I love you. You're everything right about this world, about me. Don't forget that."

You breathe in sharp, thighs squeezing, heart lurching for more closeness, for your husband's praise, for his love. You are nothing but sap at his hands as his fingers graze your lips, trailing down to your neck slowly, past your clavicle, over your exposed collarbone. Satoru watches, mesmorized, as goosebumps sprout over your skin. And you feel that familiar tension, the way he hardens beneath you, the way his body presses firm and sound to yours, needing more. For just one touch isn't enough.

He's spent too long away from you. It's been too long since he has been able to savor you in the intimacy of your bed, in the privacy of your chambers, where no one exists but your intertwined souls as he makes love to you in a way that has you seeing stars and planets in orbit, that ruins you for any other man.

And how could you ever want any other man, when you have Satoru?

His hair is messy in that well loved way, from your hands gripping into them during messy kisses, and the freshness of a bath. He looks so much older, much more mature, but still as breathtakingly handsome as ever with lines of stubble tracing his face, white lashes blinking slowly, and dark pupils shrinking the outter ring of blue orbs. His chest is exposed to you, shirtless, and your hands trickle down his heated skin, exploring every scar that you do not recognize, every bump and ridge that you've missed in time.

His exterior has somehow physically hardened, his shape having been beaten into perfection by the gods' brutality. You wince as the pads of your fingers follow every unsaid story of his faded wounds, and you hear his heavy breath grow more weighted under your feather light touch.

Satoru brings you in closer by your chin, lids low, eyes hungry and desperate to make you happy again. To feel you again. "Do you still love me, pretty?"

He knows the answer, and you know he knows as well, but you do not hesitate to give him what he wants. "Of course I do," you murmur, "I've wanted you to come back and kill every last one of those suitors the second they arrived. I have and only will ever love you."

"Yeah?" he hums. You nod, entranced. He smiles. "That's my girl. I'd do it all over for you again in a heartbeat. No one touches my wife."

"I missed you so much, Satoru," you exhale as your noses brush, your eyes falling closed as his scent invades you.

"I missed you too. So much. You don't even know," he says, wrecked.

"I missed your hands. Missed the way they touch me."

"Mhm?" his hand slips from yours to slide back up your thigh. Your lips part as his touch creeps higher and higher, sending vibrations shooting through your body. His fingers reach past the silk that adorns you, creeping between your legs lovingly as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "What else did you miss, my love? Tell me. Tell your king."

"Missed the way you talk to me," you moan softly. "Missed your voice."

"And I missed those pretty sounds you make," he groans, slipping his hand lower. His thick fingers brush your thinly clothed core, dragging lightly against the ball of nerves that swells knowingly, needily at his slightest presence. You gasp softly against him, leaning further into him, and he hums lovingly. "Just like that," he murmurs, kissing your cheek. "You always sound so beautiful when I touch you. Gods, it's a crime to have been pulled away from this."

"Toru," you whine, your hips grinding desperately down against him. Satoru's breath hitches, something low and unsteady rumbling out against you as you grip his shoulders. "Please don't make me wait any longer."

He wastes no time, hastily tugging your undergarments aside, but doing so with care. "Oh, baby, I won't. I won't torture you anymore. You've been so strong. So good. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll make up for everything. I'm here."

You let his hands grab your waist and carefully flip you over. Your head sinks into the silk sheets and your undergarments are completely discarded, a string of your arousal stretching along with their removal. Satoru hovers over you, soft, primal, and curves down to unite your lips.

You whimper softly, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him flush against you. His warm chest presses to yours, your gown hiking up over your hips, your bottom half bare to the man you love as his fingers slip down your stomach and curve over your swollen clit.

Your soft moans spill into Satoru's lips as his tongue slants past, plunging eagerly into your mouth. The muscle swirls around your own, your tongues tangling in a desperate, greedy dance, the smack of lips rising into the air as Satoru begins to work little circles over your clit.

"Yeah, sweetheart, I'd never forget," he breaks away to grumble against your mouth as you whine, your thighs curving outward to grant him more access. He swoons, taking the opportunity to drag out his touch, slowing his circular motion with two, fat fingers, collecting your sweet juices over his fingertips. He ducks to kiss your jaw. "I'd never forget what makes you whine like that."

"Satoru."

You call his name out like a prayer, and the said man can not help but answer. He's longed for this. Starved for this.

"I'm here," he assures you again, his pace dizzying, his lips gliding down to the sensitive space of your neck. "I'm here. I promise. I'll take care of you."

The squelch of your fruit eases the tension of years when he inserts two of his fingers. Their sheer width stretch you out from years of lack of use, and you groan out something throaty, clinging tight to Satoru as he lavs warm kisses over your skin. His teeth graze your neck as he sucks hot kisses over it, feeling you squirm with delight and hold him tighter, mindful of his wounds.

"Fuck, still so wet for me," he marvels, burying his face in your neck as he sheathes his fingers slowly in and out of your slippery folds, his lashes fluttering with ecstacy. "Oh baby, you have no idea much I've thought of this."

Your thighs tremble around his hand, your body too weak for his dominance and touch. You know you won't last long, for the strength of his fingers ache so deliciously that you can't even think straight. All you can think of is your husband, and how such things were a far off fantasy merely two nights ago.

But now, he hugs you close, marking your skin, fingering your warm pussy like it was made for him, splitting you apart with just the power of his index and middle digits, undoing you in order to mend you both again. "Talk to me, (Y/n)," he huffs into you. "Tell me what else you missed. Please baby, I need to know."

"Mmmm, missed - missed your fingers so fucking much," you mewl, head tossing back as he peppers kissed across your chest.

"I know, honey, you have them now, don't you?" he teases slightly. "What else? What else can your husband do for you?"

You moan at his title, at what he is to you, at the way his fingers curl against that spongey spot inside and hit just a little bit deeper as they plunge into your walls, gliding in and out eagerly. You leak over his palm freely, soaked. The sound lands raw on your ears, and Satoru releases a muffled groand, addicted to the sensation he feared he would never experience again.

"Oh gods, Toru, missed your - hah - missed your mouth," you whine as his lips trail lower, his other hand curving around the hem of your gown to expose your breasts. They spill free, and Satoru lifts his head to gaze down at you. Your head slightly tossed back, your mouth agape, your eyes barely open, brows pinched with pleasure, and your chest bare before him.

"You're ethereal," he breathes, ducking back down to lick a long strip from your nipple to the bottom of your chin. You whine, hips bucking, walls squeezing. "Oh, honey, do that again. Please. Need to feel you. Squeeze me like you love it."

His pace goes faster, his fingers transitioning from a slow and steady rock to a fastened rocket into your core. You squelch loudly around him, moaning out, and Satoru moans in turn.

He ducks back down to you, taking your nipple between his lips and sucking softly. His tongue rolls around the bud as his cheeks hollow, slurping greedily at the plush fat, toying you gently between his teeth. Your back arches, and his free hand follows to hold the position, fingering you swiftly as he sucks at your pretty tits.

You're a piece of art. A masterpiece. Satoru thinks so when he looks up to watch the way your face pinches in that familiar pleasure, the way the breath floats from your chest, and your pussy clamps hard down on his fingers before you gush around them, spilling syrupy release over your bed and onto his palm. He moans freely, marking your breasts as you writhe and squirm beneath him, his hand keeping your back arched against him.

Is this the afterlife? Is the Elysium? Has he achieved immortal bliss?

He believes so as his wife's perfect pussy cums all over his hand for the first time in decades, and his length aches to cum after, unable to stand the pressure of your intimate reunion.

He breaks away from your tit to smash his lips against yours again, fumbling blindly with his pants, grinding his lower half against you as you prolong your high.

"What else did you miss?" he breathes raggedly against you as you see stars and cling to his neck.

There is not much for you to say when the night drags on, and his pants are discarded to free his massive length. You'd almost forgotten the sheer size of it, how it curves at just the right angle, how his tip shines an angry pink, glistening with pre cum as it twitches against your thigh, his lips leaving marks over every patch of skin they can find.

Satoru, ordinarily the talkative type in bed with you, can hardly find the words when his dick presses into you, past your slimy folds, and eases into your tight, hot cavern. You cry out with the sting of his long awaited intrusion, and he kisses away the pain, your lips slick with spit and your own cum from when your husband licked your cunt clean after fingering you over and over.

You're stuffed full when he finally, eventually bottoms out. Tears brim your eyes from both the penetration and the reality of your connection, for it's been so long since you've had sex with your husband. Since he's been home to ease your needs. Since he's filled you up, made you take him all with his starry eyes holding yours.

"I'm here," he says continuously, as though he needs the words to engrain themselves in your mind, so you don't have to worry about him disappearing anymore.

Tears trickle down your cheeks as he pushes in deeper, brushing your cervix, your walls snug around him. He kisses you again, repeatedly, gripping your hips tight, knocking his forehead against yours. You feel the expansion of his girth inside you. You feel every beloved ridge and curve. You feel him throbbing as you tighten, refusing to release him, holding on to the unimagineable pleasure of his intrusion.

You're already spilling around his length, wetting him down to his balls and upper thighs, and Satoru loves every second. Savors it. Treasures it.

"Satoru!" you bellow, throat raw as he pistons in and out of you, thrusting deep and heavy, keeping a slow, agonizing pace. He wants to feel every second, every drop of your release, every snug squeeze of your beautiful walls, every drag of his cock against your pillowy pussy, which went so long without his attention.

Well, no more. He's here to make it better. To love you. To hold you. To make you feel good. To rip that sadness away indefinitely.

"That's it, baby," he praises hot against your ear, voice thick with tension and pleasure. He groans, jaw slack, brows scrunched, eyes heavy as his nose tucks against your pulse. "That's it. Let me make you feel good. Missed this pussy so much, honey. Missed you so much. Let your husband take that pain away."

And he does.

The night drags on in a haze of sweat and fluid and pleasure. Your fingers graze his scars as he makes powerful love to you, acknowledging all that he's done to make it back, all that he's done to be the man that hovers over you, pieced together by your touch.

And as you lay wrapped up in his limbs as the sun peaks over the horizon, the thick scent of sex and Satoru lingering in the air, you thank Athena for bringing your husband back to you.

Apollo was powerful, yet Eros was unkind. After he poked and played and had his fun, Apollo left Eros alone in the forest, giving him no mind. He didn't know, however, that the God of Love would prove far more wicked than he had thought.

As with his hurt pride, Eros plucked a few creamy feathers from his wings and prepared two arrows. They were completely different, one creating love, the other banishing it entirely. A savage decision, truly, yet how could a prideful man of Eros's sort leave Apollo without the fruit of his wrath?

So he drew the arrow of love and shot it right through his bones. Letting it seep deep and gravely, spreading the lustful obsession of the most wicked charm. The utterly deadly one, making one obsessed and wretched over the darling of their desires.

Usually, his arrows were meant to strike those who wished to be deeply in love. Yet, as the rage was ravaging Eros's mind, he decided to make Apollo the most obsessed yet unhappy man in the entire world.

As for the other one, meant to banish the love, he shot at the daughter of the River's God.

The most beautiful nymph of all, with a face carved by the waves themselves. A chin utterly kind and cheeks wholly sweet, as eyes carried a gentleness of petals' peppered kisses. A wild birdie she was, basking carefree beneath the searing sun, as she lay and drank and danced without giving a mind to no mankind nor other little divinities. Nothing plagued her cheeky mind, and no worry could ever haunt her velvety forehead.

After all, she was the River God's most precious child, and he allowed her everything, guided by a parent's blissful love.

Her giggle bloomed in the nearby trees, and tender gaze lit the powdery midnight sky. A true beauty of utterly rare sight, so impossible it seemed too not be caught in Apollo's sight!

The God of Sun and Music and Poetry had never been in love. He enjoyed the bodily pleasures rather often, yet had never come upon a thing so deadly and wicked called love.

He knew that Gods and mortals joyed in it with the passion seething in their blood – for there were Hades and his Persephone, Aphrodite and Ares, even Orpheus and Eurydice, too, although it seemed that love of humankind was of a rather cruel sort.

Apollo, or, well, Satoru Gojo, as his true name was, never gave it much thought. The Goddesses and Gods were utterly beautiful, true, yet none of them had ever made his heart race with the swell and tenderness that all the poets wrote of.

He had never felt this tickling pinch his spine, nor the sudden blissful pain puncturing through his heart. No lover had ever bewitched his soul in an almost maddening way, and so he thought that the thing called love was simply not a part of his fate. Even if, that was rather fine too.

And yet… the serpents of fate are wicked.

Another summer evening it was, while Dionysus threw a joyous party as Gods usually liked to do. With wine spilling all over the golden cups and jolly laughter swirling through the tall grasses of the midnight land.

Gods there were of all sorts – trees and rivers and plants, each with loveliest offspring too, joined the grand feast.

It happened thirty moons or so before Eros shot Satoru with an arrow of maddening love. One evening, when the God who devoted his mind to no one set his eyes on… you.

A Goddess? Dearests, no.

As if you were the Goddess, he would fear that Aphrodite, driven by jealousy, would quickly pluck your eyes out. For the moment you entered the banquet held on the hidden beach, where waves rolled in deep foams, and moonlight spilt its cold kisses onto the heavy stones, Satoru needed to hold his breath.

This feeling, which he had read – written – about so often, suddenly bloomed in the swells of his heart. His hand flew towards his chest, crumpling the ivory tunic that covered the sizzling skin. His mind was struck, as if by a trickery spell, making him lose interest in the men and women chirping by his side.

The lyre in his hands felt heavy as he plucked the crystal strings, producing an unpleasant tone. But how could he not, if his eyes were devouring a beauty he'd never seen before?

And that evening, he followed you like a lost pup. With an ocean gaze lingering longer on the swells of your body, wrapped in a flimsy dress, and on your sweet cheeks, giggling foxily as the salty breeze smooched them. The flicker of the candles peppering long tables cast a lovely flame upon your skin, basking it in gold and warmth, as he imagined licking it clean.

Satoru Gojo was a poet too. A God of Poetry, after all, yet his mind was miserably empty whenever he tried to put your beauty into words. No one had ever shone brighter than you, and no giggle forced this weird, foreign feeling to seep through the marrow of his ribcage.

He was always responsible for the music and jolly, while his dearest friend Dionysus spilt the wine into guests' cups. The merry atmosphere tickled him in a pleasant way, and the mere thought of going back to one of his temples with a few little birdies forced a cheeky smile upon his brazen lips.

The women, Goddesses, and little divinities who didn't wish to be smooched by Satoru's muscular arms were indeed few. Yet the nymph who bewitched his mind in the utmost wretched way didn't bestow him with lovely eyes even once.

Dionysus noticed Apollo's frown crumbling, so he jumped to his side with a whisper, "Hm, isn't she your type, my dearest God?"

Satoru glanced at the slyness on Suguru's lips and bit the inside of his soft cheek. "That's the problem. And yet it seems I'm not quite hers."

Suguru pushed a raven lock of his hair back behind his ear, and lavender eyes oogled your giggling body with a slight grin. "Do you wish me to give her a bit of my special wine?"

The special wine was simply spiked with an aphrodisiac. Some Gods loved to use it to heighten their own sexual pleasure, while others too… made the object of their desires a bit mellow. A bit more balmy and sweet, and so Satoru already imagined your body melting beneath his fingers as he held it dearly within his delicate grasp.

Feeding you the special wine would be easy. And yet, Satoru didn't wish to be a bastard.

"Oh, but you are," Suguru chuckled, sensing the thought in his friend's mind. "I don't think there's any God more selfish than you."

Satoru knew it was the truth, for his character was rather… oh well… let's simply say he wasn't known to be the kindest and most lovable pick among the women. The most beautiful one? Surely. The best in offering sexual pleasures? Indeed. Yet he was the most arrogant bastard on the Mountain's peak, and every creature living beneath the Midetarrean sun knew of it far and well.

You most likely knew it too, so that's why the stars bouncing off your eyes did not look his way even for a second.

His head fell against Suguru's shoulder, the heavy wine coating his tongue with a sweet taste. His mind buzzed with a clash of drunken and desperate thoughts, a pulsing desire already flowing like liquid through his veins.

"I want to approach her in a nice way," he muttered, feeling Suguru's body tremble with wicked laughter.

"You can only dream, my God. She had rejected all attempts to woo her. The men and the Gods were rebuffed before they could grasp the weight of her eyes," Suguru hummed, feeling Satoru's head suddenly grow heavy on his shoulder.

"Is it her father's fault?"

Suguru shook his head. "The River God wishes for nothing more than to see his grandchildren's blooming cheeks. It's she who sniffs at all her suitors. After all, she is a virgin huntress, bound by Artemis's chastity laws." Satoru's head grew heavier. "You'd better forget about her, my God."

But how could he! His heart raced for no one but her. And even if she was a virgin beauty, Satoru didn't mind it at all, for he truly believed in the power of his charming soul. The arrogant confidence of the Sun God was truly impossible to dim!

And so that evening, Apollo decided to fulfil your father's deepest wish and become a man worthy of his daughter's hand. The one who would turn the virgin huntress into his most delicate, lovely petal.

At first, he began strolling around the meadows you usually spent your time in. Where the river curved and bent like a serpent's snake, and crystal droplets smooched your body, immersing you deep. You often sat with other sisters, and Satoru would approach you all with his foxed smile, dripping with a few sweetish words about your utter charm.

The other nymphs giggled, blushing gently at the lyricism spilling from his lips, as if the words of the most passionate, heart-throbbing kind were meant for them indeed. They looked at your unfazed face with a sly smile, knowing that their sister would reject Apollo's advances as she did with all her other suitors.

The Sun God knelt on the riverbank, looking down at your naked body hidden beneath the water's gentle swells. He could see nothing but the swell of your breasts, with perked nipples smooched by the river's kisses. You were meant to stay a virgin, true, but no one said you couldn't use the charms of yours to make the men spill miserably right beneath your feet.

So you glanced, for the first time, at God's idyllic face and waved your hand with a soft sigh. "I don't need your courtship, my God. There's nothing you can say that will force my mind to change. And to answer the question you most anticipate – no, I won't marry you."

Other suitors would back away instantly, feeling the intimidating air your glance carried across the lush plains. Your head tilted wickedly, lips curving into a playful beam, as if you knew the wretched state you always left them in.

Because a man's nature was to challenge his luck. Who didn't think that maybe their fate would be to change the virgin's mind? As all of them thought of you as the gentle, timid petal, not knowing that the virgin huntress was indeed a true beast hidden beneath the loveliest female cheeks!

But the Apollo, of course, couldn't be more turned on by your harsh rejection. The truth was that he almost didn't hear a word. No, instead he focused on the way your lips curved into a tricky smile. How crystalline droplets clung to your half-dipped breasts, with liquid sun spilling all over your warm skin. He traced them one by one, dripping from the damp hair and down the chest. His eyes seemed to be enamoured by your heavy gaze, slightly squinted and teasing, as if you already knew that your rejection would pinch his wretched heart.

And so a truthful, "My Goddess, you're ethereally beautiful with this wrath-wrinkle of yours," fell with his deep, obsessed sigh.

The nymphs gasped, covering their lips with gentle hands. Their mingling eyes glanced between your squinted gaze and the God's wretched sigh, as they awaited how this concern would unfold.

"I'm not a Goddess, and I don't need your praise," you said, your voice dripping with disinterest. "Find yourself another muse, my God. There's no need to waste your precious time on a simple nymph."

You bounced off the river's edge and swam to the other one, where the Sun God knelt. With the golden halo smooching his pale cheeks and ivory tunic crumpling on muscular shoulders. Feet clad in long, serpent sandals, golden laurel laying high on frosted head.

You've seen men of his sort, yet he was the first to look down on you with such a wretched gaze. Like a doomed lover, trapped in a circle of unrequited love, as if his heart had never swelled for any beauty but your gentlest soul.

He watched you carefully as you swam his way, unhurriedly, slowly. Water flowed over your body in soft waves, and warm wind shook the sole strings of your hair as it fell.

Your arms rested on the lush grass as you looked up at him through a curtain of wet lashes. "My God, I think it's time for you to go."

Satoru smiled – foxily, slyly, yet truthfully – before his hand reached out to cup your lovely cheek. You quickly pulled back, letting the tips of his fingers only catch a whisper of your soft lips.

His head tilted, a few creamy strands falling loosely over his straight brows. "I don't wish to hurt you, my Goddess." He grabbed the hem of his tunic. "I simply hope you'll grant me a chance."

He was kneeling, propping himself on his toes, as his fingers itched to grab a single lock of yours.

"I won't. I pledged Artemis my virginity. I'm a huntress, not your silly muse. Leave this place, or you'll taste the blood of my arrows."

And these words had indeed been bold, as all three realms of this world knew that no man had been more skilful in archery than Apollo himself.

If anyone else had spoken them in such a daring manner, the wrath of Apollo would bring painful consequences.

Yet when he heard it in this lovely yet viper-like tone of yours, a shiver ran down his spine. His hair stood on end as if electrified, and an ethereal aura smouldering around his figure suddenly intensified.

He wasn't afraid, oh surely no.

But rather, the swelling enamour, pinching his fingertips, washed over his heart. Your wicked personality wasn't an issue of any sort, but rather made the Sun God burn with an unexplainable desire. Heat that seeped down to his loins as he took a whistling breath.

"My Goddess, do you know who you're threatening to?"

You knew, of course, yet the urge to play with his boastful ego suddenly proved stronger than the choice to simply leave him be. You've met men like him before – too proud, too arrogant, the ones who'd never heard the word no. Yet of all you'd rejected, Apollo – Satoru Gojo – was the worst of all.

He was the Sun God, after all, who took satisfaction in the fact that the world, indeed, revolved around him. A personification of vanity and smugness, surpassing even Narcissus's pompous pride.

He knew what spell his wicked beauty cast over the nymph's petal cheeks. He knew the virgin maiden would fall for him most pitiably, needing only a single glance from his lustful eyes. His touch was soft, and his hands roamed over the women's tender bodies in the most loving way, yet never leaving them with the true tenderness that should fill his heart.

Satoru Gojo was a simple scum you wished to have nothing to do with. A cheeky smile tugged at your lips as you rested your arms on the river's edge and lifted half your body out of the water.

He didn't try to hide the ocean gaze, immediately snapping down towards your perked nipples, with crystal droplets dripping down the lush glass. Your head tilted, eyes turning kitty-like, as the blessed kisses of sunshine, of his sun, peppered your wet cheeks.

"To just yet another miserable man," fell almost mockingly, prompting a sudden movement around his hips. You've noticed it, and so you turned your lips into a disgusted grimace. "Go away, my God, and know my mercy. I won't be that nice next time."

You fully lifted yourself from the water, standing next to his kneeling body, naked. His gaze followed up your thighs, the mound of your pussy, the plush of your belly, tracing every crystalline line carving into your body. When it finally met your eyes, his throat bobbed.

"My Goddess, you're truly underestimating my feelings for you."

A scoff slipped past your lips as your eyes rolled. "For the God of Poetry, I expected more flowery words."

And so, ignoring whether he wished to say anything next, you simply passed him by. Going deeper into the woods, leaving the Sun God with nothing but the lingering fragrance of your blooming skin in the air, and the painfully, wickedly wretched pleasure bubbling in his loins.

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

You truly thought that he would give up.

That the Sun God, like any other man, wouldn't wish to pursue a woman who looked at him with nothing but a deep scowl between her beautiful brows.

And yet, for the next thirty moons, he always seemed to be there. Somewhere around, following you like a shadow, with eyes and lips and mind always speaking loudly, giving you neither peace nor serenity among the quiet fields of your home.

Whenever you went hunting, his arrows sliced through the air faster than yours, striking the animals and beasts with power that crumbled the heavens themselves, and a gasp always slipped past your lips.

Quiet, voiceless, yet somehow leaving you speechless upon seeing the strength the Sun God possessed.

He found you every single day, appearing like a spectre by the riverbank, a bow slung over his muscular shoulder, gold and softly feathered, mingling beneath the rising sun.

"Where are we going today, my Goddess?" He jumped to your side with a smile, immediately sniffing the fresh, flowery scent that clung to your sparkling hair.

You gave him no mind, simply following deeper into the warm, moist woods. The sun was barely high, and so you watched the trees wake from the slumber's tight arms.

"I'm going for breakfast, and you can do whatever you want."

Yet you knew that no matter how mundane your day was, Satoru Gojo would follow you nonstop. Just to steal a glance at your lips as you wrapped them around the orange's sweetest juice, the sugary stickiness dripping down your blooming cheeks. To watch the way your back bent whenever you drew yet another deadly arrow. How muscles beneath your flimsy tunic worked, and the sweat bubbled at the back of your neck as he traced it with a hungry gaze.

A few weeks had to pass before you started to tolerate his daily company.

He still acted bold and proud, often boasting like a peacock right in front of your irritated eyes, yet tried to keep his hands away, even though you'd noticed how his fingers curled whenever your tunic brushed their tips.

But then one day… something had changed.

You didn't know what, but well, he did.

Eros's wicked arrow had struck his bones, making his gut leak with maddening love. He was aware of the wretched ache in his heart, yet only after being struck by a love-spell of sorts did something beastly unlock in his mind.

As for the arrow meant to banish love, Eros shot it towards Apollo's dearest one. As all the Gods on Olympus already knew of his wretched state, Eros played his dirty trick, ensuring that the sweetest nymph would never glance at Apollo again.

But… well. A man in such haunting love is truly a hellish creature himself.

When the love-bound arrow struck his back, he took it with a wicked pleasure. Yet, when he saw another one flying boldly towards the curve of yours, he grabbed it swiftly, before the leaking peak could ever brush your skin.

It was a sudden movement as he stepped closer, his hand shooting toward something over your shoulder.

It happened yet another day, as you both walked the serpentine paths through his temple's lush garden. There's a little cove I wish to show you. How about a quick dip? After spending a month in his presence, you sighed and nodded, as nothing gave you more wicked pleasure than seeing him lose his mind at the sight of your naked body in fresh mountain waters.

And so, while your tunic fell to the ground and a warm wind brushed your hair with a soft tickle, he suddenly stepped closer.

Too close. Before a sudden crack of splintering wood sounded behind you, he drew an arrow, his long fingers clenching it.

"What is it?" you furrowed, looking at the long wooden arrow crushed in his strong grip.

He threw it to the side, taking the ivory tunic off his body. "Nothing, probably someone's lost arrow. Give it no mind."

But how could you, when something deep in your chest panged? You were a huntress, after all, so how could you not notice an arrow slashing at your side? There was never a moment when you would let your guard down, and yet, being in Satoru's presence somehow pulled a blissful laziness to seep into your mind.

He was always there – looking, watching, carefully observing each of your moves. Swooshing away a few men who dared to approach your side while he kept his eyes on you for too long.

To tear their limbs apart and unleash plagues across their lands with a single arrow. Something… you didn't know about, since there was no need to trouble your sweet mind. To reveal a sinister side of him that would shatter the gradually improving image you held of him.

His mind was already wicked. Heart wrenched by the pull of love so strong that it seeped into him from the inside. So the moment the love arrow struck his back, the feelings he had tried to keep within his heart suddenly burst with brutish, uncontrollable force.

He simply needed to make you his.

So you hummed softly, taking the first step into the little cove, with water slipping in from the nearby sea. A crisp chill hugged your limbs as you took a deep breath.

He watched you with a smile before dipping into the water too. "Rather good, isn't it?"

You nodded, leaning your arms over one of the sizzling stones. "Mhm."

Your bashful eyes roved over his ethereal body, lingering a moment longer on the broad, muscular back and meaty thighs. A warmth seeped through your loins, so you quickly looked away.

But he saw it. Of course he did, and so his body drifted a little closer, just to feel the saltiness wrapping your skin. Your hair fell loosely over your wet shoulder, and warmth crept up your soft neck.

The slight ache from the morning's hunt still pinched your muscles, so you turned to him again, only to see that he had suddenly come far too close.

A soft cough escaped your throat as you pressed yourself closer to the stone. "Could you, hm, give me a quick massage, my God?"

Satoru chuckled. "A massage? Is that how you wish to use the powerful Sun God?"

A scoff slipped past your lips as you turned back and rested your cheek against the warm stone. With eyes slightly lidded, you knew he, anyway, would give you whatever you wanted.

"Is there anything else you're good for?" A cheeky question slipped past your lips, followed by a low sigh.

He stood mere millimetres from your arched back, and the heat radiating from his body was smouldering your drenched skin. Long, thick fingers settled gently on your shoulders before he began pressing the muscles. Your body melted beneath his strong touch, and your mind went all fuzzy – nothing but soft moans and sighs would fill the little, hidden cove.

"I'm sure you can find a few things you could make good use of," his voice dripped with seduction, tickling your hair-covered cheeks.

A tsk fell past your lips. "You have only filth in your mind."

Well, how could he not? When your back arched so deliciously, with water hugging solely your slightly dipped hips? He could see the swell of your ass almost brushing his thighs, and if he took a little step forward, the tip of his leaking cock would surely brush your skin.

It was a blessing that you lay pressed to the stone in a blissfully unaware state, not knowing that the Sun God was going through pure torture right behind your back. With the fat, long cock sticking to his abdomen, little pearls of precum dripping down the veiny curve.

"You make me act filthy, my Goddess."

A month ago, you would have smacked his cheek and left him be. But now, with his fingers digging deep into the muscles of your back, a lovely laugh slipped past your lips.

"It's a pity I'm a wretched virgin, hm?" You straightened your spine, as if trying to give him a better view. "My God, you truly have extraordinary restraint."

Oh, how he loved this cheeky side of yours. The pure filth spilling from your virgin lips, eyes taking on a nasty look whenever you caught him staring at your nipples peeking through the tunic. The way you always undressed yourself in front of him without blushing like a birdie, taking full pleasure in the fact that he couldn't touch you as he wished.

Who said that a virgin should be timid and cowardly? If you could keep your chastity while still enjoying the wretched state you put men in?

And which God would be more fun to tease than the one who slipped through numerous affairs?

Satoru hummed, pressing your back a little harder. Slipping lower, and lower, through your ribcage and waist, rolling the little dimples just above your hips. "Have I? I'm afraid this restraint might one day snap."

A shudder ran down your spine as you tried to keep your head steady. Your bow lay still on the river's bank, and if he tried to misbehave even a bit, you would simply shoot him clean.

And yet, your hips rolled, as if trying to chase the pleasure his touch gave. "I'll be there when it happens." You looked over your shoulder, not missing the squint he gave you… "And I'll make sure to bring you to your senses," …and the reddened tip sticking to his hips. "I think you might wish to take care of it. Maybe with one of your muses?"

Or whores, as you actually wanted to say.

His cock trembled as you looked at it, and Satoru could only chuckle. Nastily, mischievously, with the fingers pulling your hips a bit closer. Yet not close enough for your wet pussy to feel the meaty shaft graze her lips.

"You are my muse, Goddess," he leaned closer, his warm breath brushing your cheeks. "Do you wish to hear the poems I've written about you?"

The sizzling sun licked your spine, eyes followed as his plush lips leaned to your ear. "Are they as filthy as your mind?"

He nodded, fingers slipping down towards the swell of your hips. Rolling deep circles, loosening the tightness in your muscles. "How could they not?" Snowy hair almost tickled your ear. "Who do you think I pleasure myself to? You may be a virgin, my Goddess, but I have my needs too."

With a sudden movement, he flipped you over, pressing your back to the warm stone. His thick cock stuck to the white trail of his abdomen, yet still not touching your dripping cunt.

You may've pledged chastity, yet you couldn't control your body's simple needs.

"You can't do anything to me," you said, yet something in your voice quivered.

His head tilted wickedly, and his eyes shone as he gripped the fat shaft. "But you can watch, hm?" A thumb swirled over the pearly tip, smearing the sticky cum over the reddened head. "Or is it also against your chastity?"

Maybe it was. Yet your head shook as back pressed closer to the stone. The water swelled over your hips, leaving your breasts bare to his starving gaze.

"Hm, thought so." His fingers slipped to your cheek, brushing a few wet locks away. "My Goddess, you truly are a wicked creature."

Pleasure, distress, haunting desire clashed with each other in your mind, yet your body froze in place. Lips fell only slightly open, eyes bulging like porcelain plates, seeing the fatness he gripped. Leaking with creamy droplets of precum, soaking his long fingers and veiny thickness.

Saying he was large would be an understatement.

Something in your belly squeezed, imagining his bulging head hit the deepest–

"Stop," the word slipped out in a shudder as you turned your head away. With warm cheeks and a trembling lip, as if the Sun God's look of himself pleasuring himself solely on your blooming face were against every pledge you had made. "Go and find one of your filthy muses."

Satoru chuckled before his fingers pinched your chin, turning your head back. He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing yours. "I can't think of anyone but you, my Goddess. Look what a wretched man I am because of you." His thumb brushed your lower lip, then slipped boldly onto your tongue. "Do you truly wish to put your Sun God through such a tor–"

Yet before he could finish, your hand met his cheek. A slap bounced off the water, turning his face left. To bring it back to face your wrath, you slapped it again.

His creamy face bloomed like the softest rose, and a shiver of pleasure ran down his spine. Excitement pinched his heart as fingers clenched around the fat shaft with a low, groany moan.

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking down at your face, burning with rage. "Slap me again, my Goddess, and I'll make you arch that pretty ass of yours for me again."

You didn't know where this sudden change had come from, yet the man standing in front of you was not the one who had pestered you for the past thirty moons.

No, as Satoru Gojo, who now stood mere millimetres from your body, with his musky scent clouding you tight and his fat cock trembling at the sheer look of yours – look much, much madder.

Wretched, obsessed, with the flame dancing behind his watery eyes and a wicked smile tugging at his rosy lips

Another shiver ran down your spine when he started pumping his shaft faster. Smearing the creamy cum all over the bulging veins, throwing his head back yet still following the gentle rise of your trembling breasts.

The rage bubbled beneath your heart, and a tiny thread of heat smouldered on your cheeks. He leaned a bit closer, and closer, and closer, until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He didn't touch you in any other way, yet the sole impact left you breathless.

"My Goddess, you smell so good," he took a deep breath close to your neck, letting another groan escape his lips. "So delicious, ah, I can only imagine how sweet the scent is down there."

A shuddered breath escaped your tightened throat, feeling his muscular, massive body looming over yours like a deathly threat. Long fingers pumped his cock faster, breathless moans hit your drenched skin, before he finally stilled.

With the gentle, petal kiss upon your shoulder and his cheek nuzzling against your skin.

Something warm spilt over your belly. And you didn't need to look down to know what it would be.

"You're disgusting," fell in pure wrath, as you pushed him away. "Nothing but filthy scum. I hope this satisfied your hunger, because the next time I see you, my God, not even your wicked arrows will be able to save you from my rage."

You left the water with a shuddering, vexing tremor washing over your spine, and this little, agonisingly rubbing feeling that spilt hotly all over your mind.

Satoru followed your body with a slick smile, the saltiness of your skin still tasting heavy on his lips.

The Sun God was of a cunning nature. Wicked and wrathful, always doing things one way. His way. 

Three weeks had passed before he had a chance to see you again.

His heart heaved in agony as he couldn't find you anywhere. As always, he came at the first break of day to join you on the morning hunt, but you simply weren't there. Waiting for him with a scowl, yet still giggling at all his foolish jokes and accepting a bit of help.

He was waiting by the river's bank from morning till night, yet you hadn't appeared even once. As if the waves themselves had trapped you beneath the surface.

He asked around – the nymphs, the Goddesses, the plains – yet everyone said they hadn't seen you for days. Or maybe they simply lied to him, as you couldn't simply disappear.

And so for the next three weeks, he walked through the lands like a shadow. He barely enjoyed anyone's company, sitting in his temple only to get drunk on the sweetest wine, letting his creamy skin be scorched beneath his own, merciless sun. A shadow of a man he was, as his heart simply couldn't bear the separation you imposed with such anger.

After two weeks, he met his twin sister, Artemis, to whom you pledged your chastity. He loved his sister dearly and knew her like the back of his hand. Thus, with a single glance, he could tell she knew everything that had happened between the two of you.

And based on her furrowed forehead and tsk that fell when she saw his grinning face entering her temple – she wasn't happy.

"I won't tell you where she is," she murmured, brushing her long, creamy hair aside as she enjoyed the warm kisses in the sun.

She lay on the sofa by her pool, with nothing but a long tunic gently wrapped around her body. Satoru hung over her wrinkled forehead and pressed a finger to satin skin. "My sister, such a beautiful woman you are, and yet you always seem so angry."

Shihori smacked his hand, glancing up at his brother with the same blue eyes. "Because you always make me angry, fool."

Satoru lifted her legs and rested them on his thighs as he joined her on the sofa. "Tell me where she is."

Shihori couldn't care less about her brother's wicked wish, so she shook her head. "You know she pledged her virginity, hm?"

Satoru hummed, playing with the long tunic as he brushed his sister's ankles. "I do."

"So you also must know what will happen if she breaks her vow?"

Of course he knew. That's why he came here.

"What if I told you I love her?" he asked, drawing his sister's attention. "I want to make her my wife. Give her to me, and I promise I will be in your debt forever."

Shihori propped herself up on elbows, letting long white hair brush her rosy cheeks. She was as beautiful as her younger brother – by a minute only. Possessing the same archery skill and a power that trembled the heavens.

With a slim chin and wicked eyes, matching the proudish smile. Strong and bold, with neatly carved muscles bulging beneath her satin skin and an authoritative tone that always made Satoru slightly squirm. But she was his older sister, after all, so how could he not feel the utter love and respect for the same blood?

"And why would I do that?" Shihori lifted her straight brow. "Why would I change my rules for this little nymph?"

"Because you love me," Satoru grinned. "And I suppose it would be rather proper to remind you that enjoying women's company also counts as losing one's virginity. My dearest virgin-goddess sister."

Shihori squinted, kicking his side with her foot. "Whatever I do with my nymphs is none of your business."

Satoru grabbed her ankle before biting her big toe, just as he used to tease her when they were children.

"I suppose some Gods would be interested in how the protector of young women and their virginity fucks with her dearest followers," he chuckled as she kicked him again. "You're no better than me, my sister. The same scum-blood runs in our veins. So let me have her, and I won't say a word."

Shihori glared at him. Morality and the need to give her little brother everything were clearly at war in her mind before she waved her hand and lay back down.

"Fine, I won't punish her. Just don't do anything stupid," she laughed, feeling Satoru's sweet kiss on her cheek. "She'll join another feast in a week. Just wait for her there. Oh, and bring me some of this Suguru's special wine."

Satoru tilted his head, another wicked grin already tugging at his lips. He knew his sister wasn't the saint everyone took her for, yet he had no idea how coy she was.

"And what do you need an aphrodisiac-spiked wine for?"

She opened one eye, shooting a set of daggers straight at his heart. But before another bark could pass her plush lips, Satoru chuckled once again. "Ah, what was this rumour, hm…" His eyes gleamed with a foul grin.

"What rumour?" Shihori asked through her teeth, yet the rosy warmth hit her cheeks.

Satoru stood up from the sofa, giving his muscular back a long, groany stretch. He scratched his chin before looking over his shoulder towards his sister. Oh, her anger only fueled his playful mind.

"Nothing, just that our dearest stepmother has been surprisingly benevolent lately," he observed, another wave of warmth wrapping around her neck. "I suppose it's because Hera truly enjoys the company of her stepdaughter. I wonder what makes her so happy that even Zeus no longer gets scolded for all his affairs."

Shihori slipped a pillow from beneath her head and threw it at his head. "Go out, before I change my mind!"

And so he left, with a crackling chuckle bouncing off the temple's walls and his older sister burning from embarrassment.

Yet now, with his sister's blessing, there was nothing that could stop him from pursuing your love.

And so he knew that the next time you met, he would make you his, whether you liked it or not.

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

The moon spilt coldly over the feast's heavy tables as the Gods and Goddesses gathered around the flickering candles. The night was warm, as the summer breeze tickled the cheerful cheeks of the giggling nymphs, who listened to Satoru playing soft harp tunes.

An ivory tunic, as always, fell down his muscular shoulders, as the moon spilt dripping kisses on the lightened side of his face.

Finger played softly through the harp's gentle strings, yet lingered on your laughing cheeks. Something panged deep in his chest at how carefree you were with other divinities. You sipped your wine without giving Satoru much thought, as if you hadn't disappeared from Earth for the past three weeks.

Your laugh sliced sweetly through the air, tickling his ears. He desperately tried to force eye contact, yet you gave him nothing but the lovely side of your cheek.

An irritated tsk escaped his lips, an unpleasant anger bubbling deep in his chest. A few Gods approached you with a smile, forcing another wave of rage to wash over Satoru's spine.

Before he could step in, seeing how you slowly warmed yourself to some small God's side, a low, chuckling whistle slashed through the air.

"It seems like things didn't work your way," Suguru said, brushing Satoru's arm with his. "What? She rejected you?"

Satoru sighed, rolling his tense shoulders. "She's just a little nervous."

Suguru squinted his lavender eyes, clearly dissatisfied with such a roundabout answer. Raven hair tickled Satoru's cheek as he tilted his head. Satoru rarely saw his friend concerned with anyone but him, yet his forehead furrowed with a gentle wrinkle.

"Give her some of this wine," Satoru mumbled.

Suguru drew in a long breath, shooting his head towards Satoru. "But you said–"

He started, but Satoru quickly added. "I know what I said." He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes squinting furiously. "Give her a little. Just to soothe her a bit."

Suguru chuckled, hitting his friend's back. "As you wish, my God."

"Ah, also, prepare a bit for Shihori."

Looking over his shoulder, Suguru rolled a laugh. "Your sister? What does she need it for?"

Satoru gestured with his chin towards the start of the table, where three of the brothers and their wives sat among the elite. With Persephone straddling Hades's hips, a quiet goddess wrapped around Poseidon's arm, and Hera… sitting utterly bored and giving Zeus's drunken laugh no mind.

Suguru followed his gaze before a devilish laugh escaped his throat. "Don't tell me she fucks with the queen mother herself?"

Satoru crossed his arms over his broad chest and let out a soft hum. Suguru tilted his head, admiring Hera's gentle cheeks. "Well, she's quite beautiful. No wonder she's stopped going crazy over Zeus's affairs lately."

Satoru watched as his friend took another pot of wine before rejoining the Gods. His golden tongue whispered the sweetest secrets, and the divinities laughed and blushed beneath Dionysus's soothing lines. After all, a God of Laughter, Wine and Theatre, he knew exactly how to play on people's minds.

You weren't an exception. As he approached and wrapped his arms around you and your friend, a gentle laugh made your eyes lift. Satoru bit the inside of his cheek, catching Suguru's sly glance, while his fingers clenched around your soft arm.

But still, he poured you another cup of the sweetest wine, watching you close as you took a sip. And another, another, another, before humming softly about how delicious it tastes.

A few minutes passed before something warm began to spill across your chest. A kind of fog clouded your mind – sweet and gentle, yet sizzling like the sun.

The nymph sitting right next to you grabbed your arm, looking at your hottish face with a furrow. "Hey, are you okay? Do you need some water?"

You drew in a sharp breath, feeling her cold skin against yours. Your head shook as a soft "I'm fine" barely passed your lips.

Excusing yourself, you rose from the chair and headed to a quieter part of the beach, where gentle waves lapped inside the small cove. Surrounded by the forest and shielded by tall trees, the spot offered a peaceful retreat. The salty breeze gently touched your cheeks, while your throat felt parched, and you scratched it with long nails.

The fog clouding your head was getting thicker, denser, spreading all over your body till the fingertips tingled with a pinching pleasure.

Something wet dripped down your inner thighs, and as you hid yourself behind a tree and slipped a hand beneath the long dress, you felt the stickiness coating your sizzling skin. But more so… the moment your finger brushed your swollen folds, a low bounce of the softly rolling waves.

"Fuck," slipped in a whisper, as you felt the burning pleasure fill your lower belly.

You looked around, seeing that neither mortal nor God peered into the little cove. The bay seemed completely private, with nothing but moonlight spilling onto the smooth sand and soft whispers rolling off the crystal waves.

You took a deep breath, unconsciously rubbing your thighs together. Just to feel a faint friction, yet too embarrassed to slip your finger up again.

You've never felt it before. This… sensation.

Pleasure.

Or maybe you did, yet your mind refused to accept that Apollo, or Satoru Gojo, was the only man who woke a dangerous flame deep in your chest.

Maybe you simply wished to forget about the warmth that boiled deep within your lower belly when his muscular body stood right in front of yours. The look on his handsome face, lost in utter pleasure, and his long fingers wrapped around his filthy cock.

You tried not to think of it again, as the moment the image of his shaft slipped again into your mind, another moany sigh rolled past your lips. Your pussy clenched around nothing, letting another batch of stickiness coat your thighs. Trickling down the skin, till you've noticed a little, wet drop landing on the sand.

"Fuck, fuckfuckfuck," you cried, feeling the burning sensation pinch your skin harder. Perking your nipples, softening your body, as if preparing you to accept the pleasure that needed to be spilt.

Bracing yourself against the stony wall, you took a few steps. On trembling legs, you felt the weakness slowly seep into your marrow. You walked slowly, trying to go deeper into the nearby forest, just to reach the river.

Somewhere safe.

You moved slowly, with wetness dripping down your legs and heavy breaths escaping your burning lungs. Your eyes were misty, nearly teary, as the feverish, floral heat enveloped your entire body.

Waves rolled past your bare feet, sandals long forgotten somewhere in the back. Your burning body couldn't bear the dress clinging to your skin, so you began to undress unconsciously.

One cloth after another, before falling down your knees, to crawl towards the river's banks.

"Do you need help, my Goddess?"

Someone's voice filled your balmy mind.

No, not someone's.

His.

Of the God whom you wished to see the last, as the sole fragrance of his skin pinched your senses in an utmost sinful way.

And, oh, he must've watched you now in such an embarrassing stance!

Kneeling with your sizzling body, you shed the sea-drenched dress behind you. The intense desire overwhelmed your reason as you presented yourself fully before his daring gaze.

"Go away," you barely breathed. "You can't see me in such a state."

But Satoru merely chuckled before you heard his heavy footsteps coming your way. Ocean eyes hummed at all the garments you'd left behind before settling on your clenched thighs and slightly arched back as you tried to crawl towards the nearest river.

He squinted, seeing the wetness dripping down your thighs and a gentle shimmer from your swollen pussy.

"My Goddess, it seems that you do feel unwell," He chuckled, taking another step your way. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Your head shook as you tried to crawl faster, only to get away from him as fast as you could. An attempt to stand up ended in a miserable fall onto the sand, drawing a soft giggle from Satoru's lips. He knelt by your side, brushing away a few strands of hair sticking to your cheeks.

"Oh my," he hummed, seeing the utter loveliness of your drugged face.

With cheeks sweet as fresh cherries and eyes softened by an alluring scowl. A gentle pout tugged at your lips as you unconsciously nuzzled against his skin. Another hand cupped your cheek as he held your face in a possessive grip. His big thumbs, tight yet delicate, brushed your skin.

"What is it, my Goddess?" He whispered, allowing a lenient sigh to spill past your lips. "What happened here, hm? Are you a bit too drunk?"

You nodded, thinking of nothing but the pleasant grip of his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you were slowly giving in.

A miserable attempt to push him away ended solely with you even more pathetically landing on the soft sand. Your back hit it with a dull thud, as Satoru placed his fingers on your knees. Thumb rolled gently in circles, as if he knew how much pleasure your body took from each brush of his skin.

"Say it," he muttered, leaning closer. Plush lips brushed one of your knees, eyes never leaving your fogged face. "Say that you want me to help you, my Goddess. I know how to make you feel good."

Oh, and you knew too, which is why your knees tried to close again. But his grip was too strong, and he brutally forced them forward, folding you in half.

With your bare pussy dripping filthy onto the sand and perked nipples waiting to be softly brushed by his thumb.

The moonlight kissed his handsome, sharp side as he leaned in once again. To hang right over your face, observing with wicked pleasure the tears forming beneath your lids. As if he could see the fuzzy mess of your mind, with morality and a simple, human need drawing a brutal tight.

"I c-can't," you mumbled, feeling the heat drip down your tongue. It felt much heavier than before, barely touching your feverish roof. "Stop, I can't, the chastity–"

"Shhh," Satoru cooed, pressing your thighs to your chest. Till the swell of your ass glued off the drenched sand. "Artemis will forgive you."

His nose traced the plush of your cheek. Lips peppering your skin softly, leaving traces down your chin. His tongue swirled sweetly around one of your nipples, through the burning neck, perked breasts.

You wished to fight it – you truly did, yet a sugary moan slipped past your lips.

"No, she–ah!" you cried, as he softly bit your nipple.

"It's alright, my Goddess. Don't resist it," he murmured, with one hand feeling your breasts as his lips traced a path down your body. He gently bit, grazed, and nipped your skin before resting his cheek against your mound. "Allow me to take care of you. Just say you want it," he whispered, as his finger rolled your nipple, causing another cry to escape your lips.

"I'm a v-virgin, wait…" Your hand landed on Satoru's head, tugging softly on his hair.

Satoru groaned, feeling your gentle finger scratch his scalp. "I'll take good care of you. It won't hurt, I promise," he mumbled right into the drenched mound of your cunt, as the fragrance of sugary juices already hit his senses. "Fuck, my Goddess. Just let me have a taste. I won't put it in…" promise?

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling his warm breath almost brush your core. Not quite, yet the mere sight of him, lying so handsomely between your thighs, was enough to force a nod.

A nod, which would never happen if your mind wasn't on the verge of spilling. If your body wasn't melting beneath his touch, thighs spreading even wider, just to open your cunt to his starving mouth.

It was utterly embarrassing, humiliating, mostly sinful act and yet… when his tongue finally licked the juices off your clit, a shuddering moan bounced off the cove's stones.

He didn't waste a time, pushing the drenched muscle right inside your spasming cunt. Slurping, ravishing on the waves of wetness that spilt from your hole in unnaturally large bursts. Droplet after droplet, trickling down his chin and landing softly on the sand.

"My Goddess, fuck, I knew you would taste so good," he slurred, letting your juices stick to his lips. "My sweetest love, mhm, I was waiting a month for you."

Your fingers clenched around his hair as you tried to slightly pull him back. "W-wait, that's–nghhh–too much, my God!"

Your body had always been much weaker than his, but now, with neediness running through your blood, it seemed impossible to do anything but allow yourself to be wrapped in his lips.

He took your hand, slipping it down your belly. Down to your clenching cunt, only to press your two fingers against the swollen clit.

"Do you feel it, my Goddess?" He chuckled, looking up at your warm cheeks. "Do you feel how wet you are? That's what you wanted to take away from me."

He directed your pads to press softly, pinchily, till another moan spilt past your lips. His tongue slurping on your tight core, fingers of one hand rolling your nipples. Squeezing the plush breasts, till a painful pleasure tickled your spine.

And the other hand…

"Wait!" You screamed, quickly catching his wrist. "N-no penetration… just…" Oh dearest, how embarrassing it was to say out loud! "… use your tongue. I can't lose my virginity."

My sweet foolish nymph, Satoru thought, before an innocent, "Of course, my Goddess," fell past his plush lips.

The waves and waves of ethereal pleasure washed over your spine as he devoured your sweet pussy with a starving need. Nose all glued with your juices, cheeks nastily squeezed by your trembling thighs, tongue working on your clit and hole, trying to stretch her as much as he could.

His creamy forehead furrowed with a wrinkle, brows tight, as you pushed a few soft strands of his hair away.

"My God, please t-take a breath," you cried, yet the spilling lustfulness seeped like a flame through your skin. "I'm–mhmm–t-there's something…" Before you could point at your lower belly, his hand pressed right there.

Squeezing your little pouch, as if trying to feel the slick, filthy cum splashing beneath your skin.

"You need to cum, my Goddess," he mumbled drunkenly, sucking on your plush clit. "But for that, I need to put my finger in."

You bit your lower lip, looking down at his wretched face.

His cheek nuzzled against your soft thigh, kissing the clit softly. "Please? Just a finger. I promise, it'll be fine."

Oh, he looked stunning. With those alluring eyes and innocent pout, as if aware that his angelic face alone was enough to make your head spin.

So you nodded, rather unconsciously, and watched him push one finger in.

"Oh," slipped moany at the new feeling. "Oh, my God, mhmm, i-it's–"

"Now you can cum for me," Satoru whispered, going back to sucking your clit.

He knew where your sweet spot was – how couldn't he? – so within a second, you started squirming beneath his grip.

One of his hands rested on your belly while the other was deep inside your tight, clenching walls. He kissed, brushed, and lightly peppered your most sensitive spot with his finger until your thighs finally clenched around his head.

Locking him in a tight, shuddering embrace as he drunkenly moaned over your spilling juices. With a single flick of his tongue, you melted beneath his maddening touch, squirting all over his cheeks, chin and nose, till the Sun God was left nothing but a wretched man, hugging nastily to your velvety skin.

Your head felt a bit less feverish, with the crimson fog finally clearing from in front of your eyes and fresh summer air finally filling your lungs.

For a mere second, you felt normal again.

Satoru still lay between your spread legs, kissing the slippery skin of your inner thighs softly.

"Welcome back, my Goddess," he muttered, licking the last juices dripping from your pussy.

You watched him with pure terror swirling behind your eyes. "I… this feeling…"

"Mmm," he hummed, softly biting a plush of your thigh. "Someone must've spiked your wine, my Goddess. Have you angered anyone recently?"

Oh, he was such a scum.

Your lovely brows furrowed, a drop of sweat slipping down your temple. "No, I… I don't know. There was…" you, wanted to slip, yet you bit down on your tongue.

Satoru pouted, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. "My Goddess, I vow to find that bastard and slash his throat," he whispered, kissing your thigh and moving upward, even biting gently into your calf. "But for now, brace yourself for another wave."

And true to his promise, the heat once more kissed your cheeks. It climbed up your neck, seeped into fingertips, curled beneath lower belly, and caused another slick to slide down your cunt.

A fogginess once again swirled in front of your eyes, and an anxiety bubbled somewhere deep in your tightened throat.

Satoru flipped you onto your belly, with a soft, "Shhh, it's fine, my Goddess. You'll be fine."

Gentle, wet kisses landed on your shivering spine, leaving hottish traces down the skin.

"What a-are you doing?" fell shuddered.

But you didn't catch his reply. Truly, you heard nothing at all but the swoosh of his tunic as it landed close to your sand-plastered face.

"My God–ah!" Slipped in a pitched moan, as something fat poked on your swollen pussy.

The heat was teasing, gently pinching your damp folds, rolling waves of intense pleasure whenever Satoru stirred your cunt. His fingers spread the heat in a soft hum, and something heavy, round, pressed against your tight entrance.

"My God, what–"

"My love," Satoru let out an utterly innocent whimper, as if trying to stifle the tears wracking beneath his lids. You couldn't see the devilish smile tugging at his lips, his face tightly pressed into the sand. "Allow me to make you feel good. I can make the pain go away, just let me…" His swollen head slipped in a little, forcing a shattered moan from your throat.

"Wait!" You tried to crawl away, but he pressed a hand between your shoulder blades. Keeping you tight in place, with his massive body fully resting on yours.

"It's okay, my love. It won't hurt, I promise," he hummed, another hand massaging the swell of your hips. Spreading your drenched folds a bit farther to see the tip of his cock getting sucked by your weeping cunt. "My Goddess, don't make her wait any longer. She's just wishing to get fucked, ahh."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stop your hips from slamming against his. As, dearest heavens, the way his sole head stretched your cunt brought an unparalleled, maddened pleasure, bubbling deep inside your belly. The pledge you made re chastity was trying to fight the aroused, lustful thoughts. The thick, warm fog that made your body liquefy beneath his touch, and your mind go all hot.

"My virginity–" You started, yet Satoru quickly snapped back.

"I talked to my sister, love. She won't punish you," he whispered, leaning down to lick a long stripe down your spine. "Because now you're mine. So say you want it, hm? Say you want me to fuck your tight cunt and fill her up."

He bit, licked, kissed your skin, while slowly, oh so painfully slow, poking your drenched hole.

"Just the tip, my love," he whispered, brushing away a few strands of hair hiding your lovely side. "I don't want to hurt you, my Goddess. I'll slip just a little tip."

And with an arousal fogging your mind, you nodded. Forcing a wicked laugh past his plush lips as he kissed your cheek.

"Mhm, that's right, my love," his cock slid through your tight walls, snugging inside your plush warmth. "Oh fuck, my Goddess, you truly are a fucking virgin."

You drew in a sharp breath, feeling his heavy cock slip into your belly. It was anything but the tip, forcing a sudden burst of tears to roll down your cheeks.

The pain mixed with pleasure as his shaft forced its way deep inside your pussy. You could feel every pulsing vein throbbing against your walls, the pumped head smooching your sweet spot, as he pushed and pushed, while pressing your body to the sand.

A moany cry bounced pitifully off the crystal waves before he quickly rolled you again.

This time, your back hit the sand, thighs folding up to your chest.

And when you looked up at his face… oh.

The Sun God hung over your crying cheeks with nothing but an utterly wicked, handsome smile. Eyes shining beneath the cold moon, adding to their ocean-blue hues a kiss of sin. He giggled, kissing the single tear that soaked your cheek.

And an angel, no, rather a demon, keeping you in his tight, possessed embrace.

Your hands pressed to his chest, as he pushed harder. "My God, you said just the tip," fell harshly, seeing a grin coiling in his gaze.

"My Goddess, you truly are ruthless," he leaned down to place a soft kiss on your lips. "How could I ever lie to you? I'm barely in, I promise."

Yet when you tried to look down, his strong fingers grabbed your chin, keeping your eyes fixed on his.

"You don't trust me?" He pouted, peppering your skin with soft kisses. "Don't look down there, my love. Focus on me."

Your head lulled right as he bit the side of your neck. Licking, sucking on it gently, while still forcing his cock through your walls.

It wasn't just the tip, and although you should be angry, the way he kept you folded left little room for movement. With his single arm pressing your legs tight, fingers keeping your chin up, and massive, heavy body leaning on yours.

He started to move faster, faster, faster, pumping you poor, weeping cunt with his heavy cock. It hit every inch of your lower belly, brushing past the sweet spot and smooching up to the slowly swelling womb. You could feel his round head nuzzle deep inside your pulsing warmth, as your tight walls wrapped around him, as if trying to lock him in.

A low hiss slipped past his rosy lips as you cried out in painful pleasure. Your blood ran hot as he tried to fuck each drop of aphrodisiac from your veins, pushing your body deeper into the sand.

The nasty squelch bounced off the water, spilling deep into the cave and catching in your scattered hair. He brought your face back, giggling at the sight of your utterly fucked eyes.

"My beautiful Goddess," he whispered, before slipping his hand down your belly. At this point, with heat bubbling in your belly, your thighs stayed open, pressed to your chest, as if your body was freely inviting him in. "My sweet, beautiful Goddess. Tell me how good you feel."

His demand forced wrath and balmy submissiveness upon your fucked mind, and so a sweet, honest, "G-good, ahh, you're filling me s-so good," fell embarrassingly past your lips.

As no matter how much you wanted to refuse, it did feel good. Dearest, it felt amazing, handling his hefty cock fully sliding inside your warmth, till wet balls hit your lifted ass. Head kissing your womb, veins pulsing in rhythm with your plush walls, as they pushed out waves and waves of fresh cum. Coating his full length in your juices, till whenever he pulled out, a crystal thread formed between your cunt and his creamy, happy trail.

His hands kneading your softness turned your mind to balm, and fingers playing with your swollen bud forced a moan, so you truly, shamefully so, allowed your body to give in to his touch.

"My God, nghh, I'm going to–"

Before you could finish, he crashed his lips against yours. He slipped a groan deep inside your throat as he started to fuck you faster. More relentless, brutal, forcing upon your virgin cunt a strength you weren't used to.

"My God, p-please–ahhh–slow down," you cried into his lips, yet received only a low chuckle.

"I know how to make you cum, my love. Your pussy needs to be fucked properly," he licked the tears dripping down your cheeks before capturing your lips again. "You're close, hm? I can feel it in your belly."

His hands pressed to your lower pouch, feeling his cock hit the soft skin, before slipping down to your cunt. Rolling your clit in mean, squelching pinches.

"S-satoru," his name finally escaped your throat, as you wrapped your arms behind his neck. "So good, you're–ngh–filling me–ahhh."

He chuckled, seeing your lidded eyes and messy blabber falling past your lips. "I know, my Goddess, your–ahh–pussy feels so fucking good. My sweetest, I promise to take good care of you."

He hid his face in the crook of your neck before finally going still. Your back arched, nipples pressing to his chest, before a soaked cry ripped from your throat. Juices gushing all over his abdomen, cock, as he hit your womb painfully, filling it with sticky ropes of cum. Till you felt the heavy creaminess sticking to your walls, stuffing you heavily, madly full.

A filthy fog once again seeped into your mind, and for a single minute you felt your strength return to your body. For a mere moment, it allowed you to smack his fair cheek. It left him fully unfazed, with a cheeky grin still plastered to his handsome face and a low chuckle forcing its way past his lips.

"My Goddess, is that how you should treat your future husband?" he asked, then brutally turned you back onto your belly. You tried to crawl, kicking him back, but he simply smacked your ass. "Come on, my love. Don't try to fight me. If I hadn't found you, who knows who would?"

Your breath hitched when you felt his cock harden again. Still snuggling deep inside you cunt, as you felt his shaft stretch your poor, weeping walls.

"I–ahh–I fucking hate you," you snapped through gritted teeth, your hips slowly rocking against his. Whatever you'd drunk still flowed in your veins, forcing another fog over your mind. "I hate you, so, s-so–mhm Satoru, just, fuck, p-please–"

His fingers dug deep into your perked-up ass, ocean eyes glimmering at the sight of your arched back. Sweat beaded on your neck, and your teary gaze looked over your shoulder in a furious, desperate, pleading manner.

He chuckled, taking a little vial from his tattered tunic. Opening it with his teeth, he handed it your way.

"What is it?" you asked, trying to sound at least a bit suspicious.

His eyes squinted, lips turned wickedly up. "Just a simple water. You'll feel a bit better."

"Drink it first."

"You don't trust me?"

You bit down your lip, shaking your head a bit.

Satoru hummed before taking a sip of the liquid without hesitation. It seeped warmly through his body, dripping down to the burning loins.

Seeing that he truly acted normally, you took it from his fingers and drank it all in one go. But… oh.

You shot head his way, seeing nothing, but a nasty grin. "This…"

He leaned closer, pressing his hand back between your shoulder blades. His face drew nearer, then he licked your lips with his wine-sweetened tongue. "Tastes similar, my love?"

A wave of heat was rolling faster, an even stronger aphrodisiac flowing through your veins. Breathing became harder, your mind already blind, as he pushed your melted body into a deeper arch.

"I love you so much, my Goddess," he whispered, peppering your sizzling cheek. "I'll make you feel so good. So fucking good, I promise. My sweet, beautiful wife. Just trust me."

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Yesss, I'll write Artemis!Femjo and Hera!Reader, because we're the milf and she's the MOTHER FUCKER

Maybe, if you’d had more sense, you would’ve broken up with Naoya in that moment and saved yourself a whole lot of trouble. Instead, just like always, you made excuses for him. You figured he was just having a bad day - that you just needed to prove yourself to him and then he’d be happy to have you as a climbing buddy. 

He was just concerned about your skill. That was all. 

So you’d worked hard at the club - learned plenty of skills, did plenty of hours in the gym, made dozens of friends with the other club members to ensure you weren’t dependent on Naoya to teach you everything. 

You tried to ignore how uninterested your boyfriend seemed in your progress, tried to ignore the way he’d flirt with the other women at the club - you were sure he’d be so impressed with you on your first major outing to Mount Hotaka that he’d forget about everything else and be pleased with you for once. 

That was all you wanted, for him to be proud of you outside of the offhanded thanks he’d give whenever you’d make him dinner. 

Your first trip out to the mountain had several people in attendance. Beyond you and Naoya there were a handful of women from the club who you’d grown close with: Shoko, Utahime and Yuki, and then a few men. There were a couple of older guys you didn’t know very well, and then a few in your age range who had been helping develop your skills - the most notable of that group being Sukuna, who had dedicated lots of time to teaching you knowledge that Naoya had brushed aside. 

It had surprised you at first, that the hulking pink-haired man had any interest in helping you do anything. Others in the club had claimed that he tended to be aloof, harsh and generally unfriendly - and while he was harsh in his teachings, unfriendly was certainly not the word you’d use to describe him. 

He’d gone out of his way to help you, chasing away others like Satoru with the claim that they were ‘too stupid to teach you right’. Spending hours at your side, he’d taught you all you needed to know about equipment, rope skills and climbing. He wouldn’t provide praise unless it was deserved, but once you’d finally started getting things right he’d always made sure you knew he was pleased with you. 

It was praise you were desperately starved for, praise you’d love to receive from your boyfriend, and you were ashamed to admit that Sukuna’s simple compliments lingered in your mind for longer than they should have.

You’d grown rather fond of him since joining the mountaineering club, even despite his somewhat prickly demeanour to everyone else, you felt he was someone you could rely on, someone who wouldn’t call you stupid for asking him questions. Even if he’d sometimes tease you for getting upset or frustrated for not understanding something, he’d still take the time to help you understand. 

Unlike Naoya, who would roll his eyes and once again point out how unfit you were for something as involved as mountain climbing. 

The comparison between the two was something you found yourself making more and more often, eyes straying over to your pink-haired friend when he wasn’t looking, your stomach flipping when he’d speak to you, or when he’d place a large hand on your shoulder in congratulations at a task done well. 

You knew it was wrong, chastising yourself whenever the thought of Sukuna would stray into your mind late at night while Naoya was snoring away next to you. Not only did you have a boyfriend, but you were certain Sukuna didn’t think of you in anything beyond a friendly manner anyway.

So you kept those feelings locked deep within your chest and tried to focus on why you were in the club in the first place - to prove to your boyfriend that you’d make a good partner for his mountain expeditions, to prove that you were worth more to him than being a glorified maid in his house.

The first few hours of the hike, starting in the early morning, had gone by fairly uneventfully. Your training had paid off and your legs felt good as you winded up through valleys and fields, trailing a little behind the group of boys, favouring a slightly slower pace and jovial conversation amongst the girls. 

Despite Naoya’s reluctance for you to join the club, you felt like it was where you were supposed to be. You loved being out in nature - taking in the fresh air and drinking from mountain streams, wandering along with like-minded people and encouraging each other along through the gruelling uphills. 

It wasn’t until late afternoon that things started to get more difficult, with the altitude creeping steadily up, and the group stumbling across snow fields that still hadn’t melted in the late spring air. It was nothing you weren’t prepared for, but with everyone feeling a great deal more tired than they had in the morning hours, the pace slowed considerably. 

A group of the more experienced men ended up going on ahead at a quicker pace, saying they’d get the next big section of uphill completed and scout out a good camping spot for the night, since the plan was to make a summit push in the early morning to watch the sunrise. 

You didn’t mind that so much - you didn’t like the feeling of slowing them down and that arrangement meant that you could keep going at a comfortable pace without feeling stressed about it. The girls you were with were perfectly experienced in their own right, and Naoya had chosen to hang behind with you anyway rather than going on ahead. 

That was a decision that you’d convinced yourself was on account of him wanting to keep an eye on you, but a part of you believed it was really because he didn’t get along with any of the men at the club. 

Or perhaps it was just so he could keep staring at Yuki’s ass like he had been for the entire hike up to that point. 

The next couple of hours were difficult, and everyone grew more withdrawn under the effort of a constant uphill - facing switchback after switchback with no clarity on how far you had to go beneath a freshly settled blanket of fog lowering the visibility. Shoko had been struggling for a while, and after an extended rest on a rock decided that it was best if she turned back and camped somewhere lower in the valley. 

She’d been having issues with her lungs and didn’t think it was wise to keep going. 

At her decision, Utahime also suggested that she wanted to go back, mentioning that she also didn’t feel in the best physical condition, and Yuki insisted on going back with the two of them to make sure they got back down safely. You’d considered joining them, but you were still feeling good both physically and mentally and were keen to continue upwards towards the peak. 

Considering Naoya’s experience, you were certain that the two of you would be fine even without the girls, so you waved them off and continued upwards into the mist, eager to reconnect with the other half of your group and get settled with Naoya in the tent for the night. 

—

Sukuna had found a pretty good camping spot. He was pretty sure it was in a similar position to where he’d set up on his solo winter ascent a couple of years before - a location that should be downright comfy in the mild spring weather. 

Assuming that weather stayed mild. 

It was hard to tell through all the fog, but he was almost sure he could see dark clouds rolling high in the sky. He hoped he was wrong. There hadn’t been a storm on the forecast, and if one was to roll in that could make for a very harrowing evening, especially for people like you who’d had little experience of the mountains. 

He hoped one bad night wouldn’t be enough to put you off entirely. 

“Yuki just radioed.” Satoru called out to him. “She, Shoko and Utahime are all going back down. The others are still coming I think.” 

Sukuna hummed in affirmation as he moved to set up his tent. He wished it could’ve just been you coming up, rather than you and your shithead boyfriend, but he supposed he’d rather you have a buddy in the mountains than be out there alone. If he’d had things his way, he would’ve hung back with you for the whole duration of the hike, but he didn’t need people casting suspicions on his actions. 

He’d already received some strange looks over his eagerness to teach you - the last thing he needed was the rumor mill in full operation. 

Even if the rumor mill was right in this case. 

He liked you. He really liked you. 

Feelings that he needed to keep to himself, because your boyfriend was one jealous asshole, and he was almost confident that any sign of flirting on Sukuna’s part would have Naoya taking out his anger and jealousy on you, which was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t sure what you saw in that guy, but god, Sukuna wanted to bash his teeth in. 

He’d been watching it for months now - the depressing life you lived in which you’d excitedly bound over to Naoya to show him something you’d learned only for him to react with total disregard. Sukuna had watched the light in your eyes flicker and die each time, doing his best to control the rage boiling in his chest. 

You deserved better than that fucker. 

But he got the sense that you weren’t able to see that. 

Almost everyone had set up their tents, laughing and joking and tearing into provisions by the time Naoya appeared from the mist. A couple of hours had passed since the group first found the camping spot, and Satoru welcomed him enthusiastically as he stepped into the clearing. He looked surprisingly exhausted for a man who was supposed to be experienced. 

Sukuna’s red eyes scanned the fog, waiting for you to appear behind the man. His chest squeezed when only silence followed, no sign of your presence in the mist. 

“Is it only you?” Satoru asked, voicing the very question that was on the tip of Sukuna’s tongue. 

“Yeah, the girls went down,” Naoya responded nonchalantly, shrugging off his backpack. “Is there a good place for me to set up?” Satoru’s lips parted, as if to question the man’s statement, considering Yuki had relayed specific names, but he clearly thought better of it, nodding and pointing Naoya in the direction of a clear patch of dirt for him to pitch his tent. 

Sukuna wasn’t so happy to shrug it off. 

“Yuki only said she was going down with Utahime and Shoko,” he called out to Naoya. The man turned to look at him, irritation shining in his amber eyes. Sukuna was well aware that Naoya despised him just as much as he despised Naoya. 

“They all went. Think I don’t know where my own girlfriend is?” Naoya snapped. 

Sukuna stared him down for a moment before leaving him be, heading over to Satoru and asking for the radio. Speaking into it, he called out for Yuki, praying that they were still within a reasonable range to pick up his voice. 

He was met with only silence, cursing under his breath at the realisation that they were probably all the way back in the valley by that point and likely impossible to reach. His crimson gaze fell to Naoya once more, watching him hum as he set up his tent without a care in the world. 

Something in the pit of Sukuna’s stomach told him that there was something wrong. You hadn’t gone back with Yuki. You’d been so happy all day, so excited about your first major peak. Not only that, but you’d been in good condition - he’d been watching you whenever he could, he’d been proud at how well you were doing. 

You wouldn’t have turned back. And if you had, Yuki would’ve listed your name when she was heading down. Yuki was no newcomer to the mountains - she was responsible and experienced and she always emphasised the importance of good communications. And if you’d have turned back any later, Naoya should’ve gone with you - it's what any sensible person would’ve done. 

But he was here, and you weren’t. And you hadn’t gone with Yuki. So you were alone. 

Sukuna’s first instinct was to bash Naoya’s head in. He wanted to walk over there and silence that bastard’s humming with a well placed rock to the head. What kind of a man - an experienced mountaineer, no less - would abandon their inexperienced girlfriend on the side of a mountain? 

It wasn’t like Sukuna doubted your ability. He’d taught you all you needed to know, but putting those things into practice alone, at altitude, and in adverse weather was a whole other thing. 

Instead of doing anything about Naoya, he parked that issue temporarily and quickly moved to dismantle his own tent. He wasn’t going to sit there and do nothing while your location was unaccounted for. Even if you had gone down shortly after Yuki, even if you’d made it back to the valley by yourself, he wasn’t going to roll the dice on your life. 

He’d go back the way they’d come and he’d walk until he found you - even if that happened to be safe and sound at the bottom of the mountain. 

“What’re you doing?” Satoru asked, hovering as Sukuna put his stuff back into his pack. Naoya had stopped to watch, a sneer on his already ugly face. 

“I don’t think she went down with Yuki. I need to make sure the boyfriend of the year over there didn’t leave her in some bad situation,” Sukuna explained.

“Oh my god, she’s fine.” Naoya snapped from across the campsite. “Yuki just misspoke, she went down with them. Why is it your problem anyway? It's not like she’s your girlfriend.” 

The defensive edge to the man’s voice told Sukuna all he needed to know, and he ignored the jabs in favour of packing up more quickly. He didn’t want it to get too dark - if something bad had happened and you didn’t have your headlamp on it would be impossible to find you at night. 

Unfortunately, Naoya seemed to have no interest in letting up. “I mean seriously? You’re actually doing this? I know you wanna fuck her but she’s always been a loyal little thing - she ain’t gonna put out for you because of this. I think she’s realised that she isn’t cut out for this type of shit - she went back down to safety with the rest of the girls and I think she’ll probably quit the club. She can get back to what she’s good at.” 

Sukuna’s hands stilled as he zipped his bag shut, his expression calm as he finally looked at the man before him. There was malice in his expression and a clear, guilty desire to keep Sukuna from trekking back down the mountain path. 

“‘She can get back to what she’s good at’?” Sukuna asked, drawing himself up to his full height. “And what would that be?” 

The smug grin Naoya shot him was sickening. “Making me dinner.” 

Sukuna laughed, a deep unpleasant sound rumbling from his chest. “Right.” He took a step forward, towering over your boyfriend who he deeply hoped would be your ex-boyfriend after that expedition. Before Naoya could react, Sukuna grabbed him by the front of his raincoat. “Listen. I’m going back down that path. If I find her out there, abandoned and alone, be assured that I’ll beat you so badly that you’ll never climb another mountain again. Do you understand me?” 

Fear flickered in Naoya’s amber eyes, but he pushed it down quickly, replacing it with a scowl. “Get the fuck off me.” 

Sukuna let him go, revelling in the way he stumbled about off balance, barely keeping himself from careening onto the floor. If he was being honest with himself, the desire to enact justice on Naoya in that moment was tempting, but he could wait. Every moment he spent in that camp was another moment of peril for you. 

And unlike Naoya, he wouldn’t leave you to a night alone on a mountain. 

—

You weren’t sure when you’d lost Naoya. 

He’d been picking up the pace significantly while you’d been getting slower and slower, and despite calling out for him to wait for you to catch up, eventually he just disappeared off into the fog - the sound of his footsteps fading entirely. 

It had left you at a loss, unsure as to whether you should keep going or turn back. You were certain that the summit camp probably wasn’t too far off, but you had no real idea of how far that distance might actually be, and had a vague concern that you might take a wrong turn in the ever-thickening fog, leaving you stranded for the night. You and Naoya were sharing a tent which he’d been carrying, and subsequently ending up alone for the evening wasn’t ideal for you. 

The most you’d be able to do is wrap yourself in your sleeping bag and find a sheltered place to hunker down for the night. 

But it shouldn’t come to that. 

Getting down to the valley would take too long, and you weren’t sure where Yuki and the gang would’ve settled anyway. Naoya had the radio. He had everything really, which meant that the only thing you could do was continue upwards and hope that you stumbled across the other half of your group. 

It was a plan that was going okay until you’d carelessly stepped on a loose rock, sending you tumbling back down a hill of scree you’d spent the past half an hour climbing. 

At first you’d thought only your morale was damaged, your mind exhausted at the prospect of having to get back up and reascend a slope you’d already climbed once. But as you struggled to get to your feet, you realised that it wasn’t only your mind that had undergone damage.

A hot pain spread through your ankle as you tried to stand, sending you straight back down to the floor with a yelp. Panic instantly overcame you, the sudden realisation of where you were hitting you like a tonne of bricks. Naoya, your boyfriend, had abandoned you on the side of a mountain. He’d left you in the fog, beneath the setting sun, without a tent and without a radio. And now you were injured.

If you didn’t know better, you would’ve said he was actively trying to kill you. 

But what was more likely was that he was just proving the point he’d been trying to make all along - that you weren’t cut out for the life of a mountaineer. 

And considering your condition, could you really disagree with him? 

Soft sobs overtook you, and you began to spiral. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, shivering as the cold grew more intense, mumbling incoherently to yourself about how you should’ve gone back down to the valley with Yuki. 

Perhaps you never should’ve tried facing the mountains in the first place. 

Maybe Naoya was right. 

They were thoughts that fled from your mind at the blessed sight of a headlamp cutting through the fog from above, footsteps crunching evenly on scree, picking up in speed the moment the light shone upon your sorry figure huddled on the ground. 

“Fuck, are you okay?” Sukuna’s voice had a tremor of relief shooting through you, and more tears swelled at the corners of your eyes. He was crouching down in front of you, expression laden with concern as he scanned your cowering form. One of his hands reached for your face, wiping away tears carefully while he waited for you to answer him. 

“My ankle…” You mumbled. Everything was too overwhelming for you to articulate any further, your words already coming out all choked and shaky. Sukuna didn’t need to hear any more, attention instantly shifting to your foot. His hands moved to prod gently at it, watching your face for a grimace which came quickly under his touch. 

“Does that hurt?” 

You nodded. He bit down on his lip and quickly moved to untie the lace of your boot. A soft whimper left your lips as he pulled it from your foot, but he was right to pay your reaction no mind since you were overcome with relief once your ankle was freed from those rigid confines pressing down too tightly upon it. 

It had swollen up significantly in the time you’d been sitting there waiting for someone to come for you. 

“Right. I’ll deal with the ankle soon but I want to get us to someplace better first before it gets fully dark.” It was only just occurring to you that the wind had started to pick up a little, your clothes ruffled by air rushing against you. It would be best to be in a less exposed place - Sukuna had taught you that exposure made all the difference when dealing with bad weather.

“There was a plateau back down at the bottom of this slope,” you mumbled, remembering the slight respite you’d had from the seemingly neverending onslaught of uphill.

Sukuna gave you a proud smile and it made your heart flutter. “Yeah, that would work. I’m gonna carry you down there, if that’s okay? I don’t think you should try walking on that ankle until we give it a proper look.” 

You wanted to collapse into fresh tears at the suggestion. While your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to look after you, had abandoned you on the side of your first big mountain, Sukuna was here offering to carry you to safety. The feeling his offer was giving you had a risk of overwhelming you entirely, utterly grateful that he was the person who’d come back to look for you. 

Naively, you wondered if Naoya had sent him down to look for you. It was a weak hope, a desperate, delusional belief that your boyfriend wasn’t as cruel as he truly was. 

“Yeah, that’s okay,” you said, quietly. You tried to ignore how pleasant it felt when Sukuna crouched down to scoop you up into his arms. His touch felt warm against your body which had grown cold over the past few hours of inactivity. The arms holding you were strong and secure, building a feeling of safety knowing he was there with you. 

Naoya would’ve taken issue with it, but you wished you’d asked Sukuna to stick with you throughout the whole trip. Things would’ve felt better if it was him you were relying on rather than your boyfriend. In his lessons he’d always emphasised the importance of matching your pace with a mountain buddy - always checking that they weren’t far behind. 

Rules that a supposedly experienced mountaineer like Naoya should’ve been well aware of. 

Sukuna strode down the rest of the hill with ease, keeping you tucked close against him in a princess carry. Considering that you had your pack still on your back you were surprised at how easy he made the whole thing look, because he wasn’t exactly carrying a light load between you in his arms and his own bag on his back. But he didn’t complain or demonstrate any signs of struggle. 

Outside of the fact that he was largely silent until you reached your destination. 

You didn’t mind that. It wasn’t like you were in the mood to talk either, your mind swimming with all kinds of things now that you were in safe hands. Naoya had left you behind to die. You could’ve died if no one had come back for you. Exposure could’ve gotten to you, or an animal, or some person with ill-intent prowling the mountainside. 

He’d left you helpless and defenceless. 

And, as rain started to drip from the sky above, you realised that if Sukuna hadn’t come for you, it would’ve been an evening out in the storm, at altitude, with nothing but your rain jacket and sleeping bag to huddle within. 

You could’ve died. 

Sukuna found a well sheltered area and placed you down while he set up the tent. You were in awe at how quickly he got it done - the same actions would’ve taken you three times the time it took his experienced hands to get it sorted. You were grateful for the speed, because it meant the two of you made it inside before the worst of the rain began to hammer down from the sky above. 

“Okay. First the ankle. Then everything else.” 

You tilted your head a little at his statement, not quite sure what he meant by everything else, but you assumed he was referring more to your mental condition and questions around how you’d ended up in your terrible position in the first place. You hoped he wouldn’t be mad at you for failing to make it up to the peak after how much time he’d spent teaching you things. 

You thought maybe he’d chastise you for things like not having your own tent or radio, but Naoya had been insistent about carrying those items for you, assuring you that he’d stick at your side and claiming his actions were out of a desire to keep your pack as light as possible. 

You were stupid to have believed him.

Sukuna knelt by your foot, removing your sock and inspecting the damage carefully. His fingers pressed delicately against the skin and you found yourself admiring his concentrated expression in the lamplight. “I don’t think it's broken,” he said. “Probably just twisted.” 

Reaching into his first aid kit, he found a bandage which he wrapped around the problem area, before pulling out an ice pack and snapping to activate its effects. He placed the pack down on your ankle, earning a little hiss from you which pulled a small smile from his otherwise serious face. 

He’d been really serious since he’d found you, his expression all irritated and stormy. 

Was he angry with you? Frustrated that he’d had to come back down the mountain to your aid? You didn’t like the idea of being his burden. 

“Endure the cold for a bit - it’ll make you feel much better.” he said, placing a warm hand on your calf. Your breath hitched involuntarily at the contact and Sukuna quickly withdrew from you, a tinge of guilt flickering across his handsome face. He instantly busied himself before you could question it, moving onto the next stage of tending to your injury.

He fumbled about in his pack and withdrew some clothing, bundling it up into a small pile and wedging it beneath your foot to elevate it a little. Nothing he was doing was particularly revolutionary - on the contrary, his actions were all things he’d taught you to do in the event of an injury. 

You’d just been too panicked to do anything on that scree slope. 

Perhaps he was mad at you for that too. 

Sukuna laid out his sleeping mat next to you, his nose wrinkling at the revelation that you didn’t have one because it was in Naoya’s possession. He slid his mat beneath you, keen not to have you lying on the floor, before pulling out his sleeping bag and sitting on top of that for some amount of comfort. 

“So, what happened?” Sukuna asked. His voice was a little clipped, as if he was holding himself back from saying what he really wanted to say. 

“I was rushing and lost my footing on some scree-”

“No. I mean, why are you alone?” 

“Oh.” You shrugged, taking a deep breath and avoiding his eyes. There was a sticky feeling building up in your throat, keeping your words down. If you said the truth aloud you were certain you’d burst into tears again. “I don’t know,” you mumbled finally. 

“You don’t know?” He echoed. 

“It just sort of happened. The girls went back down the mountain and Naoya kept going quicker and then we got separated somewhere in the fog. I imagine he was probably waiting somewhere up ahead for me but then I slipped.” You weren’t sure why you were trying to defend your boyfriend. You weren’t naive enough to truly believe he’d been waiting up ahead for you. 

He’d left you. 

But the idea of airing out just how stupid you were to be in that relationship in the first place felt humiliating. You wanted to at least pretend that Naoya didn’t leave you for dead - that you weren’t the fool who had stayed for years with an abusive boyfriend when you should’ve just left. 

You didn’t want Sukuna to think you were completely pathetic. 

“Naoya arrived at the camp hours ago,” Sukuna said, his tone detached, as if he wanted to avoid projecting any of his own emotion onto you. “He said you’d gone back down with the rest of the girls.” 

The horrified expression on your face must’ve said it all, because Sukuna’s impartiality quickly faded, rage burning within those crimson eyes. Naoya really had abandoned you. And not only that, he’d also attempted to sabotage any retrieval attempt that might be made for you. He’d outright claimed you were safe when he knew no such thing. 

It was a thought that made you sick, and once again the tears started to flow, dripping down your cheeks. You’d spent years with that man, feeling like you were less than good enough. You’d let him break you down, put up with his endless bullying and tormenting, all because he’d been sweet to you at the start. 

You’d always thought you weren’t good enough, always thought that it was your fault he was so unpleasant with you. 

Now it felt like your eyes were open for the first time. 

He’d left you on the side of a mountain. He couldn’t care less about your wellbeing. He couldn’t care less about you unless you were making him dinner. 

And you’d put up with it. 

You were a fool. 

“I knew that fucker was lying,” Sukuna hissed. “Yuki didn’t say your name when she radioed in to say she was heading back. She’s always good with that sort of thing. Fuck, I’m glad I came down to check, who knows what would’ve happened if-” 

He cut himself off, faltering before he could finish the sentence. It was clear that he didn’t want to scare or upset you further, not when you’d already reduced yourself to a puddle of tears. You didn’t want to imagine what fate the night would’ve brought if not for Sukuna arriving as your saviour. 

Falling silent, he shuffled a little closer to you. Reaching out delicately he began to wipe away your tears with his thumb. The touch of his skin against yours felt pleasant, and you found your sobs faltering at the new found comfort he was providing. A deeply loyal part of you urged you to pull away, reminding you of your boyfriend. You immediately pushed the thought aside. 

Naoya wasn’t your boyfriend. 

Not after what he’d done. 

“Don’t cry. You’re okay. I found you and we’ll make it through the night together. I’m not going anywhere.” Sukuna’s words were soothing, and you found yourself nodding between sniffles, your tears gradually drying up. You hadn’t realised you were shivering until Sukuna tentatively wrapped an arm around you, pulling you up and close to him. 

The storm had worsened outside, and you huddled down in your jacket, letting yourself lean into Sukuna’s chest to keep the shivering at bay. If this was how you felt inside a tent with another human to warm you, you hated to think how you would’ve felt still stuck all alone on the scree. 

It didn’t bear considering. 

“You should report that asshole to the police once we get down. Nothing will come of it because it's hard to prove intent, but this was an active attempt on your life. He had a duty of care he ignored, stripped you of shelter and then tried to prevent a rescue. I have half a mind to kill him myself.” Sukuna’s voice rumbled through his body. 

No one had ever really stood up for you before. Naoya was always good at being charming when it mattered. Your parents and the rest of your family had always seen him as a good prospect - a polite and handsome man from a well off family. With your friends, you’d done the damage on your own, always defending him, manipulated by him to act like the perfect picture of an abused girlfriend. 

“I’m so stupid,” you whispered. 

“What?” Sukuna asked, pulling back ever so slightly so he could look at you properly. You hadn’t spoken at all since the reveal, and your quiet words clearly caught him off guard. 

“I’ve wasted so much of my life with him. Spent so much time defending him like he was some good guy. I only joined this club to impress him and all he ever did was tell me how useless I was at stuff like this - at everything. Did you know that he spent most of this hike staring at Yuki’s ass? And yet, when I’d tell him about how much stuff you’d taught me he’d get all mad about me talking to another guy and verbally berate me until I cried. And I just let it all happen. You must think I’m an idiot.” 

Sukuna hesitated, searching for the right words. It made you smile in a twisted sort of way, because he was definitely trying to find something to say that wouldn’t indirectly call you stupid - an impossibility considering the circumstances. Now that your eyes were open you could finally see how foolish you’d been. 

You just wanted to go home. Forget mountaineering or anything else you’d tried in an attempt to bond with that asshole.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he said finally. “I think guys like that are very good at getting their way, and you happened to be his victim.” The words were uncannily gentle, and at a glance at Sukuna’s face you could tell he was out of his comfort zone, but trying his best. He tightened his grip on you as a sudden gust of wind battered the tent. 

The touch had your heart fluttering, and you wondered how Sukuna felt about your current position. It was probably just a necessity in his eyes - a bid to warm up a tired and stressed woman, nothing more than that. 

With your loyalty to Naoya stranded somewhere on the mountain never to be recovered, you found yourself wishing the contact was something more than that. 

But considering your woefully pathetic attempt at summiting this relatively easy peak, you doubted Sukuna held you in high regard at all. His type was probably some strong, confident girl who already knew all her outdoor skills without Sukuna’s input. The type of woman he could rely on to partner with for dangerous and difficult peaks. 

That wasn’t you. 

You weren’t sure you’d step foot on a mountain again after this. 

“Maybe you don’t think I’m an idiot for that, but you probably think I am for all this.” You gestured in the general direction of your foot, still humiliated at the thought of Sukuna having to rush down the mountain to your rescue, like you couldn’t be left unsupervised for a single moment without finding yourself in need of rescue. 

Much to your chagrin, Sukuna laughed. “An idiot for getting injured? No, that’s practically a rite of passage. You were doing great through most of the hike - I was keeping an eye on you before the group split in half. We’ll get you down the mountain and get your ankle sorted, and then you can try this peak again another time.” 

Sukuna’s optimism had butterflies swarming in your stomach, but years of insults and abuse weren’t so easily displaced. You lowered your gaze, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I don’t know. I just wonder if Naoya was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.” 

Sukuna pulled a face, clearly displeased by that statement. 

“Do you like being in the mountains?” He asked simply. 

He made no statement on your skill, no attack on anything your boyfriend had told you. Asked nothing more than whether you liked being out in the fresh air, doing what you’d been doing before your ankle had been injured. 

And you did. 

You really did like it. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

“Then you are cut out for this. Enjoyment is literally the only requirement,” he said earnestly. “Besides, that guy’s full of shit. I taught you everything you needed to know and I have faith in your abilities. If you need to listen to someone else’s opinion to determine your value, how about you consider mine instead of his.” 

A flush appeared across your cheeks. Those were the kind of compliments Sukuna would always pay you. Nothing particularly special or flowery, but deeply genuine in a way that had your whole body bursting with pride, pushing the rot of Naoya’s insults from your veins and replacing it with Sukuna’s approval. 

“We’ll come back here together in a few weeks, just the two of us, and we’ll do this peak. I can promise you it’ll be better. I won’t abandon you in the fog.” You believed him, nodding a little in agreement. Even in your fragile mental state that evening, you couldn’t help the excited flip of your stomach at the thought of Sukuna wanting to do something alone with you. 

The mountaineering club had been a means for you to learn your skills to climb alone with Naoya. You hadn’t expected that it would leave you excited at the prospect of climbing with another man. 

Still, you tried not to get ahead of yourself. Your little crush on Sukuna, which had been present for several months more than you were really willing to admit, seemed to have finally found the freedom to really take over your thoughts. Your heart was practically in your throat at your current proximity to him, a desire coursing through your whole body. 

You needed to push it back down even with Naoya out of the picture, because you were certain Sukuna was just being friendly, just being a better person than Naoya was. You couldn’t afford to let your mind run wild with fantasies. 

At least, that’s what you’d told yourself. 

The two of you had sat in silence for a while after Sukuna’s offer of climbing alone together, still huddled together and listening to the wind and rain outside the tent. You found yourself calmed by the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat, basking in the warmth of his body which took your mind off the cold compress burning at your ankle. 

“Do you mind if we share the sleeping mat? It's okay if not, but it would be warmer for you and more comfy for me that way.” Considering that the two of you had been cuddling for a while, you didn’t see the issue. Anything was fine in matters of survival and you were more than happy to remain close to Sukuna. 

“Yeah, sure. We can zip our sleeping bags together.” 

Sukuna’s lashes fluttered and you swore you could see a dusting of pink on his cheeks, but you were quick to disregard it. It had been a long and exhausting day, and you were likely just seeing what you wanted to see. 

The cold compress had started to lose its effect, and Sukuna removed it from your ankle while the two of you shuffled about to get ready for bed. Your ankle was feeling much better after a period of rest and elevation, and you found you could move it again without excruciating pain. Getting back down the mountain might still be an issue, but it was one you could leave to figure out in the morning. 

Zipping your sleeping bags together and settling down on the sleeping mat, Sukuna made space for you beside him. You had to half lay on him for you both to stay on the padding, but with how warm his body seemed to run, you really didn’t mind. He wrapped his arm around you, nestling you close against him under the guise of conserving space - an action that had your whole body thrumming with electricity. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt that way. For months, maybe even years, the only thing you’d felt under Naoya’s touch was mild dread. This was something nicer, something more exciting - a feeling you wanted to experience over and over again. 

“Warm enough?” Sukuna asked, giving you a reassuring squeeze. The tent was relatively cool, the fabric being battered by the storm outside, all of which seemed distant as you lay there in Sukuna’s grip. It was a safe and warm place to be, one where you could take your mind off troubles and anxieties knowing he was there to keep anything and everything at bay. 

Troubles which Naoya had actively brought upon your life, were effectively chased away by Sukuna. 

How you wished you’d met the pink-haired man earlier in your life. 

“Warm enough,” you echoed, your voice coming out muffled as you buried your face into his chest. 

Again, the two of you fell into comfortable silence, listening to the whistling of wind and basking in the feeling of your bodies pressed close together. You were half asleep and almost convinced that Sukuna was already asleep, when his deep voice cut through the darkness and silence. 

“I don’t usually go on these things, you know,” he confessed quietly. “This is my first one. I’m only in the club because it gives you connections for exhibition funding and learning new skills. Usually I do mountains solo and usually I do stuff much harder than this.” He waved his hand in the direction of the tent’s exit. 

A guilt blossomed in your gut at the speech, recalling similar words from your boyfriend when you’d brought up the trip. He’d said that climbs in the Japanese Alps outside of wintertime were nothing special, and that the whole thing would likely be so easy that he could do it in his sleep. He’d only agreed to go after you’d begged him, reminding him that you didn’t have the experience he did. 

“I’m only here because of you,” Sukuna continued. The guilt within you only grew sharper. Was Sukuna trying to imply that he was only present out of concern for your inexperience? Had you forced him along because he knew something like this would happen? Had he known he’d need to come to your rescue?

“Sorry. I must be such a burden,” you mumbled quietly, burying your face in your sleeping bag. 

Did Sukuna really want to commit to climbing alone with you knowing that you were so much less experienced than he was? Or was he just doing it because he felt bad for you? You were likely a pitiful sight with your messed up ankle and an abusive boyfriend who had abandoned you. 

Sukuna blinked rapidly, astute enough to swiftly connect the dots. “What? No, that’s not- I was trying to say something nice. I was saying I only came along because I enjoy spending time with you. I don’t like these group things and I prefer to do harder stuff but I’m here because you’re here, and I like you.” 

Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears, completely drowning out the sound of any thoughts on how you were supposed to reply to that. You were too caught up on the word ‘like’, on the way Sukuna shifted ever so slightly against you, pulling you more firmly against his body. 

“What?” You asked, dumbly. 

“I like you,” he repeated. “I think you’re so cute and I love how happy you get whenever you learn something new and I’m so fucking exhausted of watching your boyfriend ignore you and take you for granted when I’d cherish you.” 

Again, your stomach flipped, your ears growing warm. 

“And when that fucker showed up at the top of the mountain without you, I wanted to kill him. When I found you all cold and alone on the slope I just- fuck. I want to keep you safe. I want to be the person who looks out for you, I want to take care of you in a way that guy seems unwilling to. He has no idea what he has- had, while I understand exactly what you’re worth. I want to take you to the mountains at my side because unlike him, I’d be thrilled to have you as my hiking partner.” 

Before you knew what was happening, you were crying again, wetting his clothes immediately with your tears. Your shoulders were shuddering and you could feel Sukuna’s heartrate picking up. It seemed like he was starting to panic - concerned that you were upset by his words when the reality was the total opposite. 

You’d never heard something so romantic from Naoya and you never would. To have someone speak such beautiful words to you felt surreal and your body had no idea how to react beyond sobbing from being so overwhelmed with love and affection. 

“Sorry,” Sukuna said quickly. “I know it's been a long day, now probably wasn’t the time to say anything. You don’t have to respond-”

He faltered as you peered up at him, your face wet with tears. He usually looked so confident, and even then there was still some atmosphere of certainty about him, but he couldn’t fully hide the glimmer of anxiety in his lovely red eyes. There was a fear of rejection buried within him, a fate that he seemed almost certain he was going to face. 

If only he could step into your shoes for a moment and feel all the emotion rushing over you at his confession

You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t think of anything that would suffice as a response to his outpouring of desire. Instead you tilted your face upwards, lips parting softly in a clear signal - one that Sukuna caught onto immediately. He closed the gap swiftly, lips slotting perfectly against yours with a warmth you’d never experienced before. 

Naoya’s kiss had always been domineering - a wet and unpleasant experience. Sukuna’s kiss was gentle and exploratory. His lips took the time to appreciate yours, to linger on that lovely shared warmth and soak in the feeling of being connected so intimately for the first time. 

His tongue ran along your lips carefully, requesting for you to open your mouth. You complied easily, letting him hold you ever closer as his tongue pressed into yours, deepening the kiss in a way that felt so natural despite the fact that you’d never kissed each other before. 

A rumble of thunder overhead had the two of you parting for a second, and you found your shivering renewed as a particularly cold wind blew through the tent. Sukuna’s red eyes went to the entryway, the space illuminating for a second as another flash of lightning ripped through the sky above. His hands rubbed your back soothingly at a louder rumble overhead. 

“I’m so glad I came down to find you,” he whispered. 

“Thank you for coming to find me,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on his handsome face, your mind still struggling to catch up to all that had transpired in the past few minutes. Thoughts of Naoya and all the suffering he’d put you through seemed distant in the intimacy of that tent. “I feel so lucky. Injured ankle aside.” You giggled softly, heart jumping at the way Sukuna grinned back at you, pressing another soft kiss to your lips. 

There was a gratefulness to his expression, a soft affection in his gaze which made you feel seen and special in a way you’d never felt with Naoya. It had you sinking deep into another kiss, your lips locked against his in a deeply intoxicating manner. All the stress and the anxiety of the day seemed to wash away beneath his grip. 

Even with the storm raging outside, you felt safe and warm with him there beside you.

You should’ve known about his feelings for you - should’ve understood the moment Yuki had made a comment about how Sukuna never usually spoke to anyone. He’d spent so much time on you, being so gentle in his teachings, making sure you knew what you were doing, making sure you were praised. 

He’d liked you from the start and you’d been too blind to see it. 

Too beaten down by your own experiences in relationships to believe that any affection directed towards you would be legitimate. 

You wished you could’ve puzzled it out sooner. You wished you could’ve noticed the soft look that always sparkled in Sukuna’s eyes whenever he looked at you. You wished you’d dumped Naoya several years ago, because it shouldn’t have taken an abandonment on the side of the mountain for you to realise how truly awful your ex-boyfriend was. 

But what was done was done. Sukuna’s hands were on you now, and that was all that mattered. You’d made it in the end, even if it had taken you a little longer to get there than you would’ve ideally liked. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered as the two of you broke apart for breath, red eyes scanning your face like he was committing your features to memory. “How Naoya could be so stupid, I have no idea.” 

“He’s not a smart man.” 

“No. He really isn’t.” Sukuna agreed. “But his loss is my gain.” 

You hummed, leaning against Sukuna’s chest once more, listening to his heartbeat beneath you. Despite the excitement, you were suddenly aware of how tired you were, and how much the cold was still seeping in through your clothes and down into your bones. Altitude was no joke, and the pleasant spring warmth was nowhere to be found on the mountainside that evening. 

“Are you still cold? You’re shivering.” It wasn’t possible for Sukuna to physically pull you closer to him than you already were, but he gave it an attempt all the same, practically crushing you in his grip. 

“A little, yeah.” 

“Shit. Once sec.” Moving away from you for a moment, he reached out of the sleeping bag and rummaged about in his bag, withdrawing his down jacket and draping it around your shoulders like an additional blanket. You were grateful for the added warmth, coccooned in between that and Sukuna’s warm body. 

For a few moments you lay there, your shivering finally subsiding, only for all the hairs on your neck to raise at the feeling of Sukuna’s voice vibrating against the top of your head. “There is another way I could keep you warm.” 

His tone was suggestive and perhaps a little amused. The comment had heat billowing throughout your body, your gut tightening at the suggestion of something you’d never allowed yourself to think of before. Sukuna was very attractive, and sometimes your mind had drifted in his direction when your hand had been caught between your thighs. But you’d always scolded yourself for it, had always driven away the idea of picturing a man you actually knew when you had a boyfriend. 

Now the suggestion was right there on the table as something real and tangible, and your mind was conjuring all sorts of exciting imagery. 

“O-oh. Yeah, that could be nice,” you said with a sudden rush of confidence. It was Sukuna’s turn to falter, red eyes suddenly wide with surprise, as if you’d called some bluff without even realising it. 

“I don’t have a condom,” he murmured, pushing you back ever so slightly so he could look properly at your face. “Sorry, I wasn’t actually expecting…this.” 

“I am on the pill,” you offered a little bashfully, embarrassed to have reacted so enthusiastically to what you were now realising was a joke. “But we can wait if you’d rather use a-” 

“No, no-,” his face was definitely a little red this time, seemingly caught off by your willingness. “If you want to, I’d like to. I just…” He rubbed his neck a little awkwardly. “I was just teasing and you surprised me, I guess. You’re always surprising me.” 

Before you could backtrack or come up with some witty response, Sukuna recovered himself and his lips were on your neck. You let out a soft whimper at the sensation of his teeth dragging against your sensitive skin, his lips latching onto you and sucking purple marks onto you with no concern for who might see them the next day. 

As far as he was concerned you were his. Naoya could rage all he wanted. If he wanted to keep his girlfriend he shouldn’t have discarded her on the mountainside. Bitterly, you hoped Naoya found out exactly what you and Sukuna had done that night. Let him seethe. Let him reflect on all that he’d lost. 

The bastard deserved all that misery and more. 

Sukuna’s hands found their way beneath your clothes, calloused fingers pressing against your skin with care. You hadn’t realised how much your whole body was aching until he was touching you like that, your muscles flexing at the new contact. 

You took his actions as a sign to do the same, sliding your own fingers beneath his shirt and pressing them against his abs. You knew he was well built - on hotter days he’d been shirtless when working on teaching you to lead climb, and you’d pretty shamelessly stared at him until your mind had reminded you of your boyfriend.

It would be nice for him to be shirtless now, but neither of you felt like removing any layers of clothing in the cold, so for the time being your touch would have to suffice. That was a freedom that Sukuna seemed to be taking full advantage of, mapping out your body with his hands, his fingers moving to your breasts and squeezing, red eyes lighting up at the little moan it earned him. 

“Really shouldn’t be doing this now,” he whispered huskily against your ear. “Had the whole thing planned out. Figured once you’d broken up with Naoya that I’d take you out on a nice date and then bring you back to my place so we could do this properly. But here we are.” 

You giggled softly at the dismay in his tone. “We can still stop.” 

“No. I want this now. You aren’t so easily resisted. But mark my words, once we’re back home, I’m going to take my time with you. I want to look at you properly beyond just fumbling about in a dark tent - as hot as this is.” 

Giggling again, you nodded, in total agreement with his sentiment. Doing things like this, while a little limited, did feel exciting in its own way. It felt like you were keeping some secret with each other, doing whatever you could in the dark without anyone else knowing about it. There was an allure to it that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

With Sukuna’s attention on your breasts, you were the one that ended up making a major move first. Your hand slid down beneath the waistband of his trousers, finding its way into his briefs. He let out a groan at the feeling of your hand brushing against his cock, which twitched erratically at the slightest touch. 

It felt big beneath your fingers, and you hadn’t realised that your breath had hitched until Sukuna was letting out a chuckle. 

“Impressed?” 

“Maybe,” you mumbled shyly. You didn’t have much of a point of reference for such things. Naoya was the only man you’d ever been with, and you imagined that he wasn’t packing anything particularly unique down there. Not if Sukuna’s size was anything to go by. You wrapped your fingers around the shaft, enjoying the way Sukuna shivered in pleasure. 

Meanwhile, Sukuna mirrored your actions, his fingers moving down your body until they were grazing against your panties. It was a little embarrassing how damp the fabric had grown, your pussy desperately slick from the events of the evening. Your body wanted Sukuna just as much as your heart and mind did, and it was making that fact glaringly obvious. 

“So wet,” he said with a chuckle. “There I was all nervous that you wouldn’t feel the same. Shows what I know, huh?” 

You flushed, glancing away from him in embarrassment as his fingers pushed your panties to the side, giving him free access to your pussy beneath. His fingers moved deftly through your folds, moving the slick around before rubbing at your clit, leaving you whining his name and squeezing his cock a little tighter. 

“Cute,” he hummed, his nose brushing against yours. One of his fingers prodded at your opening, pushing in with a little effort. He took a few minutes opening you up with two of his fingers, languidly stuffing you full with them to prepare you. You didn’t want to admit to how emotional the whole thing made you feel, because Naoya had always said that foreplay was a myth. 

Never before had you been prepared for anything, and Sukuna taking so much time to do so had your heart fluttering. 

You tried your best to return the favour, stroking his cock as best as you could while it was still confined beneath his clothes, but he didn’t seem to pay that too much attention - completely fixed on making you cum around his fingers before moving onto anything else. That was another thing that Naoya had never done. Cumming with him was so infrequent that you’d almost grown certain that you couldn’t do it with another person. 

And yet, Sukuna had you doing it in a matter of minutes - your toes curling in desperate pleasure as you gushed over his fingers with a sweet little gasp. 

There was no time for you to catch your breath before he was pushing your trousers and panties down ever so slightly to give him access whilst still keeping you dressed and warm. He did the same for his own clothes, gently displacing your hand from his cock and repositioning the two of you so that he was on top. 

The sleeping bag was still wrapped snugly around the two of you, keeping the warmth in effectively while he lined himself up over you, his muscular body keeping you pinned down beneath him in a position you’d be more than happy to remain in for the rest of your days. It was so nice to be under him like that, to be so surrounded by his body and heat and scent. 

It was where you were supposed to be. In some uncomfortable tent on the side of the mountain feeling happier than ever because he was there with you. 

You’d gone to the mountaineering club for Naoya, but you couldn’t help but think fate had guided your actions and really led you there for Sukuna. 

“All good?” He asked, hot breath brushing against your ear. The tip of his cock was pressed up against your opening, and you realised that he was giving you a chance to back out - showing you a level of consideration that Naoya never would. 

“Yeah,” you breathed, lashes fluttering as you peered up into lovely red eyes, letting out a whine when he finally pushed into you.

You hadn’t been prepared for just how big he was, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your skull as he pressed his way into your tight pussy. Your nails dug into his arms and a whimper left you at the intensity of the feeling. You felt like you were aware of every ridge and vein on his cock, your pussy squeezing around him each time he’d involuntarily twitch within you. 

It didn’t take long for the uncomfortable fullness to give way to pleasure once he bottomed out inside you. It had a pleasantly warm buzz running through your body once he started to thrust within you, the weight of his body keeping you still and secure, keeping you warm even as the storm picked up outside. 

Any fears of the thunder and lightning were pushed aside in favour of focusing on the feeling of being split in two. Sukuna’s lips found your neck once more, overstimulating you as he bit and sucked on the juncture between your neck and shoulder, bringing tears to your eyes beneath all the pleasure he was giving you. 

Even through the stretch it felt right to have him inside you, and it was downright heavenly each time one of his long strokes hit that one specific spot inside you, bringing stars and light to your vision each time. 

This was where you were meant to be. 

Neither of you lasted particularly long. Not after the day you’d just had, and certainly not after months of mutual crushing. You’d cum first - your body already sensitive from the previous orgasm and totally overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all. Sukuna had reached down to play with your clit while he fucked you, and that set you on a high unlike any other. 

If Naoya had known where the clit was, he’d certainly never touched it. 

And yet, there Sukuna was utilising it. You could count on one hand the number of times you’d cum from penetrative sex, but Sukuna had pulled an orgasm from you like it was easy. 

And maybe it was easy. 

Maybe Naoya just fucking sucked. 

Sukuna wasn’t far behind you in reaching his release. When you’d cum you’d clamped down around him tightly, locked in a spiral of pure pleasure unlike that which you’d experienced before. It felt better than anything you could achieve with your own hands - infinitely more intimate and lovely. 

The way you’d squeezed him so tight had sent Sukuna over the edge, prompting him to groan your name in that low tone of his as he filled you with his seed, riding out his own release to the point where you were growing overstimulated and begging him for mercy. 

Mercy which he gave you with a gentle smile and a kiss planted atop your sweaty forehead. 

The two of you lay then in the darkness, soft pants drowned beneath the howling of wind. Sukuna was holding you tightly, keeping you secure in his grip like you might vanish if he didn’t cling to you with all his might. He was still inside you, softening but present in a way that felt blissfully intimate. Whenever you’d laid with Naoya, you couldn’t wait to escape his grip and get cleaned up. 

With Sukuna, it was different. 

You could stay there with him sheathed inside you for hours - connected in a way that just felt right. 

His lips were ghosting against your hair, soothing you with kisses, running his hands over you repetitively in a bid to ensure you stayed warm at his side. Your ankle was throbbing a little from all the movement, but with Sukuna’s legs intertwined with yours you found yourself able to ignore it. All thoughts and discomforts overridden by how happy you felt in that moment. 

“Try and get some sleep,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ll look after you.” 

“I know,” you whispered. 

He smiled softly. “Just making sure you know it. Apparently you can’t take for granted that everyone will look out for you.” His tone came out a little bitter, but instead of feeling anger at the reminder of Naoya’s actions, you felt a warmth blossom across your chest at Sukuna’s display of care. 

You liked that he was angry about it. It was nice to have someone care about you for once. 

In hindsight, it was a blessing that you never made it out into the mountains alone with Naoya like you’d intended to at the start of your mountaineering training. If you had, perhaps you would’ve ended up left for dead - freezing on the side of the mountain while Naoya summoned some crocodile tears and dismissed your fate altogether. 

You were lucky to have Sukuna. Lucky to be able to continue going into the mountains with someone who actually wanted you there. Someone who would really take care of you. 

“I’m glad you’re here to look after me.” Your hand reached for his face, tracing his tattoos with great care. As pleasant as your evening with him had been, you were looking forward to making it down the mountain - to spending time with him outside of that tent. It would be nice to see just where those tattoos disappeared off to beneath his clothes. 

But that would have to wait. 

You knew that the next day would be long. An arduous trek back down the mountain was ahead of you, along with a no doubt vicious confrontation with your ex. One that you were sure Sukuna would take the lead on, but still not something you were looking forward to experiencing. 

Either way, you wouldn’t dwell on it that evening. 

Because for the time being, there was nothing you needed to worry about. The storm could rage on outside for as long as it needed to. You were safe in your tent, in the arms of a man who would never leave you alone on the side of a mountain. 

And it was possibly the happiest you’d been in a very long time. 

a/n: after getting down to the bottom of the mountain the next day I promise reader slapped naoya and sukuna beat the hell out of him :)

had such a fun time writing this its literally the most self-indulgent fic I've ever written as I love being in the mountains hehe

hope you enjoyed! reblogs and comments are appreciated as always!

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“i doubt it, you big back.”

“you’re so mean to me.”

you laugh, the sound breaking into another kiss because satoru seems physically incapable of letting more than a few seconds pass without stealing one.

“kissing me until i forget what i was saying?”

“…is it working?” he muses.

you pause. “…maybe.”

“i know you‘re enjoying yourself,” he says softly, brushing his lips over yours again. “you haven‘t pulled away yet.”

“seems like i’ve made questionable life choices.”

he gasps dramatically, though his smile gives him away.

“oh? dating me is questionable?”

“sometimes.”

another kiss.

“when you leave your socks everywhere.”

mwah.

“when you eat all my snacks.”

mwah.

“when you—”

he kisses you longer that time, lingering just enough that you forget where your complaint is going.

“…see?” he murmurs.

“you are so annoying.”

“but?”

“but…” you smile. “you’re very cute.”

his grin is immediate, and he kisses the corner of your mouth

“what do you want for dinner?” you ask.

“hmm…” he pretends to think hard, his forehead resting against yours. “you.”

“oh my god,” you groan. “you’ve been waiting to say that, haven’t you?”

“maybe.” he grins into the next kiss.

“you should be embarrassed.”

“can’t hear your mean remarks when you’re this close.”

your lips meet in soft, absent-minded kisses between tiny conversations about nothing at all. whether the laundry is finished, whether the weather looks nice tomorrow, or how his teaching is going.

“toru—” kiss. “—how am I supposed to—” another kiss. “—focus?”

“why’d you need to?” his smile softens into something quieter, gentler than his usual teasing grin.

“…we still need groceries.”

“tomorrow,” he insists.

“tomorrow,” you give in.

Because ever since the world has ended and you’ve matched the elusive name to face, Gojo has managed to worm his way into your life. He’s there, slinging his arm over Shoko’s shoulder as if you both aren’t glaring into the side of his head for it, dragging his friend Geto over too, the long haired boy at least having the decency to smile apologetically though not enough decency to leave.

Shoko never tells him off, which you originally assumed was her one and only tragic personality flaw until you eventually learned they’d been childhood best friends for almost twenty years. After that, it became easier to file her reactions away as a chronic, lifelong exasperation, the kind that slowly builds over decades until the only move left is to sigh and let the idiot sit down.

But did that idiot have to be Gojo? 

Ever since he entered your orbit that horrible day in March, you can’t seem to ignore his existence. You see those irritating thick-framed glasses around every corner on campus, his messy white hair sometimes tucked beneath the hood of his university jumper sometimes not, but always ruffled like he has just rolled out of bed. His laugh follows you around, a persistent soundtrack bleeding into every conversation you try to have with your actual friends. He’s always there, hands in pockets, bulky backpack slung over both shoulders, slippers padding lazily against the pavement like he’s just walked straight out of his apartment and into your line of sight. “Relax.” Shoko tells you one afternoon as you aggressively wiped down a table, the cafe quieter now the day was slipping into that evening quiet. “You won’t have to see him ever again now that the semester is over. You can unclench.” Her advice only makes you snort, giving the table one last swipe before straightening to look at her busied behind the counter. “Not true if you don’t stop inviting him to everything. What made you even think of bringing him with us to the club last Friday?” Your best friend opens her mouth as if to defend him and that alone is enough for you to gag. “Shoko, he showed up in a dress shirt. And a messenger bag. To the fucking club!” “Not too much on him, he was coming straight from night classes.” Like that helps his case. Like being top of the cohort, effortlessly breezing through the same exams that require endless all-nighters from you, isn’t enough to satiate his greedy appetite. Like the universe hasn’t already gift-wrapped him with endless talent, now he has to go above and beyond and take night classes too. “Yeah, well. You need to separate your personal life from your work life. Work-life balance.” “I don’t see how that makes sense,” Shoko retorts drily, speaking more to the sink than you as she washes up the last of the cups. “Clubbing and Gojo are both my personal life. If anything, you’re the one bringing him into our work life right now.” “You’re the one that said being his friend is a full-time job.” She sighs. “Minimal wage, too.” You weave through the tables and duck behind the counter, tossing the rag into a discarded pile for the night staff to deal with, and squeeze Shoko’s shoulders as you pass behind her in the cramped space. “Hey,” you start, voice sweet. “Let’s cut him off.” She shoves you off good-mannerly, pushing you again in the direction of the apron rack to help you with the knot. “Cut him some slack, won’t you? Or don’t. Just forget about him. Like I said, now that the semester is over, you won’t have any reason to see him ever again.” “That’s honestly up to you. Sure, I won’t see him in classes anymore but are you going to spontaneously invite him to lunch again? He’s not coming to our Saturday cheese tasting plans, is he? What about that aquarium we wanted to check out?” Her hands pause before she loosens the knot and turns so you can untie her apron in return. “I’ll tell him no to both.” “Oh, so he asked?” “You have no idea.” As if sensing the rant already bubbling up your throat, Shoko quickly hands you your phone from under the counter. “By the way, your phone’s been buzzing the entire shift. You’re not still talking to that guy, are you?”

You take it, dragging the screen down to scroll through missed notifications. “Who?” “The double texter.” There’s the typical ones you’d expect, some Outlook emails about irrelevant study tips, some random Twitter notifications from the many inactive accounts you’ve abandoned but never bothered logging out of, and miscellaneous app alerts you swipe away without reading. Buried beneath them though, is the familiar little red icon from that forum app you absolutely should have deleted months ago, a fresh reply sitting under the thread that’s been irritating you all week. Your mouth tightens and you swipe it away before you can be sucked away into the ragebait. “Y/N?” “Hm?” You look up, realising Shoko is still waiting for a response. “Oh, no. This is… a guy from Hinge.” The hesitation isn’t lost on her but she gives you grace and doesn’t press for the truth. “Right. Just be careful, alright? I don’t know what is going on in this city anymore but there’s been way too many incidents on the news about people going missing. You know it’s bad when all the news channels are all suddenly interviewing men in tight spandex suits.” You snort, tucking your phone away to finish clocking out of your shift. “‘Men’ like there’s multiple. You mean that one spider guy, right? His superhero name is uncreative as hell.” “He shoots webs from his wrists and climbs walls, what else would he call himself?” “Anything but the first thing a five year old could come up with. That’s like pointing to a man who can fly and calling him Flying Man.” Shoko locks the cafe doors behind, the metal click satisfying after a long shift. She gives the handle two firm tugs just to be sure because the city is a mess apparently, then steps back so she can flip the sign to CLOSED, the glass catching a smear of gold from the streetlights outside. “Superhero names are hardly creative these days.” “We’re losing the ancient texts.” By now, evening has settled in properly, the campus washed in that dusky blue-orange light that makes everything look prettier than it is. You stop to take a few photos of the sunset, then slip your phone away and breathe in the cool breeze as Shoko falls into step beside you, the two of you cutting across campus out toward the busier street. “What ancient texts? There’s literally someone called Superman because he’s super.” You roll your eyes. “That is so not helping your case.” “It is helping my case because it proves people like straightforward names. Also, it helps with making merch.” “How can you be so confident and be so wrong?” Shoko bumps your shoulder lightly as you walk, enough to make you sway half a step before you right yourself and return the gesture. Cars hiss past at the intersection ahead, headlights briefly washing over the footpath. Somewhere behind you, someone shouts a name across the road and is followed by a burst of noisy laughter. There’s a kind of peace at this twilight, a sense of calm that feels despairing. “Are you sure you don’t want a lift?” Shoko asks as you both slow to a step, effectively dragging you out of a potential spiral. “I can’t imagine the bus being your favourite form of transport.” You blink at her before shaking your head, reorganising your thoughts. “It’s fine. Besides, I know you have that thing with Utahime later.” “It’s not a thing. We’re just going to a jazz bar.” “Sure, okay. But just the two of you.” “We did invite you,” Shoko reminds you with an unimpressed look. “You’re the one that declined.” “I wasn’t going to third wheel again.”

“Utahime would kill you for saying that.” “I’d be more worried that she’d kill herself if she found out you’re not labelling it as a date.” Shoko kicks a loose rock on the pavement, avoiding your eyes. “That’s because it’s not a date. It’s a jazz bar outing.” “Jazz is like, inherently romantic. Haven’t you heard ‘Careless Whispers’?” “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day. ‘Careless Whispers’ is about a man cheating,” “Wait, are you serious?” You shake your head to dispel the song from playing in your mind, reining in the conversation before she can successfully deflect. “And I doubt that’s the dumbest thing I’ve said all day. I think I’ve had some better bangers.” “True, the dumbest thing that left your mouth was probably Gojo. You know, for someone who claims to hate him, you sure do talk about Gojo a lot. Don’t groan at me, I’m just saying.” “I’m complaining about him. That has to be different.” Shoko tilts her head, studying you up and down as she considers your words. She ends her evaluation with a hum. “I don’t know, people usually don’t spend that much time thinking about someone they actually don’t care about.” The implications are so frankly absurd the only thing you can do is wish her well. “I’m going to kill you.” She raises her hands in surrender, already backing away in the direction of the parking lot.“Anyway! There’s no reason to complain about him anymore. Live a little!” “Please,” you scoff. “Like I’d ever willingly think about Gojo ever again. You don’t need to tell me that.” She laughs softly, catching the words just before they disappear with the wind. You watch her back for a few seconds longer before blinking out of your thoughts. For some reason, the sound follows you all the way to the bus stop. Realistically, Shoko’s words have some truth to them. It is rather easy to forget all about Gojo and his crimes against humanity (you) when you don’t see him over the two-week break. Instead, you go to concerts with Utahime, visit art museums with Nanami and gossip and giggle over brunch with Shoko. There's a peaceful monotony as days blend into each other, until one morning when your alarm rings at an hour once familiar to you and you get up to start another semester. Checking your timetable one more time, you sigh at your misfortune. It was inevitable that your courses wouldn’t always align with the rest of your friends. In fact, it was a miracle that you even had classes with Shoko last semester considering she wasn’t even doing the same degree. You shouldn’t be too disappointed after all, when you posted a story asking if anyone else was taking this course, a few people you vaguely recognised had swiped up. They're mostly acquaintances, people you’ve met once from parties and events, but it’s miles better than being alone. You double-check the lecture hall number one last time outside the building, hoping the extra second will magically give you the cure to the brewing headache at your temples, before you finally push open the door. The buzz of conversation hits you immediately. Rows of students fill the lecture hall, voices overlapping as people reunite after the break, bags dropping onto chairs and laptops snapping open performatively. A few heads turn when you walk in, not unusual unfortunately, but you pretend not to notice, adjusting the strap of your tote as you scan the room. You spot some familiar faces sitting toward the back, relief loosening the tight knot in your chest as you begin to climb the steps. The smile on your face drops the moment your eyes drift—those traitorous things—to the front row.

Gojo slouches in his seat, the tiny fold-out table already pulled out in front of him, bag resting on top. He’s the only one sitting front row and centre, and considering how immersed he is with his phone, you doubt he has any plans to share the space with anyone else. He causally lifts his glasses with his finger in a way you thought perfectly suits his pretentious personality. His hood is thrown over his head, feet stretching out in front of him. One of his hoodie strings is kept between his lips as he absentmindedly chews at it, so relaxed, so casual, so oblivious to the world ending around you. You freeze. Someone tries to enter the hall and almost bumps into you, and it’s this near collision that finally jolts you into motion. Your instincts kick in and you hastily duck your head, climbing up the stairs where your friends are waiting. Nobara waves you closer, tucking her feet closer to her chest to let you into the row. “Hey, Y/N! It's been a while.” “Hey,” you say, hoping it comes off casual and not dripped in fear. “Yeah, I didn’t think you were doing this course too. What a coincidence. Hey, can you give me a second?" When you sink into your chair, you whip out your phone and frantically type away. you: no fucking way im going to kill myself shoko: ik u have some crazy attachment issues but u’ll get over it i promise utahime: aww i think its cute u miss us so much if not a little pathetic you: i dont give a gaf about that anymore u wouldnt believe who else is taking this course shoko: we’re not the fucking akinator guy y/n utahime: i could be if u gave me more hints guy or girl? are they a youtuber? you: it’s gojo utahime: wtf spoilers?? wait gojo oh my god LMAOO shoko: oh ure definitely gonna tweak Your eyes only tear away from Gojo when the lecturer enters the room and when the door closes behind him, you feel the sudden, irrational urge to bolt for the exit. Because was it just your imagination or was there a sense of finality to that door slam? Gojo was meant to be a nightmare for one semester, a pain in the ass for one chapter of your life and yet here he is, the back of his head just as infuriating as the front. “Welcome to neuropharmacology3211.” When the lecturer begins the lesson, you watch as Gojo barely sits up to listen. “I’ll pass along the attendance sheet now. Just for everyone’s sanity I need to let you know that these lectures aren’t compulsory, however we do encourage you to attend.” You panic. An attendance sheet. With your name on it. For all to see. You watch in despair as it begins its slow journey across your side of the lecture hall. Mournfully, you tick off your name with Nobara’s pen and pass the paper along, trying not to imagine the inevitable moment it reaches the front row.

Around and around it goes until it stops at the last person, the only person sitting in the front row on the left side of the hall. Gojo absentmindedly spins his pen, flipping the paper to the other side when he can’t find his name. He runs a finger down the list as the lecturer drones though you doubt either you or Gojo are actually paying attention. From this distance you can’t make out his subtle movements but at one point, he stops spinning his pen and looks up, glancing briefly around the room. You immediately duck down, finding something immensely interesting about your laptop. You don’t look up until Nobara elbows you gently and asks if you need any ibuprofen. You shake your head, daring to cautiously peek over the edge of your laptop. Gojo continues to face the front and you let out a small sigh of relief, straightening just enough to give off your best impression of someone who has been paying attention the entire time. It's the usual mandatory assessment outline, a rundown on everything that actually mattered in the course: midterms, finals, biweekly quizzes. You mindlessly add the dates to your calendar until the professor highlights the missing 20% of the final grade. “And finally, there is a pair presentation due in week 7.” Your eyes twitch and you cast your gaze back to the front. “The details of the assessment will be explained during this week’s lab so ask your questions then.” A group project. Even worse, in pairs. Your eyes slide instinctively toward Gojo and the dread in your stomach collapses in on itself, condensing into something dense and horrible. “Your pair and topic will be emailed to you later today.” The professor continues and when groans echo across the room, they only chuckle, undeterred. “Diversity is good for group work. Your colleagues won’t always be your friend.” You glance around the room. How many people were in this class? Many, so many. What are the chances you get paired with Gojo? Slim, at least you hope so. The moment the lecture ends, you shove your laptop into your bag, and flash Nobara an apologetic smile as you book it for the door. You keep your head down, both hands clutching your tote as it digs into your shoulder while you weave through the crowd spilling into the aisle. Freedom appears as a bright light before you, and you almost think you’re safe when— “No way.” Your pace stutters and against every instinct in your body screaming at you to keep walking, you freeze. “Y/N?” Someone knocks into your shoulder on the way out and before you can use the momentum to slip out with the rest of the crowd, a hand grabs your arm and pulls you to the side. You glare up at Gojo’s stupid face. He peers down at you, all ego and cocky exterior, like he’s discovered something entertaining. He sniffles, rubs his nose and pushes up his glasses all in one making you grimace at his apparent lack of hygiene. “God, why did it have to be you?” you grumble, more to yourself than him. You shake off his hold, pressing your arm to your side to prevent any further contact. “Don’t touch me.” “I knew I saw your name on the attendance sheet.” He smirks down at you, taking in the familiar sight of your frown. “Come on, smile a little. You’re making it look like I'm extorting you.” “Don't talk to me like we’re familiar, Gojo.” “Aren’t we?” “We aren't.” “We talk though.” “You talk, I try my best to ignore you.” “We have mutual friends.” He points out next as if this hasn’t been the sole reason for your pain and suffering. God bless Shoko’s kind, patient heart for putting up with him, but if you had to see his face at another outing you might decide to wrap your fingers around your neck and squeeze instead of staying.

“Unfortunately.” His lips only curl into that irritating and carefree smile, worse when you decide begrudgingly that it could also pass as charming. Any potential compliment dies immediately when he speaks again. “What crawled up your ass and died?” “Don’t talk about my ass.” “Come on, are you still being a sore loser over finals? You had two whole weeks to get over that.” That gets you. You exhale sharply, eyes narrowing dangerously as you lean forward to poke at his chest. “First of all,” you begin, “I am not being a sore loser over finals. The one making a big deal of things is you so if you’re trying to get my attention, there are far less tedious ways.” His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I'm trying to get your attention?” “Is there another reason why you won’t leave me alone, Gojo?” You sigh like it’s the most obvious thing. “Look, you’re not my type and that’s okay. Not everyone can be. But seriously, sticking to me like an annoying bug isn’t going to fix that. If anything, it worsens your chances, not that you had any to begin with.” He waits and when you only seethe, he prompts you, “And?” You blink, temporarily off guard. “That’s it.” “Then why did you start with‘first of all’?” Your eyes narrow. “It’s like talking to a genie with some of you people.” His grin is too easy, too casual as if you weren’t fighting for your life to restrain from murdering him, as if he isn’t standing between you and your only exit from this hell. “Hey, I just wanted to clarify,” he says, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender that only grinds your gears further. “No need to get so pissy. It’s not a good look on you.” You grit your teeth. “No defense for the allegations though, I see.” Gojo looks around with a hum, eyes doing a lazy sweep of the emptying lecture hall, hands lowering slightly. “You’d think after all this time, you’d finally get the hint.” He casts his gaze back to you expectantly, failing to elaborate on his cryptic message and you take a moment to think. There were many things he isn’t exactly subtle about: 

flaunting his academic prowess

how much he seems to thrive off your annoyance

You pick the second. “What, that you get off to a pretty woman telling you to kill yourself?”

He presses his lips together, as if giving it serious thought. Your face immediately twists into something that can only be described as a grimace, and he laughs.

“Do you usually spend a lot of time thinking about what gets me off?”

“Do you always have to ask me stupid questions?”

“Only because you always find a way to make the answers fun.”

“I'm telling you this now, Gojo. You’ve outgrown the age where teasing the girl you like works,” you shoot back with a snarl, unable to hide your frustration.

For a moment, something in his expression shifts.

Gojo’s eyes drop and you feel his gaze burn down your neck and drag from your top to your shoes. You can’t help but shiver at the intensity of his stare and maybe he notices because he scoffs, looking away. “That hurts my reputation. You’re not my type.”

Your eye twitches. “Bat for the other team, do you?”

“How egotistical. You think just because a guy doesn’t like you he must be gay?”

“Well, there’s definitely a higher likelihood."

“You must have tested that with a small sample size because that doesn’t sound statistically significant.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your weight to edge closer to the door. “Of course you can’t help but be a fucking nerd about everything."

“Whining doesn’t exactly help your side of the argument."

“No, but it might stop me from reaching over and punting your head in.”

Gojo whistles low, the noise sharper now that most students have left. “Are you purposefully testing me? I thought we established that I liked girls who keep me on my toes.”

You wrinkle your nose. “There’s a difference between keeping someone on their toes and wanting to throttle them.” “You better be careful because it's a thinner line than most for me.” “You are disgusting.” “That doesn’t explain why you keep talking to me, though.” “Like I have a choice. You’re the one who grabbed my arm. If I miss my bus because of you doing whatever this is with me, I will put you in the ground.” “You’re still here though.” You sigh, exasperated. “Because you’re standing in the fucking doorway, you idiot.” “Oh,” he says,  but makes absolutely no move to step aside. You inhale slowly through your nose, channeling a calm you most certainly do not feel. “Move.” “Say please.” Your smile turns dangerously sweet. “I said move.” “Still not hearing the magic word.” You give up, sensing you’ll only continue to lose. Before you can suck it up and brush past him, dreading even the brief contact of his shoulder against yours, he steps closer. His gaze flutters down for a moment, something foreign passing over his face as he clears his throat. It makes your heart seize at how unfamiliar he looks, though that fades quickly when his eyes snap back up, that irritating grin firmly in place. “Actually, I was thinking. Are you free this—” Before he can finish, a loud tune sounds from his pocket and he groans, abandoning his words to pull out his phone. The smile that had been on his face scrunches up, and he absentmindedly types a response with one hand before looking back up at you. “My bad. I was going say if you’re—” But in the few seconds his attention is elsewhere, you’ve already bolted. “Hey, wait!” His voice chases after you and you press on, echoing faintly against the tiled floors as you round the corner at a pace that’s just shy of running. “I’m going to count this as my win if you run away from me!” You jam your airpods into your ears with unnecessary force, scrolling blindly until music floods your head and drowns him out completely. If the world was going to convince you it wasn’t about to end, it better start looking up for you soon.

Unfortunately, the world really doesn’t give a shit about what you think because your karmic debt piles high. Shoko had abandoned you in your time of need, leaving you to tackle the shift alone. You close the cafe door behind you, turning the key so that the handle doesn’t rattle under your palm, and sniff when the cold air immediately bites at your face. Your scarf comes up instinctively, burying your nose and mouth as a harsh wind cuts through the street now that you’re no longer protected by the warmth of the cafe. What a long day. You clutch your scarf as it flutters wildly until the wind settles, the evening air growing still enough that it stops stinging your cheeks. Nothing particularly bad had even happened today. It wasn’t overly busy though it was far from quiet. You even managed to pass the long hours when some old friends showed up, though the conversation had only lasted as long as it took to make their coffee. But when it’s still or in the moments when you wait for a customer’s order, you feel something unpleasant settle in. The air feels too stale, time clicking by too slowly and the sensation of the ground moving beneath is unnerving. Your eyes refuse to move at times and you find yourself zoning out at nothing, hands moving in autopilot as you make drink after drink after drink, the repetition slowly pulling you apart one seam at a time. Your feet find their way to the bus stop and you breathe out slowly, mist curling into the cold evening air as you look up to watch it dissipate. How freeing would it be to be up there? The wind in your hair, biting cold against your nose and the tips of your ears, the rush of air in your lungs, and that terrifying exhilaration that comes from rising and falling and rising again. You imagine being weightless, being untouchable, being above it all and finally free. You shake that nonsense thought away. It’s just one of those bad days. The bus pulls up, blowing exhaust and humid air, and you’ve only just placed a foot onto the bus when a loud crash sounds to your left. You look over just as something flies past and slams into the bus stop, the metal denting under the immense weight. It’s not your finest moment but you duck, covering your head, and let out a scream as the loud noise deafens you. The bus drives off in the chaos, certainly breaking several traffic laws, and you curse the driver when you realise you’ve been abandoned.

Peeking an eye open as the dust settles, you lower your arms and come face to face with the heavy object that had slammed against the stand.

Slowly, you ask, “...Spiderman?”

The blue and white figure coughs, hitting his chest with his fist. “You called?”

Spiderman looks up and freezes. It might be your imagination but he looks even more winded when his eyes lock on yours. Actually, you’re certain it’s your imagination because his mask completely obscures his facial expressions, save for the slight widening of the white parts indicating his eyes.

You crawl forward a little. “Shit, you went down hard. Do you have a concussion?”

The superhero runs a battered hand down his face, stopping only when it slides down to cover his mouth,  and lets out a muffled groan. “You have got to be fucking kidding.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Before he can say anything else, a wet, splintering crack sounds from across the street.

You look over your shoulder as he tilts to look around you. A man staggers out of gate five beside the university-run pharmacy, though stagger might be too human a word for it. Something black and shining writhes over his body, swallowing him from the neck down like spilled tar, except tar doesn’t pulse. It stretches over his arms in twitching strands and thickens into jagged unnatural muscle, back hunching with a sickening pop as he lurches forward.

You rub your eyes and stare again. “I know the feeling,” Spiderman says, pushing himself upright with a wince. “That’s my exact review too.” The thing’s head jerks in your direction. Spiderman notices before you do, wringing out his hands and doing some jumping jacks on the spot. “And that’s my cue to ask you very calmly to start running.” When the thing charges at you, there’s no time to pretend to be composed. You let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek and fling yourself backward as the thing barrels forward. A web shoots from behind you and lands on the bus stop-frame, yanking Spiderman into its path just in time to take the hit instead. He gets absolutely bodied. “Jesus Christ,” you blurt as he falls back further down the road. Spiderman slings to grab onto a nearby, and luckily deserted car, and slams it into the side of the villain, picking himself up in the few seconds he has to breathe when the figure crashes into a nearby building. “I know,” he wheezes, dusting off his suit. “Everyone says that when they see me. I’m basically the second coming of that guy.” “Are you okay? Do you need… backup?” You look around at the site. Cars have started swerving and backing away to avoid the scene and bystanders are ducked somewhere safe. You alone remain inside the heavily damaged bus stop a few metres from where the figure is now pulling itself onto his feet. Realistically, you should do the smart thing and hide, too. But one feeble attempt to get on your feet tells you what you already know; that you’ve managed to fuck up your ankle in your panic. Spiderman has his hands thrown up. “Why are you not running? I told you to run.” “Why are you losing?” “I’m not losing,” he snaps, affronted. “Are you always this difficult? Listen to the city’s superhero and get out of here.” “If this is my superhero, then I’m already cooked.” The creature roars and charges again, much alike a bull seeing red and you’re the unfortunate sole on the ground in its path. Spiderman seems to have enough sense to conclude there’s something wrong with your body and not your head as he swears, shooting two webs in quick succession, one to a traffic light pole and the other to the creature’s arm, trying to stabilise himself to swing the heavy villain sideways. It works for maybe half a second before the pole lifts off the ground and Spiderman sighs before being the one flung away. You watch as Spiderman hits the ground hard, again. Thankfully, it’s enough distraction for the figure to leave you alone but you can only grimace especially when he picks himself up. Spiderman pushes up on one knee, clearly trying to buy time, and calls, “Hey, big guy, quick question before you maul me. Is this like, a skincare thing? Because I think whatever routine you’re on is clogging your pores. There’s a pharmacy right over there. Want me to get you some pimple patches?”

The figure ignores his provocation by charging forward again and it’s you that looks back over your shoulder at the pharmacy. Frankly put, your trust in the masked vigilante is at an all time low and if there’s any chance of living beyond this encounter, you need to do something. Despite the throbbing pain in your ankle, you pull yourself up against the dented wall of the bus stop and edge closer to the campus. Then, you break into a valiant attempt at a sprint. “That’s it, get out of here!” he calls out after you. You grit your teeth both from the pain and general annoyance. “I’m not running!” “What the hell are you doing then?” “Something useful, unlike you!” Spiderman finally looks up from wrangling with the figure. “Huh?” You manage to limp to the pharmacy and wrench its fire extinguisher free from its bracket, using more effort than expected especially as you’re already winded and nearly fumble with the weight of it. You spin back around just as the creature grabs Spiderman by the throat and slams him into the side of the bus stop again. You hobble back to the scene with a sympathetic wince. My God, the thing is already gone, leave it alone. The figure looms over the fallen superhero, the goo oozing off solidifying into a slimy tendril that sharpens. It slides along Spiderman’s jaw and tilts his head up, cutting right through the fabric of his mask before stopping at his throat. The figure opens its mouth as if to say something but is cut off when you yank the pin with shaking hands. For a moment, nothing happens and you’re all about ready to apologise and excuse yourself from the scene when the extinguisher goes off in a violent burst of white foam that manages to encapsulate the figure despite the distance.

The black mass recoils with a horrible screech, the sound sharp and inhuman, like nails scratching against metal. It peels back in frantic, rippling waves, twitching and writhing away from the spray. The man underneath the goo drops to one knee, gasping as his eyes roll back down from the back of his head, and shudders before collapsing on the ground. What remains of the gunk ripples along the pavement before slithering down a gutter and leaving nothing behind, almost as if nothing had ever happened. If not for the battered bus stop and the hole in the wall. You lower the extinguisher slowly, breathless. “Maybe I should give this superhero thing a shot.” “Nah, I don’t think you have the guts for it.” Before you can even turn properly to defend your case, strong arms hook around you and the ground disappears. The sound that leaves you is less scream and more pure, humiliated terror as gravity tilts sideways. You catch a flash of white, the sharp snap of a web latching somewhere high above, and then he’s hauling you up with it, body lifting clean off the pavement. “Wait—” The city drops out beneath you in dizzying blurs of orange streetlights and rooftops, your stomach left somewhere back by the ruined bus stop. Spiderman carries you like you weigh nothing, one arm locked securely around your waist whilst the other shoots webs with impossible precision, each swing smooth despite the fact that he had been getting his ass kicked mere seconds ago. Wind tears at your scarf and shoves tears from your eyes. You clutch at him with both hands “Hold on, we need to go back and help that guy!” “I’m a superhero, not a paramedic!” Spiderman calls back, voice steady despite the speed. “He’ll be fine, help is already on the way. But there’s an unconscious guy on the ground, a destroyed bus stop, at least six insurance claims, and I’m pretty sure your bus abandoned you ages ago. You cannot stay there.” “And that’s the reason why I’m up here?” “Superhero, my ass,” he might have said but your attention is pulled in far too many directions to be sure. You make the fatal mistake of looking down. The road below is a smear of headlights and moving colour, terrifyingly far away. “Oh my God,” you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut again. “This is how I die. I’m going to become roadkill. I’m going to go splat.” “That is so hurtful after I literally just rescued you.” “I would still be grateful if you had left it there.”

His laugh is snatched by the wind, warm and infuriating and entirely too amused for someone who had looked so pathetic sprawled out on the ground. He adjusts his grip slightly when your fingers knot tighter in the front of his suit, and if he notices how hard you’re shaking, he has the decency to not make anymore comments, swinging you both up in a smooth arc. “Okay,” he relents. “Deep breaths, I’m not actually going to drop you.” You give your most valiant attempt of a snort. “Telling me to breathe deeply as I’m not already trying.” “Would you prefer shallow, panicked ones then?” “I would prefer to be on the ground!” “Your wish is my command.” After another swing and a sharp turn that nearly rips your soul from your body, Spiderman descends toward the quieter edge of campus and lands in a narrow pedestrian lane beside the university security office. It’s bright here, washed in fluorescent light, and close enough to the main road that you can already hear the traffic and voices navigating the post-chaos.

The second your shoes touch concrete, your knees threaten to fold. You grab his arm on instinct, digging your fingers in as you glance at him. “You do that every day?” You can almost hear the smugness in his voice, and something else. “It’s basically my 9-5.” It’s most definitely just your imagination but you feel as though his gaze softens, looking at you trembling like a newborn bird. He watches as you regain sensation in your legs though your hand remains on his arm. He doesn’t make any move to remove it. A baffled laugh escapes you, more air than sound. “I can’t believe I’m still alive.” “Do you need to sit down?” You shake your head softly. “I’m fine… thank you for saving me, Spiderman.” “I should be thanking you. I was getting my ass kicked out there.” “I know, I saw.” He tilts his head. “I thought you were thankful?” “Both those things can be true at the same time.” Then, you go on your tippy toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “But I’m definitely very thankful.” 

You feel the superhero stiffen under your touch and the white fabric of his mask widens before he jerks slightly backward, free hand flying up to hover over where you kissed. “Did you just—” There’s something about the tone of his voice, pitched higher now in surprise, that has you blinking. “You sound…” If you weren’t sure about his tension before, he most definitely freezes now, his hand pulling back down to rest over your hand on his arm and pull it off. “Oh, uh—you should head back, injured and stupid civilian. I know the people in the office. They should be able to get you home.” “No wait, hold on.” You narrow your eyes, taking a step forward that he immediately responds to by stepping back. “Do I know you?” He points at himself, backing away slowly. “Me? You might have seen me on the news or seen one of my promotional posters.” “No, because you were weird the second you saw me.” “I was bleeding out and on the verge of death,” he says. “Let’s not pathologise me.” “You looked right at me and said something like, ‘you have got to be fucking kidding’.”

He tilts his head and takes another step back. “Did I say that? Hm, no, not ringing any bells. Your ankle is injured, maybe stop walking towards me. You’re freaking me out and I don’t do well with girls.” You open your mouth to say more when he suddenly points at something over your shoulder. “Oh shit, is that a bird? A plane?” You turn instinctively. There is no one there, of course, but it’s a realisation seconds too late. Because by the time you whip back around, he’s already two steps away, web fired high above, body coiled to launch. “Oh, you asshole—” “Get home safe!” he calls, voice cheerful in a way that irks you. “Wait—” He shoots upward before the word can properly leave your mouth. You hobble forward, outrage momentarily stronger than the pain in your ankle. “You can’t just dump me here and leave!” you yell after him. “I’m literally injured! Jerk!” “Ma’am, can we help you?” You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart.

You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart. It’s only when the sun has lowered into a splash of pink and orange in the sky that you finish tolerating the endless questioning from both the security office staff and the police. Thankfully, they’re kind enough to drive you back to your apartment though you’re slightly annoyed the rest of the day had been wasted on telling them ‘I don’t know’ over and over again. The moment you step back into your room, your phone buzzes with multiple notifications. There’s an Outlook email from your neuropharmacology course and three texts from an unknown number. unknown: looks like you lucked out and we’re partners it’s gojo btw lets meet tomorrow @ uni library And because you genuinely cannot feel even worse than you already do, you turn your face to bury into your pillow and groan. 

You don’t end up confirming Gojo’s plans until halfway through your morning tutorial the next day when he double texts.

DO NOT ANSWER: ? don’t leave me on read you can hate me all u want but the project is worth 20% yk!!!!!!

you: ok time?

DO NOT ANSWER: ohhh so now u respond huh id hate to think im forgettable

you: time

DO NOT ANSWER: (╥﹏╥) i’ll get on campus at 12 ish so like in ten minutes

you: done

DO NOT ANSWER:  >⩊<

You push the thought that as a grown man, he really shouldn’t be texting like that away, and flip your phone back down on the table just as the class ends.

“Want to check out this new bingsu place near the station?” Utahime chatters as she shoves her iPad into her tote and picks up her coffee, watching you follow behind albeit slower with dread. “They have this new Thai tea bingsu and it looks crazy good. Shoko swears by it but—and you can’t tell her I said this—it’s crazy that she went out for lunch without us. Does she not fuck with us anymore? Who did she even go with?”

You smile wistfully at her. “I wish I could, Utahime, but I already have plans after this.”

“What the fuck, et tu?” She processes your words with a frown. “Did you take on a shift today? I thought you only had this one class today.”

“No, it’s even worse. I need to lock in for my neuropharmacology assessment.”

She pauses, cup halfway to her mouth before her lips split into a wide grin. “Oh my God. With Gojo?”

You groan, zipping your bag with more force than necessary. You sling it over your shoulder and try to hurry away from her, but it’s too late and she follows quickly after.

“Don’t remind me.”

“You’re choosing to hang out with Gojo over me?” Her voice peaks at the end, and you hate how happy she looks at the thought of you ditching her.

“This isn’t a choice I want to make at all so don’t say it like that. And don’t look so happy, freak.”

“Oh, this is rich. You were bitching about him all of last semester and now you’re choosing him over me?” Utahime giggles, pulling out her phone with her free hand. “Shoko is going to love this.”

You raise an eyebrow, catching the opening. “I thought you were mad at her for getting lunch without you? You’re so fickle.”

She hums absentmindedly, already outing your situation to the group chat, no doubt. “Our friendship runs deeper than one betrayal.”

You grin as you approach the library stairs, looking back over your shoulder. “Friendship, huh?”

She whips her head up at you, eyes flickering down to her cup where the red words written across the side spells out a cute reminder to have a good day. A flush creeps up her face. “What? Don’t say that like it’s something to point out! We are friends!”

“I didn’t even say anything!” “You’re giving me that look again. I’m not a blind masochist, Y/N. I can tell when you have something to say, and I’m not taking it lying down.” “You’re just lucky I haven’t said a word to Shoko yet.” Utahime grumbles, crossing her arms. “If you do, I’ll kill myself.” You laugh, glad to get the last word. “I’ll see you later, Utahime. Go say hi to Shoko for me!” “I will see Shoko, but only to tell her that.” “Sure,” you say, and enter the building. The library is busy, bustling with students as they lean over textbooks and clack away at their laptops. It’s not quite midterm season yet, so the fact that the library is so full should be concerning. With so many heads bent down, there is little chance you’ll find Gojo. You swallow your pride and pull out your phone. you: i’m here where are you? DO NOT ANSWER: not her eyet wa it wait smth came up You frown. He’s the one who set the time and has the audacity to be late? Typical for someone as inconsiderate as him, you decide, and choose a table near the back of the library just so he can struggle to find you when he finally arrives. You take out your laptop and start a new document, opening the tab for the marking rubric, the assessment notification, and some articles you found doing a quick search on PubMed. You even get around to dot-pointing one of them when someone dumps their bag on the table next to you. You jump. “Fuck.” “Did I scare you?” The voice alone is enough to make you freeze though you quickly snap out of it to glare up at the culprit. Gojo stands beside you, panting slightly, running a hand through his messy hair like it’ll fix his disheveled appearance. The buttons of his shirt are mismatched and one side of his collar is tucked inward. “Hey,” he greets with a lopsided smile. “How are you late when you’re the one who said to meet at twelve?” Gojo shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal and flops into the seat next to you. You had intended for him to sit across the table but you didn’t have the time to slip the words into the conversation before he starts talking. “Didn’t I tell you? I had something to do. Did you read my texts with your eyes closed or something?” “If you think I could have deciphered that from what you said, then you’re dumber than I thought. Did you run into an electric fence or something?” He smiles at you like your words had been an inside joke. “I told you after that part.” “Do you ever take anything seriously? This is worth twenty percent of our grade. You can’t just mess around and expect to still do well.” “Can’t I? It’s always worked before.” And because you don’t doubt that, it only serves to piss you off even more. He catches onto your scowl, smirk widening.

“Relax, you’ll pop a blood vessel. We still have weeks to get this done so who cares?” You roll your eyes and force yourself to be satisfied with just that, turning back to to your laptop in an effort to calm down. “Me, obviously. Look, I’m only staying on campus until two, so let’s just get this done quickly so we can both leave. I’m sure you don’t want to be here either so let’s just be adults and get this over and done with.” You take a deep breath and prepare yourself to look back at him and point out what you’ve already planned on the document but stop short when you find him already watching you. You grimace and edge away slightly. “What?” “Nothing.” He shifts to pull out his laptop and then a wired mouse. You eye the chunky device with disbelief, wondering if perhaps his bag is bigger on the inside than the outside and then at its corded pet. It’s only when he pulls out yet another accessory, a mouse pad, that you blurt, “Do you seriously carry a whole gaming laptop setup with you every day for class?” Gojo holds down the power button for a couple of seconds, the fans whirring to life and filling the library with insistent static. “Yeah, I love this thing. It can handle all my programs and I can play League on it too so what’s not to like? It can run Sims 4 and all my CC’s without any lag, it’s literally my baby.  It’s only right that I give it everything it needs in return.” You scrunch your nose. “You play into the stereotype way too much.” “What stereotype?” “What else? The nerd stereotype.” He huffs, apparently offended. “I’m not a nerd.” “Aren’t you?” You eye him up and down. “You tick off all the boxes. The glasses, the smartass attitude, the gaming laptop—” “You wear glasses.” He starts listing, holding out his hand to count. “I wear contacts.” “But you wear your glasses in the morning. For morning tutorials and lectures and stuff,” he continues, undeterred. “You carry yourself like you’re better than everyone else—” “I do not—” “Though you’re probably too broke to buy a gaming laptop so I guess it’s better to be a nerd than whatever you are.” He finishes with a smug grin that makes you want to curl your fingers into a fist and throw that right into his pretty face. “I don’t carry myself like I’m better than anyone,” you decide to clear up.

He makes an unconvinced sound. “You do.” “I don’t.” You press your lips together and sigh, breaking the eye contact though not without effort. “Stop trying to waste my time.” “You found me out. “Through the whirring of his laptop, you can make out his slight chuckle. He leans onto the table with his elbows, voice almost a childish whine. “Let’s talk. Why do you hate me so much?” Your fingers stutter on your keyboard. Sucking in a deep breath, you turn your head and face him on. “”I don’t hate you. Obviously. “Obviously,” he repeats, the curl of his lips an obvious indicator that he doesn’t believe you. “But you’re always frowning when we talk.” “We don’t talk,” you emphasise again and against your attempt at nonchalance, your brows pinch together. “And I don’t hate you.” “Right? I haven’t even done anything to you.” Your eye twitches at that. You rein it in, rein in that explosive feeling in your chest as if another word from his mouth will send you spiralling. You know it will, as inevitable as the crash-out you’ll be having to Shoko later at the cafe. “Gojo,” you start calmly. “We have four weeks to do this assessment and frankly, I still have a life to live outside this so let’s just get this over and done with, okay?” He looks at you a little longer and you would have asked what exactly he was searching for on your face, but something tells you that opening this can of worms will only confuse you more so you only stare back. “Alright,” he says finally. “Add me to the document.” You hit share and tilt your laptop towards him, watching as his long fingers dwarf your keyboard. He slides it back over and you nod, satisfied. “I already looked at some sources so you can just start off one of those.” Gojo glances back at his gaming laptop, clicking on the document. You watch as a new anonymous user hops onto the page: Anonymous Snow Leopard. He’s already typing away and when you click on the animal to find his cursor, he’s finishing off a second sentence notably not under one of those articles you had found. You frown as you read. “Hold on.” He sighs, fingers pausing. “What now?” You point to your screen at where he’s stopped typing. “You can’t just say things like this without a source.” “I’ll cite it later.” “That’s now how you research. You’re meant to find an article first and then write your own interpretation afterwards based on it.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Potato, potahto.” “Okay, no. We are not doing this.” “See, this is where your pretentiousness kicks in.” “What, because I know how to research properly?” “Because you’re trying to control every little thing.”

“I’m not being controlling, This counts to my grade too so I have a say.” “And where’s my say?” “You’re thinking too far, maybe focus on actually saying something useful first.” “See? Pretentious.” “Pot calling the kettle black.” “So you admit it?” “Maybe, do you?” He leans in, sneering. “I’ve gotten top marks doing it my way and I’m not going to change it now just because you have some inferiority complex over me.” You flush, leaning back. “Well, I’ve gotten high marks doing it my way! And I don’t have an inferiority complex, much less to you.” “Then you can use your method and I’ll use mine. We don’t have to collaborate any more than we need to.” You hate to admit that he might be right. Outwardly however, you grit your teeth and summon an inner peace. “Gojo. Find an article before you start talking out of your ass.” He groans as if deeply inconvenienced and though the sound makes you tense as if he might spit out another remark, he only turns back to his laptop and clicks open a new tab with exaggeration. “Fine, fine. Geez. You’re really annoying, you know that?” he grumbles, slouching in his seat. You’re about to drop another snarky response when something on his screen catches your eye, a tab peeking out in a red tab folder titled self indulgent. You lean forward slightly, catching the title when his cursor flicks by. It seems like an impossible task to read the words in the split second when the pop-up shows, if you hadn’t been stunlocked on that tab yourself earlier that week. hoping there’s a modification of kumamon’s line, r/digimon. “Wait,” you blurt, placing your hand on his arm. He freezes under your touch, though you pay no attention to the sensation. “What?” “Was that a Digimon Reddit thread?” Gojo doesn’t say anything for a while, and you have to look over at him to check if he was paying attention. His shoulders seem visibly tense, eyes flickering to the tab and then over at you. “…No?” You don’t wait for permission, sliding your own laptop to the side to take a hold of his. He makes a brief noise of protest, hands coming up as if to stop you, but they pause right before touching. The hesitation gives you the chance to click on the tab. The screen that loads confirms your suspicions. Your eyes widen, taking in the familiar Digimon forum, open to the exact post you’ve spent the last week arguing in the comments. “You’re in the Digimon subreddit?” “Don’t do this. You already give me enough shit about carrying a gaming laptop. Don’t ruin this nostalgia for me,” he mutters, looking away, and you finally realise that his tense shoulders might be because he’s bracing for an impact that isn’t coming. You find yourself, somewhat absently, marvelling at the sudden quietness of him. Maybe this is what people see when they talk about Gojo like he’s the second coming of Jesus.

You laugh in disbelief. He only stiffens more until you exclaim, “Gojoverrated?” “Look, I made that username when I was twelve and it just stuck, alright? I’m sure your usernames at twelve were much worse—” “So it was you that wrote that stupid rant about Kumamon’s evolution! It was like, a thousand words!” Gojo whips around to face you immediately. His eyes take you in, sweeping up and down your appearance as if trying to associate you with your words. “You pronounced Kumamon right. You know about the post? You read it?” “Are you questioning my reading comprehension skills now?” “No, I—” he stutters, actually tripping over his words in front of you which only makes your smile widen. He clears his throat and tries again. “I just meant—you read this?” “Read it? I responded to it, smartass.” There’s a long pause, and you wait for recognition to dawn. He straightens slowly, eyes opening wide. “There’s no way. You’re not—” You beam. “I’m Digimonlvr3000!”“Surprise aside, you should not be saying that username with so much pride.” But then he stares at you like the ground beneath him has just fallen through. “But shut up, there’s no fucking way.”

“You seriously hate the transition from Grizzmon to GrapLeomon?” you start, elbows resting on the table as you lean in. The same banter falls from your lips, but you refuse to acknowledge how it lacks venom.

“You can’t just go from a bear cub to a bear, and then to some mechanical lion-man, and then a unicorn-panther-headed half-nude dude.” He blinks at you even as he talks, eyes still wide as he struggles to comprehend saying these words to someone other than Suguru, considering his best friend is the only person who would at least pretend to listen.

“I mean, this is Digimon, not Pokémon. You know, digital monsters? They’re allowed to be crazy.”

“Yeah? Well, I want bears.”

“Then Pokémon might be the franchise for you.”

Gojo flinches like you’ve insulted him personally, more than any of your actually hurtful insults have ever managed to make him flinch. “Don’t even joke, Y/N. It’s not a crime to like coherent evolution lines.”

You shrug. “The randomness makes it fun. It’s Digimon’s whole brand.”

“And yet, the most iconic Digimon evolution lines come from coherent ones. You know, ones that make sense and have a consistent visual theme from Rookie to Mega. There is nothing that ties Grizzmon to GrapLeomon.” His lips quiver as he talks, eyes still wide, shock lingering. He can’t help letting his gaze sweep over you again and again. He thinks then that maybe the person who said never to judge a book by its cover had actually been onto something.

You raise a finger, drawing him out of his daze. “Um, actually, there is, though. The whole theme of grappling and fist-fighting? Does that ring a bell?” “That’s the same argument you used in your comments.” “The same comment you have yet to respond to.” You pause, thinking. “Just like right now, actually.” “Yeah?” he starts, and you know you’ve got him again. He presses on regardless. “Well, you’re the one who made that post about disliking Rhinokabuterimon more than Daipenmon.” “And I stand by that.” “Oh my god,” he says slowly, taking you in. “You’re worse in person.” “Your Kumamon rant got locked by a mod,” you remind him. “Somehow that makes sense. You’re as annoying online as you are in person.” “It was locked for too many off-topic replies, which is partially your fault.” “I wasn’t going to let you have the last word.” “Last word, huh. Great segue to—” “No, don’t bring that up, stop—” “—to your Digimon fanfiction account that you have linked in your bio.” You groan, long and low, covering your face with your hands. Warmth creeps up your neck, burning against your cheeks when you hear him laugh at your expense. You try to gather your dignity, peeking between your fingers to accuse him as you say, “How would you know? Did you read them?” “Of course I did,” he says without shame, and any thought of turning the tables back on him dissipates. He watches you suffer from embarrassment for only a second longer before resting his chin on his palm, leaning away as if to act casual. “So. Do you play the TCG?” he asks, despite the fact that he knows he’s seen your username floating around in the Digimon TCG subreddit. You pull your hands away with a start. “Do I play? Is the sky blue?” Gojo’s lips quiver upward. “Duel me.” “Okay,” you say quickly, too quickly, and you clear your throat in an effort to reset yourself. He doesn’t seem to notice, already digging through his bag for something. “Oh, you meant right now.” He pauses, looking up. “Yeah. Do you not have your deck?” “I don’t carry it on me, no.” For some reason, the thought that he does brings a small smile to your face. He visibly deflates, and a thought tries to enter your mind, though you’re not quite there just yet. Instead, you laugh softly. “Next time then,” you say, enjoying the way his smile returns to his face. “What colour do you play, anyway?” “Purple, obviously.” You roll your eyes. “Of course you’re a purple player. You saw the post about how purple wins just about every big event in EX7, didn’t you? Let me guess. Leviamon?” “Actually, I play DexDorugoramon. You?” You hum as if that makes complete sense. “I play yellow. Not for any particular reason, I just like the Digimon in the decks.” “Yellow, huh? So you’re a feelscrafter.” He bites back a goofy smile, but it shows.

“Don’t say that word like it’s a slur.” “Do you even play the meta?” You scoff. “Of course I do. But playing good isn’t even fun anymore.” Gojo laughs, and from behind him, you catch a few students looking over with narrowed eyes. He pays them no mind, leaning in. “See? Pretentious.” You lean forward too, reply on the ready, the only thing missing is the exact wording you want to use to shoot him down, when his phone goes off. Is this the second time now? Just how popular is this guy? His gaze falters before he pulls back to wrestle his phone out of his pocket. You’re left facing him, and you draw back too, clearing your throat as you turn to your laptop. What the fuck was that? Your fingers type gibberish into the document, then drag your finger across your trackpad to erase it only to type another string of incoherent letters and symbols. Your mind races through the conversation, noting the genuine joy in your voice, the amusement when Gojo responded just as enthusiastically. There’s a warmth in your stomach that’s hard to get rid of. What the fuck. You’re not eavesdropping. That’s simply not what you’re doing. Though it isn’t your fault if you happen to hear Gojo as he talks into his phone, his voice low out of respect for the library but not so low that you can’t make out the conversation. “Alright, yeah, I got it. I’m not, so don’t even start. God, shut the fuck up, Suguru. I’ll be over, give me ten minutes. Ten minutes. Yeah, probably, but you’re pissing me off, so I’ll be there in ten. I’m already doing you a favour, man, so quit it before I change my mind.” You catch him rolling his eyes, his freakishly long eyelashes lifting and falling. “You owe me.” Gojo hangs up and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, sorry about that. I have to go.” You look up at him with a start. “Go? You just got here! We’ve only been working for…” You glance down at the bottom right of your laptop screen. “An hour and a half?” He grins, though it’s small. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” “Neuropharmacology is hardly fun.” “No, but the company is,” he says, unplugging his mouse and rolling up his mouse pad. As he stuffs his enormous gaming laptop into whatever space remains in his bag, he continues, “I’ll text you when I’m free next.” “We hardly got anything done today,” you find yourself saying. “No thanks to your distraction.” “Mine? You continued it. If you really cared, you would have told me to shut up.” “As if you ever listen.” It’s far too easy to fall into a rhythm with him, you think begrudgingly. He’s grinning lazily, lifting his glasses with his knuckle and otherwise unmoving beside your table. You huff, turning back to your laptop. This feeling, at least, is familiar and comforting. “Whatever, Gojo. I’ll do my part as long as you do yours.” He watches you for a second longer before taking a step back. “I’ll text you.” You give him a half-hearted wave. Only when you’re positive enough time has elapsed for him to have cleared the building and maybe half the courtyard do you exhale, slumping in your chair. Your eyes flick to the library doors. No sign of white hair. You tell yourself you’re pissed, that that’s what is currently sitting in your chest and the reason for your sudden restlessness. I mean, really, who arrives late to a meeting they scheduled and then leaves early?

It’s a Friday afternoon, and he has you losing your mind over reports and Digimon, of all things. You should be at a bar. Or at home, in pajamas, catching up on backlog episodes of that new trash reality TV you’ve been binging, or having that bingsu Utahime mentioned earlier. What you should not find yourself doing is thinking about Gojo and how pretty his genuine smile is, especially when it’s directed at you. You scoff at your screen, type out a line, and then delete it. What a joke.

academic freak: jumping on !! let me know if u can work on our project now :3 you: sorry I'm out rn i can hop on at eight tonight though if you’re still free then? academic freak: no worries let’s do a video call then >< (6:43pm) You stare at his last text, have been staring at his last text ever since you left your friends, hovering your thumb over the screen, unsure. And now it was almost eight pm and you were still staring. It's not like this is the first time you’ve ever video called someone, and it’s not like he matters, but something akin to nervousness settles in your stomach. He's just your annoyingly good-looking, annoyingly smart project partner. Shoko’s childhood best friend. The guy that embarrassed you last semester. Nothing more. Still, you keep blinking at the message, at the double exclamation marks and all his stupid emoticons. academic freak: can i call u now? You flinch when the typing bubble pops up but you fail to swipe out before the message is sent, and the read receipt lights up immediately. academic freak: ? waiting for me? You groan aloud, running a hand down your face. There’s no dignified way out of this, so with a sigh, you hit call. The screen rings once, twice, and you suddenly jump up, nerves—or whatever the hell you want to call it—causing you to sweat. You should change, brush your hair maybe, fuck, you took out your contacts already. One time in third grade, someone said you looked different with glasses compared to without. What did that mean? Was the difference that extreme? Why couldn’t you see it? Would Gojo be able to tell? Before you can answer any of those questions, your phone flickers to life. “Hey,” Gojo says, grinning as his camera turns on. He’s a little too close at first, but after seeing your surprised face, he leans back and settles into view. His hair is slightly tousled, glasses perched low on his nose, the logo of the university peeking just into view on his jumper. “Hi.” You clear your throat, adjusting your phone so it sits upright on your table. “I wasn’t waiting for your text, by the way. You just messaged me just as I was about to message you. That’s all.” He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face. Thankfully, he doesn’t push. “Sorry for ditching you earlier, but I’m here now.” You nod, opening your laptop on the table. As it hums to life, your eyes flick back over to your phone and trace what you can see inside his room. He has a lamp on, warm light washing over his face as he leans back into view, a lollipop in his hand, and there’s an assortment of plushies on his bed behind him. You narrow your eyes. “Is that Agumon?”

Gojo glances back, then shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He guards my bed.” You stifle a laugh. “Still getting nightmares at your big age?” “Don’t tell me you’re too cool for plushies.” He rolls his eyes, though his face quickly splits into a grin when you pull out your own plushie, placing it comfortably on your lap, its head peeking into frame. “There we go. That’s more like it.” His praise does things to you that you don’t dare put into words. You squeeze your plushie tight. You busy yourself with opening the document, taking extra long to fiddle around with opening and closing random tabs. It’s hard to focus on one thing, you see, not when Gojo is staring at you unabashedly, cheek smushed against his hand like he has nowhere else to be. You don’t look up right away, clicking through your email, Spotify, the university site, waiting for him to get bored and finally free you from his gaze, but he doesn’t. Clearing your throat, you finally drag your gaze up to his face. “We should—” you start, but cut yourself off. “What?” “Hm?” He blinks when your eyes meet. “Why’re you staring at me like that?” Gojo lets the silence drag on for a little longer until he chuckles, dropping his head to look down at his own laptop screen. “Who said I was looking at you?” You arch a brow, glancing over your shoulder, then around your room. “Is there someone else in the room with me now?” “Ask that question again when we have a Ouija board.” He types something, and you watch the words pop up on your screen. “I was just thinking how different you are when you’re not on campus. You’re quieter, for one. Less teeth-baring.” “If you want me to insult you, you only have to ask.” He grins, eyes lazy with amusement. “See? Even that lacks any bite.” “Says you. I’m surprised you haven’t made a comment on my glasses or something,” you say, unwilling to be outdone. “And what, your messy desk?” You shove your textbooks out of frame. “I knew it.” He shrugs offhandedly, returning his attention to his laptop. You follow his lead, blinking in surprise when he doesn’t continue with another snarky comment. It’s silent again for a while. “It suits you. You look nice with your hair tied back.” Your hands fly to the back of your head and close around your claw clip, mouth hanging open as you stare at him. Gojo keeps typing like he didn’t just casually compliment you, as if he hadn’t just thrown a curveball into your carefully built defences. You swallow hard, blinking as heat creeps into your cheeks. “I… you look nice too?” You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth, though you can’t completely regret them, because they’re what finally cause him to look up at you, his hands frozen over his keyboard. Then he’s laughing, and you take back that last thought just as quickly.

“Alright, alright, let’s just work on our project,” you mumble, ducking your head. He’s still laughing, and you grit your teeth with effort. “If you keep laughing, I’m going to hang up on you.” Gojo’s laughter lingers, soft and amused, as he savours the heat on your face for a second longer before nodding. “I’ll stop, I swear.” His fingers return to the keyboard, but you catch the flicker of something like warmth—or maybe surprise—in his eyes before he lowers his head too. You take a breath and refocus on your document, with only the sounds of shuffling and keys clacking disturbing the space between the two of you. Every now and then, he asks a question about a point you’ve made, or corrects something you’ve written. His criticisms lack any heat, and you find yourself accepting his words without the usual spike in blood pressure. Every now and then, his attention slips and he starts scrolling on Twitter in another tab, his snickering making you lift your head. Gojo immediately catches the movement and flips his laptop around to show you, letting you share a laugh with him. He tells you about the Discord server he runs for hosting Digimon TCG games. You listen, asking for an invite when his voice quietens near the end, and the smile he beams at you makes your stomach flip. You tell him about your hobbies, how you’ve had to let go of piano because of your academic pursuits. He tells you he wants to hear a piece, your favourite piece to play, and you think for a moment that you might want to pick it up again. At one point, light floods across the screen and you watch as he grumbles, lifting an arm to block the sudden brightness. A voice sounds through your phone speaker distantly, and you recognise it as Geto. You hadn’t realised they were roommates. “You free tonight, Satoru? Haibara’s having a get-together in a few hours. He asked me if you wanted to come along since you ditched halfway through the—oh.” Geto’s voice trails off, as if he’s only just noticed Gojo’s pinched expression. “You’re on the phone to someone. Who? Let me see.” “It’s none of your business!” He throws you a frantic glance and you shrug. “And knock first!” “You never knock.” You hear the shuffle of someone entering the room. “And you have three friends, and I’m one of them. Is it Nanami? Shoko?” You hear Gojo’s protests as something hits the phone and it swirls, landing face-up toward his ceiling. You notice he has light-up neon stars stuck haphazardly across it. Your heart squeezes. Cute. Then a hand covers the screen and it’s a blur of black and red. “Back off, Suguru, I’m not going to Haibara’s party—” “Is that a girl?” “Hey!” There’s a whirl, and then you blink, biting your cheeks at the face suddenly staring back at you. Hesitantly, you raise a hand. “Hey, Geto.” Geto stares at you for a second before laughing, a low melody that has you shifting nervously in your seat. “Y/N? I didn’t know you and Satoru were so close. I always thought you two had this rivals thing going on—” He doesn’t finish his sentence because Gojo snatches his phone back, and you watch a tilted view of the interaction. “Tell Haibara I won’t be showing up.” “Something more important to do, Satoru?” The world shifts again as Gojo flops back onto his bed, placing you upright on his table once more. He glances sideways at his roommate, directing his words at him even as his hands work to steady his phone. “It’s not what you think. We’re working on our group project. It can’t just evolve past Rookie stage on its own.” You watch as he shoots a quick glance at you, eyes searching as if to ask, Did you catch that? You can’t help but grin a little, biting back a laugh. “Sure, that’s all. I’ll go tell Haibara you’ll come to the next one.” The light dims slightly and you assume Geto is closing the door. “You owe me.”

When the light finally fades, Gojo turns back to you with an apologetic smile. You’re thrilled to see him glance at you, then away, his hands coming up to run through his hair, an uncharacteristic shyness that makes your heart squeeze again. “Sorry about that.” “No, it’s okay. You guys seem close.” You absentmindedly rub at your chest, wondering if this is a sign of cardiovascular disease. “You two dorm together?” “We moved out together at the beginning of second year. He lived, like, three hours from campus and needed a roommate. He asked me and I said yes.” You rest your cheek on your palm, watching him through the small screen of your phone. “I never knew you two had so much history. I guess that makes sense, considering I never see you two apart.” “Hey, it’s not that bad.” “Isn’t it? Gojo and Geto, Geto and Gojo. There’s even a name for you two. Goge, though I prefer Gego.” He frowns, brows pulled together. “There’s a difference?” “Yeah,” you say, and leave it at that, unwilling to explain the difference. Reading over his last few words, you highlight them with your cursor. “Gojo, this doesn’t make sense. The rebuttal team will definitely have something to say about this.” Gojo huffs, and you watch as he backspaces the sentence. “You know, I almost miss the days when you were comfortably mediocre. Now it’s like I’m back to being ten years old and getting taught long division by my dad.” You snort, reaching for something to snap back with. Instead, you feel that sticky ball of unease in your stomach. Clearing your throat, you settle for, “What a universal experience.” He looks up at that. “What, not going to tell me to kill myself for comparing you to my dad?” “Was that an insult? You’re losing your touch.” “Says you. You don’t even seem mad.” He squints at you, and you wish your Wi-Fi would give out so he could count the pixels on his screen instead of the thoughts threatening to burst free. “You okay?” You pause, bracing for the usual deflection to leap off your tongue. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, something about the warmth wrapping around your shoulders, something about the brief glimpse into his private world that has you fidgeting to say something else. You let out a thin laugh, eyes fixed on the words on your laptop screen. “Guess I didn’t really care for grades back then.” He snorts. “Seriously? And you still beat me on that quiz that one time? You make fun of me for being a prodigy, but I fear the call is coming from inside the house.” You don’t move. “It was just luck.” “And all your nineties since then? That all luck too?” You shrug, but your mind screams the answer. Gojo frowns, as if sensing that this goes deeper. “What is this really about, Y/N?” For once, you’re thankful for his directness. When he says it like that, you find that you can’t as easily hide behind an excuse. A part of you aches to be seen, to tell someone else something that might otherwise follow you to the grave. “It’s nothing serious. I guess I’m just a little worried that I’m too late to be good at this for real.” His head tilts on-screen. “Huh?”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You know, neuroscience. I never cared about my classes until last semester because I never cared for science. But then I realised how much I liked neuroanatomy and I started trying, and it paid off. But we’re in our last year. I feel like I’ve wasted too much time.” When he doesn’t immediately say anything, you barrel on. “You’ve always been…” You gesture vaguely at him, still not meeting his eyes. “Good. Effortless. And I’m just now cramming to keep up. Like, what’s the point, you know? Maybe I’ll never catch up. Even if I do, it’s too late for it to matter. Maybe that’s why I was always annoyed at you. I wish I started caring like you did way back in first year or whenever it was that you decided you knew what to do.” You try to laugh it off, but it comes out small and brittle. Gojo doesn’t answer right away. His usual smirk is gone, replaced with something more thoughtful. Finally, he leans forward, chin resting on his palm. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You really think you’re behind me?” “Well, aren’t I?” He snorts softly, but there’s no bite to it. “You’re the one who wrote the outline to this report. You’re the one reading through and correcting everything. Half of this project looks as good as it does because of you.” Your stomach flips. “You’re exaggerating—” “I’m not.” His tone sharpens just enough to make you stop fidgeting and look up at him. His mouth is curved as if to soften the words, but his gaze is sincere, coaxing you to take in every one. “Look. Who cares when you started? You’re here now. And you’re good at it, like ridiculously good. Not because you lucked into it, but because you put in the effort. You work hard because you want this, and it shows. That’s more than most people ever figure out, even if they’ve been trying since day one.” “You don’t know that for sure.” “Don’t I?” “It’s easy for you to say. You’ve got it all figured out.” His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious about catching up to me?” The heat creeps back up your neck, hot flushes spreading across your back. “Forget it. Just forget everything.” “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” He runs a hand through his hair, forcing the surprise back. “I thought you knew the feeling was mutual, that I’m making sure to catch up to you. If anything, you’ve been making me work harder than I ever have. If this is you ‘too late,’ then I’d say you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” Your stomach knots at that, a mix of disbelief and something warmer curling under your ribs. You force your gaze back to the words on your screen, blinking against the sting building at the corners of your eyes. “…You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, more to your laptop than to him. Across the screen, his grin slips back into place, lazy and self-assured, but not mocking. “Ridiculously right, you mean, since you know I always am.” You shake your head, biting back the urge to argue—and to smile. This time, the silence stretches comfortably, neither of you rushing to fill it. Your cursor blinks steadily on the half-finished paragraph, but your focus is caught on the strange buoyancy in your chest, the faint echo of his words playing on repeat. When Gojo finally speaks, it’s in his usual drawl. “So, am I supposed to fix the discussion section, or are you going to keep having an existential crisis about being secretly smart?” You let out a shaky laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Shut up and start writing, Gojo.” “Yes, ma’am,” he says, already clicking away, but the small smile tugging at his mouth lingers longer than his usual jokes. You pretend not to notice how your chest feels lighter than it did a minute ago.

The weekend has slipped through your fingers quickly, leaving much to be desired, and before you know it, you’re waking before the ass crack of dawn to shuffle to the university café. The streets are empty this early out, with only the hush of the wind and the distant hiss of a bus pulling away filling the campus. Not for the first time, you regret picking up the opening shifts, and you haven’t even clocked in yet. When you look up to behold the café in all its glory, you freeze. There’s someone standing just outside, leaning against the brick wall and absentmindedly kicking a pebble along the footpath. At first, the figure is just a silhouette. But then you walk close, and the picture clarifies. Spiderman kicks another loose stone, both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie that hides the bright blue and white design of his tight-fitted suit. He’s leaning against the wall of the cafe and you hope you’re not misunderstanding that he’s waiting for it to open. “It’s you!” you exclaim, walking faster. “You jerk, you ditched me!” Spiderman pushes off the wall in a heartbeat, body snapping upright with practised reflexes even before he lifts his head. He looks at you in silence and you take the chance to close the gap. Before he can make the smart move and leave, you’re already grabbing his hand. “You left me to talk to the police for hours after that day! Do you know how many questions I answered with ‘I don’t know’?” “Oh, great,” he mumbles, voice low and muffled by his mask. “Just what I needed. What are you doing here?” “That’s my question. I didn’t think our cafe was famous enough to be visited by a superhero. Are you checking out the student discount or something? Are you a student here too—” He cuts you off. “Guessing my identity kind of defeats the purpose of the whole masked hero thing.” You squint at him. “Can you even breathe in that?” “I’m still standing here, aren’t I?” You raise your hands in surrender. “So, what, you’re here to sightsee?” “Do you think I have the luxury for that?” When you only raise your eyebrows pointedly and shrug, he continues. “I was supposed to meet someone here.” There’s only one other person who works morning shifts. “Shoko?” Spiderman seems to pause. “The answer isn’t no.” “Shoko’s doing closing shifts now so I’ll be taking over the morning shifts. Also, you know Shoko? And she didn’t tell me?” “Secret identities will do that to you,” he groans. “I can’t believe you tortured that information out of me.” “If anything, you confirmed it out of your own volition.” He shrugs, taking a step forward as if to leave. You look over at the cafe door beside him. “You’re here for a drink, right? Give me a couple minutes to open and I’ll get started on your order for you.” He shifts, almost imperceptibly shrugging. “Forget it. You really shouldn’t be involving yourself with me.” Before he can take another step, you reach out and grab his wrist. The movement is firm enough to make him pause, though if you thought he couldn’t pull away, you’d be sorely mistaken. “Don’t be shy. Come on, get in here. I’m not letting you leave that easily again.”

He lets out a small, embarrassed noise, half sigh and half grunt, as if caught somewhere between annoyance and resignation. You tug him gently towards the door again, though the look in your eyes is nothing if not fierce. Finally, the steadiness of his stance gives way into a reluctant step and you’re able to pull him inside. The warmth of the cafe hits you immediately, a stark contrast to the brittle cold outside. Your breath stops leaving your lips as mist, the windows already dewy from the lack of ventilation inside, and the air smells like yesterday’s coffee grounds. Spiderman hovers awkwardly by the door where you’ve abandoned him, rocking on his feet. You pretend not to notice how he’s poised to bolt the moment you turn your back and for that reason, you never do. “You can sit, you know,” you say lightly, switching on the espresso machine. “You’re allowed to touch the furniture.” “I’m good here,” he mutters. “Where did all your spark go, Spiderman?” He shifts at that, his weight rocking between his feet. “You make me sound like a rescue dog.” “You’re acting like one,” you note with amusement. “You’re all twitchy and skittish. Should I put out a bowl of water? Or, better yet, you can tell me your order and I’ll get started on that for you.” He pauses. “Iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup. And a caramel rim. That’s the best part.” Your mouth hangs open, ink bleeding into the side of the cup as you try to process his words. “Are you kidding? That’s literally just pure sugar. Are you insane?” “Someone has to protect the city, sweetheart.” As if emboldened by your surprise, Spiderman walks up to the counter and leans against it, watching you reluctantly write the shorthand for his order on the cup. “And whoever is doing it needs something to keep the sleep away.” You shoot him a look as you cap the pen and get started. “When was the last time you slept?” “Two nights ago. For, like, four hours.” “You know, you should be sleeping seven to eight hours every night otherwise your brain isn’t able to clear proteins. When those accumulate they turn into the amyloid plaques and tau tangles they talk about in neurodegenerative disease.” “Oh my God,” he groans, waving your clinical concern away. “Does this cafe only hire worrywarts? Shoko never shuts up about that.” You look up sharply. “So you do know her.” His hands come up in a placating gesture. “I thought you already came to that conclusion.” “No, because you dodged it. How the fuck do you know Shoko? And why the hell has she never told me?” You let out a thoughtful hum as you create his disgusting drink. “Maybe she was embarrassed to know you.” His hands come down slightly as if baffled. “I saved your life and the only thing leaving your mouth is criticism. The public loves the suit, I’ve gotten no complaints until now.” You narrow your eyes as you reach for the syrup bottle. “So you are dodging.”

“I’m protecting the innocent. I hope you know that you also need to keep a tight lip about me.” “Spare me, Spiderman. You’re really not all that.” “You’ll be surprised.” He makes a show of stretching and flexing his muscles in the tight suit. “I’m irresistible.” You bark a short laugh despite yourself, setting the cup down harder than necessary. “One of these days you’re going to look at yourself in the mirror and reconsider why exactly you chose tight spandex as the go to material for your suit. You know what people are doing on the streets these days? Catching print.” “What’s that?” You swirl whipped cream on the top of his drink and drizzle it in caramel before forcing a dome lid on top. Plucking a straw from the dispenser, you slide that and the drink over to him. He catches it easily enough, eyes not yet looking away from you. “Here’s your drink. Next time, just get more hours of sleep instead of torturing your local barista.” He lifts his mask just enough to sip, bunching it up under his nose, and you catch the barest flash of his grin before it’s covered again. His shoulders relax, like he’s settling in despite himself. “Still good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, louder: “At least you didn’t mess it up.” “That’s the thanks I get?” You rest your elbows on the counter and lean in, your eyes narrowing at him. “This is your job, isn’t it? Why should I thank you?” “I thought since you did unpaid labour for the city, you’d know just how good a thanks feels.” He chuckles, reaching into his pockets to pay. His fingers close around his phone before freezing, the faint weight of realisation settling in. He doesn’t carry cash, and he can’t pay contactless like he usually does with Shoko, because then you’d recognise his phone case. You notice his hesitation. “Unpaid labour indeed.” “Caught me,” Spider-Man admits easily, leaning against the counter. “So, what are the chances you put this on my tab?” You laugh under your breath. “Just make sure to bring cash next time.” There’s a beat of quiet before he tips his head, considering. “Next time, huh?” You shrug, busying yourself with a rag on the counter. “Didn’t you say you needed that sugar bomb to stay awake?” “Touché,” he says, lifting the cup to take another long sip. The room falls into a quieter rhythm, the hum of the machines filling the silence. You watch as he lingers by the counter, fingers drumming against the cup as he enjoys his drink. It’s surreal seeing him so close, joking like he’s just any other person and not some masked figure who swings through the city on webs. You speak up again when the silence drags on a little longer and you begin to worry that the moment might get interrupted by another customer. “You gonna stand there all day or actually do some superheroing?” He makes a thoughtful noise. “Depends. Doesn’t seem like there are any damsels in distress right now.” “Oh, really? Well, I still need some floors mopped and napkins restocked, so—hey!” Before you can blink, he’s already tugging his hood back up and slipping towards the door, the same restless energy in his shoulders that he came in with. “And that’s my cue to leave.” “Don’t forget,” you call after him. “Cash next time!” He lifts a hand without turning, a half-wave, half-promise, before opening the door. He flicks his wrist towards the nearest streetlight and, with a tug, shoots forward with a burst of speed that leaves you blinking, impressed. “Show-off,” you mumble fondly, a small smile tugging at your lips as the door swings closed behind him. His presence is quickly forced to the back of your mind as another customer walks in, and you fall back into the familiar rhythm of your work.

The opening shift quickly becomes the bane of your existence. The grumpy customers clicking in for their own early mornings, the rush of orders that arrives before you’ve even fully woken, the relentless beep of the espresso machine—it all feels like a punishment for having the audacity to leave your warm bed before the sun has even risen. And yet, despite the predictable chaos and your own bleary-eyed resentment, you can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your lips as you hop off the bus. The front of the cafe is quiet when you step up and shove the keys in, though you know that calm won’t last long. A sudden movement behind you makes your stomach tighten, and a voice murmurs close to your ear. “I thought the cafe opens at six.” You turn to see Spiderman hanging upside down, both hands holding onto his web, feet pressed together to keep balance. “It does,” you say in lieu of greeting. “Really? So why did you only get here at 6:13am?” You roll your eyes and turn back around to let you both in. The masked vigilante lets go of his web and smoothly drops down, sauntering in behind and catching the door when you let go. “I could report you for tardiness, you know. And being mean to your customers.” “I didn’t know you were a snitch,” you tease back. “What can I say? I care about the university’s upkeep,” he says as he leans against the counter to watch you start up the shop. Ignoring his gaze on your back, you begin to multitask, one hand grabbing a cup to get started on his drink while the other flicks on switches. The whir of grinders hum to life, filling the space between you. “Another deathly sweet drink for you I’m assuming?” “Someone has to keep this city up and running.” There’s a brief silence as the espresso machine whirs and you do your job. You recall the first few times this unexpected customer had dropped by, the tension between the two of you neither friends nor strangers, and how his face had seemingly dropped when you slid his drink across the counter the moment he walked in. “Oh,” Spiderman had started, the whites of his mask flicking from you to the cup. “You already made this for me?” “Yeah. Unless you’re planning to grab something new today.” His fingers had curled around the cup, mumbling something that sounded like, “No, that’s fine. This is fine.” He had hesitated by the counter until you urged him to pay. He did, albeit slowly, and when he even stalled after the money had passed into your hands, you giggled. “I’m not going to kick you out just because you have your drink now. You can stay. I like talking to you when I open.” His face had immediately brightened, or at least you assume so from the way his head shot up and the grip on his cup tightened almost imperceptibly.

Since then, Spiderman has taken it upon himself to stay throughout the duration of making his drink, and thirty minutes after that too. “You know,” he muses now, conversational and casual. “I feel like you know more about me than I know about you. You know how I like my drinks, my work, my name. Which is terrible because I’m the one with the secret hidden identity.” You roll your eyes, lifting the steamer to pour into a cup with his superhero name on it, something he had insisted you do when you once poured his drink into an empty, unmarked cup, saying the true cafe experience included a named cup. So, in order to give him said full experience, you spell his name wrong every time. Today, it’s ‘Spy x Derman’. “You also know where I work,” you say, topping his disgusting drink with cream and another drizzle of sweet sticky syrup. “And my name. But honestly, it’s your fault for being so naive and open.” “I’m trying to say I want to know more about you.” “And I’m trying to tastefully deflect the conversation elsewhere.” He chuckles. “What harm is there if you tell me something? It doesn’t have to be anything crazy. This isn’t a first date.” “Hey, that’s my line.” You stick a paper straw into the lid and slide his drink over the counter. He catches it with ease, not breaking eye contact to take a sip. “Fine, I’ll bite. What do you want to know? He shrugs, looking around the place. “Surprise me. I wouldn’t even know where to start. “Well, first of all, I’m a normal person. Which means my coffee order isn’t diabetes in a cup. “Tell me your order, then.” You’re surprised to see him so interested in something so mundane and useless. “I guess I usually get a vanilla soy latte. Oh, but if they have matcha or something, I’d get that instead.” He hums. “Personally, I usually get an iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup with a caramel rim.” You laugh, wiping up the counter after yourself as you’ve been trained to do. “I never asked, and yes, Spiderman, I know. Trust me, it hurts my pure barista hands to make your drink every time.” He chuckles softly with you, eyeing you, toying with the paper straw in his mouth. You know that in about ten minutes, if he stays that long, he’ll start complaining about how the paper has already begun to deteriorate in his mouth, and you will be his unwilling recipient for the venting. When he opens his mouth to speak next, you brace yourself for an onslaught of surprisingly childish whining.“So, any plans this week?” he asks, leaning over the counter. You wonder if it would be a workplace hazard to invite him to the other side.

You catch onto his words after a few blinks. “Not really? I guess I have an assessment due next week so I’ll be grinding for that.” You pause, assuming the silence that follows after is because he’s waiting for more. “You?”

“The usual. Saving cats from trees, escorting senior citizens across pedestrian crossing, the typical.”

“Does that actually happen? Cats getting stuck in trees?”

He shrugs. “Not really. If anything, it’s usually street poles they find themselves in. Anyway, so you’re otherwise free this week? Say, super random day that means absolutely nothing—Tuesday?”

You pause, taking in his faux innocence. He even makes a show of looking at his nails as if he could see them through the fabric of his white gloves. “I mean, I guess I am, for the most part. Why?”

He straightens a little, looking over at the dessert display. “No reason.”

You narrow your eyes at him, a little wary. “Are you sure? I feel like you wouldn’t ask that question unless there was something going on.” “No, I’m just wondering what the average citizen’s schedule looks like.” “Oh, really?” You clean off the steamer with an unimpressed look. “Verdict?” “Boring!” He stretches out the word, loud in the acoustics of the near empty cafe. “Do you even know how to have fun?” You scoff, wiping your hands on a nearby towel before leaning against the counter to talk to him. Somewhere along the way, the distance between the two of you has shrunk and you find yourself gravitating towards him. He stays on the other side, lifting up his mask as he usually does to take a sip. “It’s not my fault the exam period is coming up,” you say, trying to subtly memorise the bottom of his face without seeming weird. “And I definitely do know how to have fun. “Right, sure you do. What do you do for fun, then?” You bite the inside of your cheeks. “You first.” “Need time to think?” “This is so unfair, you can literally fly! Obviously what I do for fun isn’t going to be as fun as leaping through the air and shooting webs from your wrists!” “Not with that attitude you won’t. But come on, humour me a little. Tell me what you usually do in your free time.” “Are we on a bad first date right now? What’s happening?” “Deflect all you want but I’m immune to it by now. Come on, just tell me,” he coaxes you with a grin, straw between his teeth. “Do you, again super random and means nothing at all, go to anime related events?” You narrow your eyes at him slightly. “I guess I do.” “Okay.” He looks around as if inspecting the interior design. “Have you heard about that thing that’s happening at the main city library?” You, in fact, have. “Sure. I saw the post on their Insta.” “Was that something you wanted to check out?” “With… you?” Spiderman laughs like you’ve said something particularly funny. “You’re joking right? Obviously not with me. Spiderman doesn’t do outings, sweets.” “Forgive me for assuming that when you literally asked me when I would be free mere minutes ago.” “I told you, I’m just curious about what normal people get up to.” You eye him, noting how relaxed he now seems and how there’s a silence that drags out after his last words. “Were there any more questions you wanted to ask, or just the one about when I’m free and if I wanted to check out the shounen showcase at the library?” “No, that was it.” You nod, slowly. “Right.” The quiet stretches, just the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft drumming of his fingers against the counter as he muses over your previous words. You roll your eyes and straighten, turning to fiddle around and move forward with the transition of shooing him away.

Just as you’re about to tell him to go do his job or something, the doorbell chimes and you look up instinctively like an activated sleeper agent, plastering a smile on your face to greet the customer. It hasn’t been long since you started morning shifts but it was rare for anyone to show up within the ten minutes you open. You spare Spiderman a glance as if to tell him to leave, but he’s not looking at you. A man stumbles in, unsteady on his feet, eyes darting around like there’s someone watching him from the corners. At first, you assume he’s simply clumsy or perhaps nursing a killer hangover so you steel yourself for a tricky conversation. “Good morning, what can I get started for you today?” you start, looking him up and down subtly to see if he’s a member of the university staff or a stranger who has somehow wandered onto campus. The man slams his hand down on the counter and you jump, heart skipping. Up close, you can make out the sweat beading on his pale forehead and the way his lips move like he’s saying something, though no sound leaves his dry lips. You try again. “Sir?” “Coffee,” he rasps. You force another polite smile because of course you want a coffee from a cafe, don’t waste my time, and reach for a cup. “Of course. Would that be a cappuccino or latte or something else?” Instead of answering you, his head jerks to the side as if hearing a conversation you can’t. In doing so, his eyes meet Spiderman’s and they widen almost comically, his body jerking away. Spiderman stiffens, shoulders tensing as he shoots the customer an incredulous look. “Woah, chill. It’s just me.” The man staggers back another step, chest heaving, breath rattling like something is crawling up his throat. You frown. “Sir, you’re looking a little pale. Maybe you should sit down and—” His head snaps toward you so sharply you swear you hear the crack of his vertebrae. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, fix onto you with a sudden intensity that makes you pause. His lips peel back from his teeth into a nasty snarl, and you realise with a cold shiver that he is talking to himself. You quickly correct yourself. He wasn’t talking to himself, but to something else. The man’s head jerks to the side again, harder this time. “Won’t stop… won’t stop talking…” You swallow. “I mean, it’s kind of my job to ask you.” His answer comes out distorted, two voices overlapping. “We said leave him alone!” His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws.

His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws. You stumble back, dropping the cup in your hands and making a sharp noise that has the man turning to you, eyes pitch-black. “Um, Spiderman?” you whisper, hands clutching the side of the counter as you back away from the man. “Want to do your job or…?” Before you can even process what’s happening, the man lunges across the counter at you, knocking over your carefully stacked paper cups. You make an embarrassing sound, half-surprise, half-protest as you instinctively attempt to back away though it’s not enough considering the feral determination the man has in reaching you. In a blur, Spiderman leaps and lands on his hands and feet on the ceiling, flinging his arm toward you to latch a web around your torso. He yanks you to him, the world tilting for a fraction of a second as the web wraps around your arms and pins them to your side. The momentum spins you round and round until you finally settle, slowly rotating. Blood rushes to your head and a nearby crash makes you jolt, eyes widening to pinpoint the danger. Turns out, Spiderman has wrapped you in a cocoon of web and left to dangle like a pinata from the ceiling. “Hey!” you protest, struggling against the web. The movement only causes you to spin around and you hastily jerk your body to the side to watch the scene. “Let me down!” Spiderman drops to the floor, one hand splayed across the ground, the other tense and alert in the air. He momentarily breaks his focus to give you a double take. “What the—I’m keeping you safe. Stop wiggling!” You can hear it then, the sound the man’s making. Not quite a growl, at least not a human one, but a low, guttural rasp that vibrates through his chest. Panic and fear only grow within you, and you struggle with a little more determination to get down and run for the hills, when the man emerges from behind the counter. He lunges again, this time faster, propelled by a strength that is definitely not human. Black tendrils burst from his back, flinging chairs aside like toys. Spiderman dodges easily, flipping over a table and ducking behind it, firing a web that snaps against the man’s shoulder. It doesn’t hold. The black substance simply absorbs it, melting it away like cotton candy in a river. “Okay,” Spiderman mutters, kicking the table into the man too and watching as he easily smacks it away. “That’s new.” The creature lets out a distorted laugh. “Spiderman,” it sneers. “That’s me. Have we met before?” Spiderman doesn’t wait for an answer, slinging a web at the man’s wrist and yanking him hard into the counter. The espresso machine crumbles under the intense weight and puffs out a powerful blast of steam as it malfunctions. The figure avoids the steam with a sharp hiss, black tendrils catching from the bulk of the fall and throwing himself back up, grabbing onto the mini fridge display and hurling it back at the superhero. You gasp when you rotate to face the chaos. “You’re wrecking my cafe!” “Seriously? That’s what you’re focusing on right now?”  Spiderman shoots back, ducking. “File an insurance claim or something!” He swings a chair into the side of the figure and you watch mournfully. “My chairs…”

“Again, there might be bigger things to worry about!” A giant fist surges forward from the black gunk oozing down his chest and knocks Spiderman back. The superhero lets out a punched-out gasp, slamming into the wall of the cafe and knocking down some purely-for-interior-design-aesthetic fake coffee bean bags. Spiderman tries to sling himself onto the arm and swing around, but the substance only consumes the webbing, swallowing it before it can take hold. “Spiderman!”  You twist uselessly in your cocoon, the web binding your arms tight to your sides. Your brain scrambles for something, anything that could possibly help. Your eyes lock onto the man as its gooey limbs swell and stretch, pulsing with inhuman strength. Another fist forms, held back in the air as if winding up, clearly aimed at the gasping Spiderman on the cafe floor. “Is this another tactic of yours? I think you fight better on both feet!” Spiderman spits blood through the cuts of his mask. “Yeah,” he wheezes, “That’s the plan.” The fist hands there for one awful second, huge and glistening and very much about to redecorate the floor with Spiderman’s internal organs. Your gaze snaps wildly around the cafe, desperate for anything useful beyond the humiliating fact that you are currently trussed up. You make a mental note of everything, the counter, syrup bottles, cups, broken glass, ruined pastries, the espresso machine wheezing its last breath in the corner, split open and spitting angry jets of steam every few seconds. “Spiderman!” you blurt. Spiderman, still flat on his back and one near-death experience away from becoming part of the floor plan, tilts his head weakly. “Can this wait? I’m in the middle of something.” “The espresso machine!” “What about it? Do you want a latte before I die?” “The steam, you idiot!” The creature finally slams its fist down, cracking the granite flooring and thankfully not squishing a spider. The superhero rolls onto his side with a pained hiss, flicking his wrist to wrap web around the nuzzle of the steamer. “Okay,” he starts. “And how do I use this exactly?” The man quickly regains its bearings and starts for Spiderman again as the superhero uselessly fiddles with the steam wand. You jerk in your cocoon. “The knob! Turn the silver knob on the side!” Spiderman slaps the wrong thing and a burst of frothy milk sprays across the counter and onto the floor. “Is that it?” “The other one!” He twists the correct knob just as the creature lunges. The machine screams as it blasts a vicious plume of steam straight forward. You watch as he yanks the steamer around at the last second, aiming it right into the thing’s chest and face. The black mass recoils with a horrible, scraping cry that makes you wince, and begins to peel back from the man’s skin in a movement not unfamiliar to you. The tendrils make one last feral swish, slamming into shelves and sending coffee beans, ceramic mugs, and one very expensive grinder crashing to the ground.

Spiderman cranks the wand harder, and the machine gives one final screech before coughing out another blast of steam. The goo convulses, writhing up the man’s neck and shoulders almost as if hesitating. The man underneath drops to his knees gasping, his face finally visible beneath the slick black sheen. Spiderman doesn’t hesitate and fires a web at the industrial kettle behind the counter, yanking it straight off the shelf and hurls it at the goo. The kettle smashes into only the creature and bursts with boiling water, prompting the symbiote to let out another inhuman sound before tearing free and sliding away. For a few seconds, all you hear is your own pulse in your ears. Spiderman staggers to his feet, a faux-casualness to his posture that is betrayed entirely by the way his eyes never leave the man. “Okay,” he pants. “Crisis averted.” You glare down at him from your cocoon, still swaying gently. “Did you have to take out half the café to do so?” “It was a necessary evil.” When the man doesn’t move, Spiderman finally relaxes and places his hands on his hips, letting out a slow exhale. “Jesus, that really sucked. The worst part is, even after all of that, the real enemy still managed to escape. But no casualties, no broken bones this time, and I saved a citizen. I’d call that a job well done.” He grins up at you. You pull your lips into a smile. “Great. I’m so happy for you. Can you please get me down now?” Spiderman tilts his head thoughtfully. “True. This isn’t your best angle.” “Spiderman.” “Alright, alright.” He fires a quick web and you drop. Before you can scream, he catches you in his arms and starts cutting through the web with a small knife. “You okay?” he asks softly, his mouth ghosting the shell of your ear. You nod, your heartbeat still racing from it all. When he pulls away, the webs falling off you like they had never clung to you at all, the two of you survey the café. Distantly, you hear the cry of multiple sirens. “What is that thing, seriously?” you whisper. If you had a penny for every time you had come face to face with an ooey, gooey monster, you’d have two pennies—which wasn’t a lot, but it was strange that this had happened twice. You turn to Spiderman for answers, but he looks just as blank.

“I think it’s something like a symbiote. Takes over a human host and all that, like a parasite.” Catching your frightened look, Spiderman straightens. “Hey, don’t look so glum. You handled that better than most.” “I’d rather never be in the position to find that out in the first place.” He reaches over and ruffles your hair playfully, ignoring both the involuntary wince that escapes him as he raises his arm and your feeble protests. “You did great. The steam idea saved us.” “The steam… the espresso machine!” You hastily pull away to look around the café again, this time properly taking in the damage. “You broke everything!” “I saved your life?” he offers, edging away subtly. “My manager is going to have my head!” As if on cue, you feel a vibration against your thigh. Reaching down into your pocket for your phone, you read through the notifications with a growing sense of dread. manager: ?? what’s going on why am i seeing a news reporter outside my cafe why am i seeing it on the news right now why is the door off its hinges is that a hole in my window? y/n pick up You wince. “Spiderman, mind explaining to my manager what happened—Spiderman?” When you turn around, you’re met with nothing, just the sight of tables and chairs on their side and the glass of the window shattered. The sirens get closer and something like deja vu creeps in. “You fucking jerk!”

you: hey!! so ik ure oh so busy but i think we should meet up to rehearse our speech before we present r u free 12pm today?

toru: woahhh u texted first ?!

you: and probably meet at the library oh what the hell u replied so fast

toru: maybe i was waiting for ur text all day

you: wait why did i grimace anyway are u down?

toru: sure i’ll try! meet u at our usual table ><

You climb the stairs up to the library, chuckling softly at the memory of Gojo’s texts. Surprisingly, Gojo is already sitting in his seat when you arrive. He pauses his typing and pulls down one side of his headphones, looking over his shoulder at you. His eyes light up and you offer him a small wave, watching as he responds enthusiastically.

“You didn’t stand me up.”

You chuckle drily, pulling out your seat beside him and sitting down. “What is this, some bad first date?”

Gojo grins like you’ve said something particularly funny. “Is that your go-to line or something?”

“What?”

“Oh, uh. Nothing.” He looks away, swiping his finger across the trackpad.

When he doesn’t say anything else, you take it as your cue to take out your things, still eyeing him. “Didn’t bring your mouse today?”

“You remembered?”

You make a face at his sudden hopeful expression. “You’re being weird.”

He slumps back into his chair. “Yeah, I gave myself the ick. I’m just nervous.”

“About?”

He hums, looking away at the rest of the library. “Stuff.”

You let that sit for a moment, then try to steer things back toward the reason you’re both here. For a while, you make a decent attempt at studying. You open your laptop, pull up your notes, ask him a question about the assessment that he answers after a beat too long. But it quickly becomes obvious that whatever is making him weird hasn’t gone away. He keeps glancing down at his notes only to stare straight through them, then out the window, then back at his laptop. Every few seconds he finds a new way to fidget: tapping his pen, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting in his chair, bouncing his leg under the table.

By the time he starts clicking his pen open and shut, you give up pretending not to notice. You lean back slightly and raise an eyebrow at him. “Something else you’d rather be doing?”

He stills at once, like he’s been caught. “Maybe,” he admits after a second. “Kind of.”

You narrow your eyes. “Kind of?”

Gojo huffs out a breath and glances at you, then away again. “Okay, don’t laugh, but there’s this shounen manga pop-up showcase at the central library right now. And I thought—since we’ve talked about Digimon and all that stuff—maybe you’d want to go check it out with me.”

You blink. “Go together?”

He scratches the back of his head, suddenly finding the edge of his laptop intensely interesting. “I mean, yeah. Not like a date or anything. Just as friends. Or whatever. We’ve both been staring at the same five pages for the last twenty minutes, so I thought maybe we could take a break before coming back. I heard they’ve got themed pastries at the ground floor café too, and I’m pretty sure there’s a huge stand of that one character you like.”

You can’t help but laugh softly. “Friends, huh? Alright, sure. Sounds like fun.” The relief that flashes across his face is immediate and almost embarrassingly obvious. He leans back in his chair, grinning so widely it’s hard not to laugh again. “Really? Alright, cool. Cool. Friends. Totally casual.” He slams his lid close and starts shoving it into his case. You blink before mirroring his gesture with your own belongings. “Oh, you meant right now?” He looks up, already halfway done packing.“Is there any better time than the present?” There probably is, considering you had both technically come here to study, but the fond exasperation that thought should bring never fully arrives. Instead, you find yourself closing your laptop too, slipping your charger back into your bag as he waits with barely restrained excitement. If you told the version of yourself from a few months ago that you’d willingly abandon studying to follow Gojo somewhere, you would’ve laughed in your own face. But the walk turns out to be fun. More than fun, actually. He talks the whole way, hands moving animatedly as he jumps between topics and drags you along with him, and by the time the central library comes into view, you’re almost disappointed the walk was so short. Gojo’s eyes are bright as the automatic doors slide open. He looks almost boyish like this, all open excitement and easy chatter, and you’re still watching him when that expression falters. You follow his gaze around the corner and toward the signs for the display, your own smile quickly dropping. It’s underwhelming, to put it lightly. A small corner of the library has been cordoned off, just a few tables with stacked manga, a sparse display of badges pinned to a board against the wall, and a few posters of famous shounen series plastered against the nearby walls. Gojo slows, his shoulders slumping as the excitement drains from him. “Oh. Uh.” He takes in the scene though, it doesn’t take long due to the size of the exhibit. “It’s… smaller than I thought.” “That’s what she said.” You glance at him, trying to mask your own surprise at the tiny setup. “Hey, it’s okay. Maybe there’s more elsewhere!” He follows you like a lost puppy as you explore the nearby areas, though it quickly becomes clear there’s nothing more than the original display. Even the café at the entrance is lacking. It only has one themed dessert, and it’s a poorly designed cake pop of Happy from Fairy Tail, his tiny round chocolate eyes seemingly staring off to the side where a normal chocolate chip cookie sits. Gojo winces at the cake pop and you offer to buy it for him. He shakes his head, hesitant to separate it from the cookie since it seems like it wants it so badly. When your feet circle back to the pathetic tables, even you struggle to stay upbeat. He shakes his head, a small, defeated grin forming. “Man, that sucks. I guess I just imagined it being a little more… epic. You know, life-sized statues, endless merch, chaos everywhere, not”—he gestures to the badges—“badges.”

“Badges can be cool,” you try, tracing the edge of one. “There are only badges of all the mainstream anime,” he mumbles, coming up to stand beside you. Due to the tiny display, you’re shoulder to shoulder, your arm brushing his. “God, this fucking sucks. My bad, Y/N. I was hoping we could look at all the manga together, but all I managed to do was waste your time. We can just go back to the library and continue studying.” You frown at his dejected tone, and when you look over, he’s pouting. His shoulders are slumped, his hands absentmindedly fidgeting with a badge, spinning it back and forth with no real interest, and his lips are jutted out in an almost cartoonish pout. When his eyes shift at your attention, you quickly look away and hope he didn’t catch the slight quiver of your lips. Then, before you can think better of it, you grab a badge off the display and pin it to his chest. When he starts to look down, you lift his chin with your finger instead. He blinks at you, owlish, and you can’t help but smile at the clueless look in his eyes. “Ask me a yes-or-no question,” you say. “To try and guess what character’s badge I just pinned on you. C’mon, I bet you won’t get it.” For a moment, you think your forced enthusiasm has put him off and that he won’t play along. But then he suddenly scoffs, his lips tugging up. “Are they a girl?” “No.” It’s contagious and you find yourself smiling back. He purses his lips, and you recognise the signature glint in his eyes when he’s concentrating. He hums, thinking a little more seriously. “Is the series he’s from released before 2020?” “Yes.” “Is he part of a trio?” “Seriously? We’re talking about shounen right now. Almost every shounen series has a trio.” You giggle. “But no, he isn’t.” He rolls his eyes. “Is the character the main character of the series?” “No, but I’d say a lot more people like this character over the actual main character.” “Is he from a sports anime?” “No.” “Could he be in a sports anime?” That catches you off guard and you scrunch your face up in thought. “I honestly can’t imagine him doing any sport. He might be a perma-benched player that’s only there for strategy.” “Is he, like, a mentor character?” You pout a little at how on-the-nose his question is. “Yes.” “Does he have powers?” “Yes.” He clicks his fingers. “Ah. Does he have a signature weapon?” “Well, he uses a gun often, but his powers aren’t related to his weapon of choice.”

“So his powers aren’t offensive?” “Exactly.” He hums, a smile growing on his face. “Is the manga based in the modern era?” “Yes.” “Is he dead?” “No, but there was a moment when everyone was freaking out because it almost seemed like he was dead.” “Brown hair?” “Yes.” Gojo clicks his fingers in realisation. “Okay, I’ve got it. Is it Dazai?” He might as well have shouted eureka. His face brightens, hanging on your next words to confirm or deny his victory. You giggle, nodding, and the smile he gives you is full of childlike wonder. “Close your eyes. It’s your turn.” You do so. “I bet I can guess it with fewer questions than you.” He snorts. “You’re on.” A few customers shoot you dirty looks when they walk past, clearly not appreciating your giggles as you and Gojo take turns playing your own chopped version of celebrity heads. Time seems to pass quickly over laughter and jokes until you finally reach up to unpin the latest badge to place it back. He stops you, hands covering yours. “Let me buy that for you,” he says with a lingering smile. You raise an eyebrow but let him take it off your hands. “Who said I even want this?” “Come on, it’ll be like we’re matching.” “They’re not even from the same series.” “Not to anyone else,” he muses, thumb stroking the front of the badge like it’s something precious. “But we'll know they’re connected and that’s good enough to call them matching.” You turn away, suddenly far too aware of the warmth rising to your face. Clearing your throat, you gesture toward the manga shelves down the aisle. “Let’s go see what else they’ve got. Sure, we came for the pop-up, but we’re still in a library.” He follows after you, noticeably lighter on his feet than before, and you let out a small sigh of relief. Then, almost immediately, you berate yourself for the tiny flutter in your chest. Why does that even matter? you scold yourself, brushing the feeling aside. Before you can dwell on it for too long, he pinches your sleeve and tugs you gently toward him when your pace slows. “Have you read this?” “Not yet,” you admit, though a small smile creeps onto your face at the sight of his enthusiasm. Without missing a beat, he launches into an animated explanation of the series, waving his hands as he talks. Sometimes it feels like he’s speaking more with his fingers than with actual words, sketching out invisible diagrams in the air as he links characters and plot points together. His sentences tumble over each other as he rambles about character motivations, why one of them is a complete fraud, and why the plot veers dangerously close to deus ex machina territory, only cutting himself off with an apologetic smile right before he spoils something major.

“And I swear the author gave up halfway through the series. The manga finished in 2023, by the way, but I think by the end he’d already landed a deal for a spin-off and started putting all his effort into that instead. You know what I saw on Twitter recently? People were hyping up this one line like it was amazing foreshadowing, but it’s not even good foreshadowing because, come on, the final fight was so cheap. Like when—” He stops himself abruptly. “Oh, wait. You can’t know that yet.” You nod along, trying to keep up with the flood of names, locations, and arc points that mean absolutely nothing to you, but the sheer energy in his voice is contagious. Somehow, it’s impossible to be annoyed or bored when he’s like this, completely in his element. Eventually, you stop trying to follow every detail. Instead, your attention drifts to him. The way his hair keeps falling into his eyes, forcing him to run a hand through his bangs only for them to slip right back into place seconds later. The way his brows knit together when he rants, only to lift again the moment he gets to a part he genuinely loves. Despite the noise of the busy library, his voice rises above everything else, clear and captivating, demanding your attention without even trying. It’s almost impressive how quickly his mouth keeps up with his thoughts. You squint slightly, watching the shape of his lips around each word just to confirm that yes, it really is him speaking that fast and not some video playing in the background. You realise a second too late that he’s stopped talking. You blink and look up at him. His brows are furrowed, though not in the same way as before, and you hate that you now know the difference. “Uh, you still with me?” You blink a few more times, then shake your head slightly as if to clear the haze. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” Gojo tilts his head, clearly amused. “Really? Because you look a little dazed.” Heat rushes to your face and you quickly drop your gaze to the manga in his hands, as if that had always been the focus of your attention. “Yeah, of course I was listening. Something about deus ex machina, right?” He snorts softly. “I finished talking about the ending minutes ago. You don’t have to pretend if you weren’t paying attention.” You roll your eyes, hoping your embarrassment isn’t as obvious as it feels. “Fine. Maybe I got a little distracted.” His grin widens at that, though it softens around the edges as he steps a little closer. “Distracted, huh? By what?” You hesitate, heart doing something strange at the way he’s looking at you. “Nothing.” “Really?” “Really,” you shoot back. “Alright then,” he concedes, though the glint in his eyes never fades. “I guess I’ll just have to step up my explanations next time so you don’t get distracted again.” He slides the manga carefully back onto the shelf, nudging the surrounding volumes aside to make room and making sure none of the pages bend as he slots it into place. There has to be something wrong with you, because even that small gesture makes warmth bloom in your chest. You make a mental note to check the series out when you get home. Gojo turns back to you and gestures for you to lead the way. “Your turn.” He listens as you tell him about one of your favourite manga series, and the embarrassment of getting caught fades quickly as you explain exactly why it’s a masterpiece. When it’s his turn again, you make a conscious effort to pay attention and not drift off into another daydream. So when he asks if you were actually listening this time, you huff and answer every one of his questions with ease.

He grins at you like you’ve handed him the world. Eventually, the two of you leave the library with less merch than you’d expected walking in, but with two badges that mean more than you’d ever dare admit. He doesn’t fasten his onto the front of his bag with the rest of his pins and accessories, mumbling something about wanting to keep it safe, so you keep yours in your pocket instead, your thumb brushing over its smooth surface as you walk. You expect him to call it a day after that, maybe peel off with some excuse about having things to do, but instead he tugs lightly on your sleeve. “C’mon.” “Where?” “Cafe run. My treat.” You raise a brow. “Since when do you buy me coffee?” “Since you saved this disaster of a day,” he says matter-of-factly, already steering you toward the street with a hand at your shoulder. “Besides, it’d be cruel not to feed you after I made you listen to my manga rants for hours.” You snort, but you don’t fight him on it. The truth is, coffee does sound nice, even if you remain slightly mystified by the idea of going with Gojo of all people. You frown a little when the thought doesn’t leave you disgusted. You’re still mulling over the drink options when Gojo steps up to the counter to order. “Can I get an iced matcha latte—” He cuts himself off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just an iced matcha latte, thanks. Oh, and a vanilla soy latte.” You eye him as he thanks the cashier, pays, and nods toward the waiting area. Seeing no reason not to follow, you move to stand beside him again. “Are you drinking two drinks?” “Stupid.” He pokes your forehead in a way that, annoyingly, you can’t bring yourself to hate. “One of them is for you.” “The… vanilla latte?” “Yeah.”You dip your head, trying to catch his eye. “Why aren’t you looking at me all of a sudden?”

He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the blank wall behind the counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You study him for a second before letting out a small laugh. “Well, you got lucky. That’s kind of my go-to order. How did you know?”

“I guess you just look like you’d want something like that.”

You stare at him. “Oh yeah? I just have the look of someone who likes vanilla lattes?”

He only hums in response.

You frown a little as you take him in properly: the way he rocks back and forth on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets, trying very hard to look unaffected. All he needs is a whistle to sell the act. Thankfully, one of the cashiers calls out his number, and he eagerly slips away to collect the drinks.

When he comes back, he hands you the vanilla latte. You take it with a small thanks, then pause as something occurs to you. “Oh. Send me your bank details. I’ll transfer you for the merch and the coffee,” you say, already reaching for your phone. When he doesn’t mirror the gesture, you look up. “It’s fine. I got it.” “What? No way. I don’t want to owe you anything.” “You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I got it for you because I wanted to.” Slowly, you take your hand back out of your bag. “You did? That doesn’t sound like you.” “I would’ve thought you’d know me a little better after today,” Gojo says, finally looking at you with a smile. Then he gestures toward the door. “Come on. You’ll miss the bus back to the dorms.” “You’re being very weird, you know.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with the kind of smile that only proves your point. He brushes past you, not unkindly, and takes the lead toward the bus stop. You stare at his back for a moment before letting out an amused huff and hurrying after him. “So you’re a matcha person, huh? How performative.” “Please. I liked matcha before it was cool.” “So you’re claiming to be an OG, then? Quick, name every matcha brand.” “That would take forever. I can tell you where this one came from, though.” Gojo takes a sip of his drink and hums in exaggerated thought. “This matcha was ground from the soils of Shizuoka Prefecture. I can even give you the row and column of the specific tea leaves used to make this drink.” You snort. “What is it then?” “32C, 82G.” “Are we playing Battleships?” The two of you share a short laugh at the bit, and the thought hits you strangely hard: you never imagined one day you’d be joking around like this with Gojo of all people. By the time you reach the station, the two of you stop beneath the shelter. “What number are you catching?” you ask, pulling out your phone to check the bus times. “Oh, I’m not catching the bus. I take the train.” You look up at him, incredulous. “What? Then why are you here?” He tilts his head, straw slipping from his mouth as he looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “To make sure you get on the bus safe, obviously. It’s fine, I’m already here anyway. I’ll just wait with you until it comes.” “That’s… actually really nice of you.” Gojo shrugs. “I guess I just really care about the wellbeing of others.” “Wow. Your compassion for helping citizens would go crazy on a superhero résumé.” He laughs, though the sound comes out slightly off somehow, enough that you notice even if you can’t place why. “What? That’s insane. You think I’d make a good superhero? Me? That’s ridiculous. I’m a clutz and a nerd and hardly cut out for the whole saving-the-world thing.” You think back to the cricket incident and giggle softly. “Don’t count yourself short. I think you’re a lot more capable than you give yourself credit for, Gojo.” At that, he turns his head quickly and takes a sharp sip of his drink. “Satoru.”

“Hm?” You look up at him, wondering if the slight flush at the tips of his ears has anything to do with the late afternoon sun. “Everyone calls me Satoru but you,” he says, still not looking at you. “You might as well just call me Satoru too. It’s weird if you don’t.” It takes a few seconds for the words to fully sink in. By then, he only seems to shrink further into himself, taking long, noisy pulls from his straw. By the time you recover enough to smirk, his cup is almost entirely ice. You lean in slightly, trying to catch his eye. “What a cheesy thing to say. Don’t tell me you’re—” The rest dies on your tongue when he finally glances down at you. The same pink tint at his ears has spread across his cheeks. He frowns despite it, brows drawing together. “Forget it. I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.” He pulls the straw from his mouth and shakes the cup for more drink, only for the ice to rattle uselessly. With visible annoyance, he takes the shot and tosses the empty cup into the bin. “Sorry for dragging you all the way out here today. Your bus is probably coming soon, so I’ll head off—” You gape at him. “Wait!” He freezes and turns back slightly. “Going to tease me? Save it for tomorrow.” “No,” you say quickly. “I was just surprised you wanted me to call you by your first name. I thought you hated me.” “Me?” he scoffs, turning around fully now. “You have to be joking.” “I’m serious,” you insist. “You were awful to me. I mean, you literally went out of your way to embarrass me when we barely knew each other.” He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “Yeah, I know. I was… bad at that. I never hated you, Y/N. I just didn’t know what to do with you.” “The moment you start making sense, the world is going to end. I’m sure of it.” He laughs quietly, then looks at you again. “I’m trying to say that when you showed up and started showing me up, beating me and everything, I got a little intimidated. And maybe you were right all along, but I wanted you to notice me the way I’d started noticing you. So yeah, maybe I did start tugging on your pigtails just to get your attention. You were just so—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind.” “Hold on,” you say, stepping closer. “You can’t do that. Finish it.” “Sorry. Free trial’s over. If you want me to keep going, that’ll be 200 diamonds—” “Satoru.” He closes his mouth immediately, eyes widening a fraction before he sighs. “Damn. I should’ve never asked you to say that.” You tilt your head, catching his gaze. “Please?” Something strained flashes across his face, like the word is lodged somewhere painful in his chest. “You were just so…” He exhales through his nose, defeated. “So bright that it was annoying. I couldn’t ignore you, even if I tried. Every time you laughed, my head would already be turning, and I hated it because you weren’t smiling at me.” You laugh awkwardly. “We weren’t exactly friends.”

“No,” he says softly. “That was the issue. But even then, I wouldn’t have been satisfied.” For a moment, neither of you says anything. The confession settles between you, large and impossible to ignore. You’ve given up trying to look at him because there’s a strange tightness in your chest making it hard to breathe, and Satoru looks like he’s doing everything in his power not to bolt. “Does that bother you?” he asks. Unable to speak, you shake your head. “Okay.” He exhales slowly. “Then can I try something?” You look up just as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His hand hovers there for a moment, giving you an out. You don’t take it. Mostly because your feet feel rooted to the pavement beneath you. “Satoru,” you whisper, and he seems to find whatever answer he was searching for in your eyes. He leans in slowly, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly. Your breath mingles. He hesitates, and you give him the smallest encouragement by leaning in too. Your noses brush with a ticklish little bump, and the whole world narrows to the space between your mouths— Then a sharp buzz cuts through the quiet. It doesn’t register properly in your mind at first. You only know it sounds ugly against the stillness. But Satoru knows immediately. He freezes. So do you.bThen comes the second vibration. His shoulders sag. His forehead drops forward and bumps lightly into yours. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters. “Everything okay?” you ask, though you already know the answer. He pulls back just enough to take his phone out and glance at the screen. Whatever he sees drains all the softness from his face, replacing it with that familiar unreadable tension. “Yeah,” he says, forcing a crooked smile. “I, uh, have to go. Family emergency. Again.” You smile back. “I hope everyone’s okay.” “Right. Yeah.” “You should probably go.” “Right.” He lingers for another beat, phone held uselessly in his hand, before clearing his throat and stepping back. “I’ll call you tonight?” “Yeah. Tonight.” “Cool,” he says. “Cool, cool, cool, cool. Get home safe, yeah?” “Yeah.” You keep smiling even as he starts to walk away. “Thanks for today.” You watch him go for far longer than you should, long enough that his figure starts to blur into the movement of the street beyond the bus stop. Only when he disappears properly do you let your smile falter, your hand tightening slightly around the paper cup. It hits you then, all at once and without mercy, how badly you are in trouble. You stare down at your coffee like it might offer guidance and find none. Oh, you are so doomed.

Spiderman’s muscle strain against the cold sticky goo binding his wrists behind his back, the sharp bite of them digging into his skin as he knelt on the rough warehouse floor. His suit clings to him like a second skin, torn across his chest and down his thigh from the brutal fight. There’s a gash above his eyebrow that’s dripping blood into his eyes, but for some reason his vision is clear. The amazing Spiderman makes it his purpose to never stay down for long. This time, however, he wonders if he even wants to get back up. Venom looms over him with a maw of jagged teeth and eyes like void fixed down on him with predatory amusement. “Spiderman down on his knees. What a sight.” Gojo smirks under his mask even as his knees ache and cold air brushes the exposed skin around his mouth. “I hate to break it to you but I’m not into oversized ink blots,” he spits. “And don’t get so cocky too soon. Haven’t you played Darkest Dungeon? Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.” “There’s always a response rearing to go from that tongue of yours, isn’t there?” Venom hisses. “Always so self-assured, always so prepared. I wonder how long that peace you know will last.” “If I wanted my fortune read I would have gone to a tarot card reader.” Venom laughs and the sound is suddenly so achingly familiar that Gojo freezes, something primal overturning into his stomach telling him to run. But there’s nowhere to run, not when his wrists are tied behind his back, not when he’s kneeled at the feet of his archnemesis, and especially not when the tendrils of the villain slowly pull back to reveal a humanoid form Satoru knows far too well. The black mass ebbs back from Venom’s face, appendages retracting with a wet slurp, revealing— Her. You. The girl from the 5th floor of the campus library that he kept seeing that one finals season a whole year ago, the one he once told Geto about until he saw you again with his childhood friend and decided you were firmly off-limits. The same girl he suddenly couldn’t miss in the crowd when 5pm hits and the tired students pour out seeking night outs or cozy night ins, the same girl who when he finally had a class with, had quickly cut him down with a glare that sent a jolt right through his body. The face he thinks about when he’s alone in the dark of his room, one hand down his pants and the other holding his phone. Your pretty lips now curl into a smirk as your piercing eyes that he just loves to pretend to hate, locks onto his, full of mocking triumph. The symbiote suit hugs your curves like liquid, accentuating every sway of your hips as you step even closer. Wait, what the fuck? Gojo opens his mouth to say something but his breath hitches and the quip dies on his tongue.

“What the—Y/N? What are you—” He cuts himself off when you laugh, soft and familiar, a sound far too beautiful for a grungy place like this. “What’s wrong, Spidey?” you purr, voice lilting with mock innocence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe—” He’s almost certain he stops breathing altogether as you roughly tilt his chin up with one long tendril, staring at your face because there’s nothing else to do. “You see something you like?” He splutters. “This is bullshit. You’re not Venom, you can’t be. This has to be some kind of symbiote mind-fuck trick.” “What’s wrong? You’ve lost your composure all of a sudden.” Gojo growls, a feral sound dragging up his throat. “Don’t fucking look into my mind. Stop looking like her!” You coo, lips pretty and downturned. “Stop? How can I? Spiderman, I am her.” Your words make him shudder and you press on. “Ah, so it’s about that, is it? Poor, little Spiderman, torn in so many little directions. You can’t decide whether to be Satoru or this silly attempt at being a superhero.” He flinches when his name slips from your lips, remembering how soft it had sounded when you first said it, cheeks pink and eyes fluttering down. Seeing you standing over him now, eyes harsh and unforgiving, he feels a stirring in his gut that only pushes him closer to the edge. “No snarky response this time?” “You can’t be her.” “Why not? I could be anyone.” You lift a foot and press it against his thigh, pushing it outwards casually. “Why don’t we be truthful for once, hm? And stop hiding behind all these secrets? It’s not that I can’t be her, it’s that you don’t want me to be. You’ve always vented to Suguru about how nice it would be to have it both but this is the one thing you don’t want to share with Spiderman. Me. And yet, you go against yourself and seek me out as both. Why?” Gojo grits his teeth. “I don’t have to explain anything to you. You know nothing about me.” “Oh, but I promise you I don’t miss much.” Your foot trails higher, nudging now against his inner thigh and despite the situation, he flinches, that unfamiliar feeling spilling into something scarily recognisable.

“Hold on—” “Looks like you’re still not being completely truthful, Satoru,” you purr and he hisses. Your foot presses against the bulge straining his suit, the pressure firm and deliberate. Gojo’s hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp exhale escaping him as you drag your sole along his length. “Get off me,” he growls, but it sounds more like a plea, his voice husky and ragged. He tries to shift away, wrists twisting futilely in the bindings, but his body betrays him and he leans into the friction instead. Your boot works him slowly, the leather cool against the heat building under his suit. “Make me,” you taunt, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. You don’t let up, your foot dragging slowly now, tracing the outline of his cock with teasing precision and his hips respond but bucking up involuntarily, pleasure sparking hot and fierce. He clamps his jaw, trying to stifle the sound, but it rumbles out anyway. “This…” His eyes flutter as you press down particularly hard, forcing a smirk even as his breaths come out ragged. “This is your master plan? You’re more of a—ngh—pervert than I thought.” You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Master plan? Do I need a reason to do any of this? Maybe I’ve finally decided to do something about all that eye-fucking you’ve been giving me in class. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” Your boot grinds down harder, the ridged sole catching on the zipper of his suit, right over where his cock throbs insistently. He bites back a moan but it slips out anyway, loud and guttural, his thighs quivering under the pressure. His face flushes deeper, those blue eyes narrowing in a mix of defiance and desperation. “You’re… not her. Can’t be. She'd never—” His words cut off as you twist your ankle, dragging the boot’s toe along his balls through the tight fabric, making them tighten and draw up. “Never what? Touch you like this? Make you beg with just a foot?” You lean in closer, whispering in his ear so soft he almost can’t hear over his pounding heartbeat. “Admit it, web-head. You've jerked off thinking about me pinning you down, haven’t you? All those stolen glances in the hallway, pretending you didn’t pop a boner every time I called you out.” Gojo’s breath hitches, his cock leaking pre-cum that soaks through the suit, darkening the material. He shakes his head but it’s weak, his hips rolling up to chase the friction despite himself. “Shut up. Just—hah—fuck off.” The growl lacks bite, cracking into a whine when you lift your foot slightly, denying him the pressure for a torturous second before pressing back down, slower this time, stroking from base to tip with deliberate drags. You chuckle. “Such a pretty liar. Look at you, kneeling there, dick pathetically hard. Bet you’ve never even been touched like this before, huh? Who knew Spiderman was all talk and no action.” Your boot circles the head of his cock, smearing the wet spot wider. He groans, loud and unrestrained now, his head tipping back as pleasure coils tight in his gut. “N-not… your business.” But his body’s honest, thighs spreading wider on their own and inviting more. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and he forces his eyes open to glare at you, trying for a smirk. "If this is your idea of a fight, you’re losing. I could…fuck, I could break out anytime.”

You grin, a tendril slashing his suit to free his cock. it springs free, hard and leaking, tip flushed and begging to be touched. Gojo’s eyes flutter again when you touch him bare, a soft whine escaping despite his efforts. He rolls them back slightly, fighting the wave crashing through him, but his hips roll forward, chasing the pressure. “Admit it feels good. Or are you going to keep pretending you’re not leaking over my boot right now?" He bites his lip hard. “Feels like…feels like nothing. Barely notice it.” Total bullshit. Every drag sends sparks up his spine, his cock throbbing insistently, begging for more. He can't even seem to focus on what you’re saying anymore, not when you’re twisting your ankle like so, rubbing his sensitive tip and he can’t hold back a throaty moan, his body arching into it. “Nothing? Your dick’s twitching like it’s got a mind of its own.” “I could break these cuffs anytime,” he mumbles again as if convincing himself as if his hips aren’t thrusting up greedily, fucking into the rhythm. “Break them then. Or don’t. We both know you won’t.” The friction builds up relentlessly, up, down, the ball of your foot grinding against his mushroom head on every pass, sweat beading under his mask, eyes rolling back fully now as the coil winds tighter, pleasure bordering on overload. “Oh, fuck—” Gojo rasps, voice a wrecked mess of gasps and moans. “Too much? Gonna cum for me?” He shakes his head frantically, but the denial crumbles into a choked sob when you drag your heel along the underside, pressing firmly over the vein that throbs with every heartbeat. His cock jumps, tip flaring red, and a spurt of pre-cum leaks out, coating your shoe in glossy trails. “Come on, pretty boy. You're so close,” you coo. “No… shit, I—fuck!” His words fracture as you speed up, pumping his length in firm, unyielding strokes, up to smear over the sensitive ridge, down to crush against his balls, rolling them gently before lifting to repeat. His balls draw tight, heavy and full, aching for release, and he grinds his teeth in an effort to hold back but the pressure mounts, a white-hot knot twisting in his core.

You curl your fingers in his mask and yank it off, his white hair spilling down to reveal his wrecked expression, eyes rolling back and drool dripping from the corner of his lips. you grin, pure evil and glee before you tug his hair to make him look up at you. “Come on, Satoru,” you purr. “Show me how much you hate this, how much you need it.” The command shatters him. His entire body seizes, back arching off the cold floor as the orgasm rips through and his cock erupts in thick, forceful jets that splatter across your boot, your calf, even arcing up to hit his own abdomen. He cries out, voice breaking into a raw, uninhibited moan that echoes off the warehouse walls. “Fuck, yes—oh God, Y/N!” His hips jerk helplessly as you keep stroking him through it, dragging every last shudder from his body until he’s wrung completely dry. He’s whimpering by the end of it, oversensitive and trembling, head fallen back against the pillow, chest rising and falling in ragged pants. Cum spills down the front of his suit in sticky, obscene streaks, and still you don’t let him hide from it, your hand only slowing once he’s been pushed so far past pleasure it borders on cruelty. “Not bad for a virgin,” you murmur, voice sweet in that way that makes humiliation burn twice as hot. “Bet you’ve never made yourself cum that hard, huh? All those lonely nights jerking off to thoughts of me, and this is the best you could do?” Gojo’s face burns crimson, shame and bliss tangling together until he can’t tell one from the other. “Shut up,” he breathes, though it comes out broken and weak. “That didn’t mean anything.” “Really?” you ask, and the smile you give him is devastating. “Then why are you hard again? His gaze drops before he can stop it. Sure enough, his cock is already thickening back to life, flushed and twitching against his stomach as if his body has decided to betray him completely. When he looks up again, you’re licking your lips slowly, deliberately, and his mouth goes dry enough to hurt “Want me to show you what you’ve been missing?” you ask. “Or are you still going to pretend?” Gojo isn’t a weak man, he really isn’t. But with your foot still by his thigh, body so close and promises of warmth and softness beyond his filthies fantasies, and that look in your eyes like you already know exactly how this ends, he can feel himself caving. The word is already there, already rising up his throat, yes, yes, please— And then his eyes snap open. The darkness of his room hits him like cold water. For a second he can’t move. He just lies there, disoriented, heart hammering against his ribs hard enough to hurt, the last traces of the dream still clinging to him in flashes too vivid to shake. Your voice, your mouth, the heat of your body. The sight of you above him, cruel and beautiful and impossibly close. Then reality settles in, humiliating in its clarity. He’s alone. Flat on his back in a bed that’s too warm now, sheets tangled around his legs, boxers sticking damply to his skin. His cock throbs untouched, leaking embarrassingly through the fabric, still hard enough that the loss of the dream feels almost physically painful. He drags in a breath and it catches somewhere in his chest, shaky and shallow. He groans, burying his face in his pillow, cheeks burning even though no one is there to see it, and lies there in the aftermath of his own disgrace, hard and aching and still haunted by the sound of your voice. 

Gojo is unfair. He knows he’s unfair. It’s hard not to when the reminder comes as easily as catching his own reflection in the dark screen of his laptop, or running a hand through his hair in frustration and knowing that, at the very least, having silky, soft, gorgeous white hair isn’t on his list of worries. It’s as easy as checking his grades at the end of every semester, his eyes drifting from an episode of Frieren on his laptop to the screen of his phone. When his gaze skims over his marks and settles on his final grade, Gojo knows he’s unfair. A crash in the street, someone yelling for help, and he’s already pulling on the blue-and-white mask and swinging out the window, because apparently good looks and a big brain weren’t enough. The universe had to make him Spiderman too. He knows what he is: smart, strong, and kindhearted (that last one might be a sneak). That robbery he stopped two weeks ago before his cardiovascular final? Yeah, no biggie. Did he just save a hijacked bus the morning of this very neuropharmacology tutorial? Yeah, but no sweat, he’ll still pass top of his class like always— “97%?” He watches you freeze and immediately slam the lid of your laptop down. You whip around to face the culprit who aired out your grade, temporarily stunned when it’s someone you don’t recognise. Gojo narrows his eyes. “How did someone like you get a 97?” His words come out too harsh to be surprise and lacking any warmth to come off as a congratulations. Because you don’t look like the kind of person who’d flash their grades around or fish for praise. If anything, you look horrified to have been noticed at all, eyes wide and shoulders tense like you’d been caught doing something embarrassing rather than scoring nearly full marks on a quiz the class had been stressing over ten minutes before it began. “What the fuck does that mean?” you hiss back. “Do you mind? Don’t look over my shoulder like a creep.” He smirks warily but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a 97. That’s something to gloat about. Didn’t think it would come from someone like you though.” “So you’ve been saying. What does that even mean? I don’t look like the type of person to get a 97?” “Yeah,” he says bluntly, an answer seemingly as obvious as asking if grass was green or if the sky was blue. You press your lips together to avoid cussing him out in the chatty classroom. “Do I even know you?” “It would be hard to miss me,” he shoots back. “I’m the one that's been topping these quizzes since the semester started.” “Fell off, did you?” “Please, this was a fluke, princess.” You practically hum with irritation at the nickname. “And what did you get?” He puts up a firewall immediately. “That's nunya.” “What?” “None of your business.” He grins. You grimace at his evidently childish nature. “I don't think you can say that after shoving your ugly face into my business.”

You decide to take things into your own hands, standing up from your chair to reach back and snatch his laptop. He blinks at the sudden movement, momentarily distracted at your choice of words before it registers. And Gojo is Spiderman. He could easily grab your wrist and stop you before you get too close but there's something making him hesitate. You smell nice, he notes faintly, like vanilla and something artificial but sweet. It's your perfume no doubt, he just can't wrap his head around why it smelt so good. Your fingers successfully reach close around his laptop and lifts it off the table, placing it onto your thighs as your finger slides across the trackpad. You let out a victorious, “Hah!” which has him blinking out of his daze to follow your gesture and observe the damage, seconds too late from preventing it. His mark stares back at him. 92%. Gojo notices you then, which is embarrassing because he doesn’t even know your name. All he knows is that ever since the finals season began, you’ve taken his spot on the fifth floor of the library, head down, brows furrowed in that cute way indicating your immense concentration as you try to visualise what you’re learning by tracing words and formulas in the air. He doesn’t stay for long but the next day you’re still there in his spot, and then the next, and then the day after. He stopped caring about getting his spot back on the fifth day. He finds you everywhere else, chatting with friends on the lawn outside the north biological science building, giggling over brunch in the cafeteria, the smile you flash to your friends far kinder than the one you swung at him like a weapon that day in the tutorial room. You’re unfair. Gorgeous, always put together, nails adorned with charms and chrome, the confident click of your heels against the pavement introducing your entrance into every building with no shame. His ears always tune him into your conversations, and on the day that he discovered you had a sense of humour—a good one too, God forbid—he only seemed to hate you more. Because he is unfair, yes, he knows that. But there’s something restless in his chest and you’re unfair in a similar way, but finding a fault in you would be an impossible task. And that doesn’t swing with him. Because sometimes, Gojo feels like a stick adrift a river. Sometimes the currents are fierce and he sways here and there, a puppet to its frivolous nature, and sometimes the waters are calm though he is no less at its mercy than before. He’ll duck his head when people talk to him, do their part in the assessment because it’ll be as easy as opening his laptop and writing the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t care what anyone says about him, doesn’t care that they think he’s quiet when truthfully, his mind is always whirring to talk to someone.

He has his friends, he has Geto, he has Shoko. And recently, it seems he has you too. Bright, sweet, funny. You're beautiful and you don’t even know it. He leans in to the sound of your laughter, wants to feel your palm against his cheek, feel your soft pink lips against his eyelids and on his cheeks. He wants to lose himself in your voice, whether it’s to scold him or praise him he doesn’t care, just wants to be close again. “Satoru?” Gojo flinches, jolting up right, his hand slipping from under his chin to push up his headphones and knocking them clean off his head. They're connected by wire so he catches it easily enough, but they fall down to knock against his hand awkwardly. He looks up, meeting your bemused eyes as you stare down at him, the sun behind you, your hair tumbling down your shoulders. “Hey,” he says, breathlessly. “Oh, uh, want to sit? I mean—what are you doing here? I thought you were going for lunch with… Shoko.” His words trail off uselessly when you take him up on his offer, sliding a hand to smoothen your skirt as you sit, thighs brushing his. “I’ve been trying to get Shoko and Utahime together for ages so I thought this might be a good time. Besides, I saw you from up there.” You point up at one of the taller buildings and he mentally cheers for remembering your timetable right, fist bumping his past self for picking this spot to sun bathe. “Stalking me?” he teases softly, eyes searching your face. You bump your shoulder against his. “As if. This is a chance meeting.” He chuckles, unable to take his eyes off you. “So you're free for the rest of the day, then?” “Should be.” “Okay.” You look up at him and he whips his gaze forward. “Are you?” “Sorry?” “Are you free right now, Satoru?” “Uh—yeah! Yes, I am. Free, that is. I’m free right now.” He clears his throat when his voice comes out a little gravelly, ears burning as his own words come back to him. “Sorry, I’m just…” Thankfully, you laugh, eyes curving into cute little crescents and he thinks that even though you’re always pretty, this might be the best look on you.  “Just what?” you ask, tilting your head. There's something unbearably fond in your expression, so unlike the start of the semester when you’d barely give him the time of day. “Nothing,” he lies instantly. Your brows lift and he caves under the weight of that look almost at once. “Not nothing. I mean—” He drags a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m just being weird today.” “Please, you’re always weird.” He turns to you, scandalised. “You always say such nice things.” You smile. “You know what I mean.” He does, and that’s the problem. He knows what you mean when you call him weird, knows the exact shape of your affection when you look at him like this, all soft around the edges, voice gone warm enough to sink into. He’d call himself weird if he was in your position, perhaps crueler words, but you don’t say them even if he’s deserving. It makes his chest feel too full, like there’s something alive in there clawing to get out.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. the campus hums around you in the distance, voices drift past, the rustle of leaves overhead, the low grind of a bus somewhere beyond the gates. But here, tucked away on the bench half drowned in sunlight, it feels strangely private. You glance down at his hands. “You okay? You’re fidgeting.” He looks too. His fingers are indeed twisting the headphone wire around and around, enough that it’ll probably knot if he keeps going. He stills them immediately. “Am not.” You give him a look. “Nervous?” He lets out a laugh at that, because it’s either that or admit the truth and simply die on the spot. “What would I be nervous for?” Your shoulder brushes his again when you shift, and it is such a small thing, so accidental it may as well be nothing, and yet he stops breathing for a second anyway. “I don’t know,” you murmur. “You tell me.” Gojo stares at you. There are moments in life, he thinks, that split everything into before and after. Like how there’s before he got bit and after he got bit, those grandiose moments that define his life. This might be one of them. Maybe there will always be the version of him that sat on this bench with his heart halfway up his throat, and the version after, whatever that may look like. He hopes that version of him is smiling by the end of it. He swallows. “Actually, I've been trying to.” Your expression changes, playfulness softening. “Trying to tell me something?” “Yeah.” His voice comes out rougher than he means for it to. “Yeah, I—” He stops. should he really start this off with ‘yeah’? "I’ve kind of been meaning to say—no, that sounds equally as stupid.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Not stupid, just—I had this whole thing in my head, and it sounded way better in there, so now I’m trying to find it again and it’s just—” You’re staring at him like he’s hung the moon which makes things infinitely worse. Maybe that’s your default look. You do always look so pretty. You open your mouth to say something but he beats you to it. “No, wait, I can do this.” He sits up a little straighter, like the posture alone will save him. "I just need one second because I know what I want to say, I do, it’s just every time I look at you, I forget how words work. Which is honestly humiliating and I probably shouldn’t have said that, so if you could stop being—stop looking at me like…” “Like?” You have to be messing with him at this point. “Just—can I say something mean?” You huff, pulling back a little. “What the fuck?”

“I just—I feel like I could fight with you for hours over stupid lab questions, and I always know exactly what to say then, but now—” He shakes his head, cheeks hot. “Now I can’t even get through one sentence. So maybe if I just say something mean like I always do, I'll—” You place a hand on his arm. “Don't ruin this. I’m not rushing you. You can take your time.” His body stiffens under your touch, fingers tightening around the wire in his lap. He loosens them forcefully only to tighten them again. “I think,” he starts, then winces. “No, I know that when I’m with you, everything just feels different. Like, way better. I like being around you, I like hearing you talk even when you’re telling me I’m annoying, which you do a lot, by the way. I like when you laugh at me and when you give me that look on your face right before you say something mean because you look like you want to kill me and that’s—something I probably deserve.” His mouth twitches despite himself. "I like walking you home. and I like when you ask me things you could’ve easily googled just because you know I'll know the answer.” There’s a small smile on your face as you lean in again, hanging off his every word. “And I—” he stumbles over the word, heart pounding in his chest. "I th-think, maybe, what I’m trying to say is that I—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Jesus Christ." A laugh slips out of you and he blushes. “Don't laugh,” he says, mortified. “I’m not laughing at you.” “You're definitely laughing at me.” “Okay, but only a little.” You smile wide. “But didn’t you say you like that about me?” He groans, covering his face with his hands. “That wasn’t originally in the script.” “Satoru.” There’s something in the way you say his name that makes him look up again at once. You’re close now, pretty face taking up his field of vision, and he hadn’t even realised you’d moved closer. Or maybe he’s the one who did, unable to resist your gravity. Your gaze drops to his mouth and then lifts again, and the world seems to narrow until it is only this bench, this sunlit patch of afternoon, the space between you shrinking into something fragile and unbearable. He tries once more, because he has to, because if he doesn’t say it now he never will. "I want to kiss you,” he blurts, the words tumbling out, crooked and breathless. "I really, really want to kiss you, and i’ve been trying not to notice for a while now because I wasn’t sure if I can and I wasn’t sure if you—if you maybe—and I know this is probably not the smoothest way to say this but I just—”

Wait a minute, did he end up saying ‘I like you’ or did he just out that he’s been staring at your lips for the past five minutes now? It doesn’t seem to matter because you lean forward and kiss him. There's no great sweep of music, no fireworks, no impossible cinematic pan out encapsulating the sun. Just you, leaning in as if it is the most natural thing in the world, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face, your lips soft against his. Gojo stops thinking immediately. His whole body goes rigid for one stunned second before every thought in his buzzing head simply dissipates. Heat floods him all at once, sharp and dizzying, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He's only vaguely aware that he’s stopped breathing and that his eyes are open, and that he has absolutely no clue what to do with his hands. When you pull back, only just, your thumb brushes over his cheekbone. He stares at you. You stare back, mouth curving into a shy smile that nearly kills him where he sits. “Sure,” you say. “You can kiss me.” He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His face must be bright red by now because your smile grows, softer and softer, and God, if he could bottle this moment and live inside it forever, he would. “You kissed me,” he says at last, intelligent as always. "I did.” “On purpose?” You laugh, and he thinks he might pass out. Oh yeah, he really does like it when you laugh at him. “No Satoru, by accident.” He makes a strangled noise somewhere between disbelief and delight. He can feel the heat of his face, knows he probably looks ridiculous, but for once he cannot bring himself to care, not even a little. All he can do is look at you with his heart in his throat and try, with limited success, to remember how these things should go. “Oh,” he says. Your brows pinch together in a fond little crease. “Oh?” “Sorry, I’m still stuck on the part where you kissed me.” “Do you need me to do it again?” you offer, smiling. “Though first, I think there’s something you still need to tell me. Want to give it another try?” Before he can answer, before he can even begin to think of an answer that wouldn’t make him sound completely insane, his phone vibrates sharply in his pocket. The sound cuts through the moment like a blade. He freezes, recognising the sound from one of two phones he always carries with him. It continues to vibrate, and there’s only one thing he can think of as his stomach drops.

No. Not now. You glance down toward the noise. “You should probably get that. It sounds urgent.” He nearly says no, nearly ignores it completely. But the device buzzes again, more insistently this time, and cold dread starts threading through the remains of his daze. He fumbles for it with clumsy fingers still not entirely his own, and glances down at the screen. suguru: venom sighing @ west park or one of his goons get over there All the colour drains and for one awful second, he just stares until the phone turns black and reflects his distraught expression back at him. You’re watching him now, the softness in your expression touched through with concern. “Everything okay, Satoru?” He forces a laugh that sounds thin even to his own ears. “Everything's fine, I just…” his mind scrambles wildly for something plausible, something ordinary, something that won’t make you look at him any closer than you already are and find the gaps in his lies. "It’s Suguru. He needs me.” That at least is believable. Suguru has needed him for stupider reasons. “Right now?” Guilt crashes through him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. Because your lips are still pink from kissing him, because he hasn’t even had a chance to kiss you back properly, because this is the moment he’s wanted for so long and now it’s slipping through his fingers before he can hold onto it. But people will get hurt if he doesn’t go. “Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I’m sorry.” “Hey.” Your hand finds him again. “It’s okay.” It is absolutely not okay. Still, he nods. “I just—” He swallows. “Can I…can we…” You smile, though he wonders if it’s truly genuine. “Yes, idiot. We can talk later. Only if you promise to call me tonight.” “I will,” he’s quick to say. “I promise.” He stands too quickly and nearly tangles himself in his own headphone wire. You hide your laugh behind your hand and he feels a fresh wave of heat climb up his neck. “Smooth,” you quip. “Be nice to me,” he mutters, trying and failing to sound offended. You stand too, close enough that he can smell your perfume, can see the tiny details of your face that he’s spent far too much time pretending not to memorise. Now that he’s up, now that he’s about to leave, it feels close to impossible, almost absurd like every part of him is pulled to you. “Go,” you say softly. “Before Suguru gets himself in a mess.” He huffs out a breath. Then, because he’s greedy and because you’ve ruined him since a few minutes ago, he leans down and presses the quickest, clumsiest kiss to your cheek. It's barely there, gone almost as soon as it lands, but the look on your face after makes his heart stutter all over again. “I’ll definitely call you tonight. Please wait for me.” Gojo backs away before he can embarrass himself further or worse, before he changes his mind and decides the rest of the world can burn for ten more minutes. He wants to do something stupid like run back and kiss you properly this time like all the good movies do, but his phone feels heavy in his pocket, dragging him back to the version of himself you still don’t know. But even as urgency takes over, even as the river current catches him by the ribs and yanks, there is one bright impossible thing lodged firmly in his chest. You kissed him. You kissed him. And for the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks maybe he doesn’t mind being swept away at all.

Like a girl experiencing the lows of a situationship, your phone remains mercilessly silent the entire night. It’s the first thing you check the moment your eyes open to a new day, reaching over to check your notifications. Outlook emails, reddit notifications, and nothing from the only person you want to hear from. That’s fine, maybe the issue with Geto ended up being more serious than you initially assumed. Maybe he got caught up with a family emergency and passed out the second he got home. Maybe his phone died, or maybe he’d been too busy to send anything more than a mental apology into the universe and hope it reached you by divine. That is to say, you hear nothing from him all night. None of these excuses stop the ugly little feeling from settling in your chest. Your hand closes over your phone, open to your messages with him and embarrassingly showcases or last text to him left on delivered. For a moment, you wonder if the situation is appropriate enough to double triple text considering he’s already ignored your other texts, but eventually settle on nothing because no, actually, he can make the first move for once in his life. He had been the one stammering through half a confession, the one looking at you like you all devote and in awe while you only stared back mildly concerned he was going to burst a blood vessel, the one to kiss your cheek and promised to call all sweet-like. If he wants to disappear after that, then he can deal with the consequences without your help. The presentation goes just as well as you thought it would considering you’re running on an accumulated two hours of sleep and you’re missing a partner. Considering the assessment is a pair presentation, that seems pretty bad. You do your section first, voice steadier than you feel, though when you reach the point where he’s supposed to take over, there is a split second where your whole mind goes blank. Humiliation flashes through you hot and clean because this was meant to be the two of you and everyone can see it is not. Because beneath the frustration and embarrassment, there is something much worse curling inside you now. When you finish, the tutor thanks you with a sympathy that makes your skin crawl. As you hurry out of the lab, every sensation is suddenly all too much. the feeling of your tote under your arm, the clacking of your shoes against the floor, the bustle of students all around and you groan when you see just how many other people are leaving the building. Your pace slows against your wishes as you attempt to weave the crowd. He didn’t show up. You bite your lip, hard. He didn’t show up. You glance down at your phone and swipe. No new notifications. He didn’t show up. All that talk had been nothing. He never took you seriously at all. Something akin to betrayal fills your chest and you wonder if you’re really going to start crying over a boy who has a digimon keychain on his bag. Said it gave him personality, said it was something like a photo of loved ones glanced at during a war. It's stupid, you’re stupid, you think, because how could you seriously think something new was budding there, that something was actually happening? A hand catches your wrist in the crowd and tugs you hard to the side. You gasp as your shoulder brushes someone on the way past, the ground shifting under you before you’re pulled into the narrow strip of wall between two noticeboards and a vending machine.

“Wait!” You wrench your arm back on instinct, breath already halfway to a sharp insult, only for it to die the second you look up. Gojo stands in front of you, chest rising and falling too fast like he ran all the way here. His hair is a mess, his glasses slightly crooked, and there’s a stiffness to his movements. not that you care, not after this. “Am I—” “You’re late,” you blurt, all venom and wounded pride. “Actually, you’re absent because late implies you cared to show at all.” His expression crumbles. “I know.” “Do you?” “Yes,” he swallows, voice rough. “I know.” “Then what are we doing here?” People move around you on both sides, students flowing past in little groups, too absorbed in their own conversations to notice how your whole world has narrowed down to this one stupidly tall boy standing in front of you like he hasn’t just ripped out your heart and stomped all over it. “Something came up,” he says. “I couldn’t help it.” You laugh, ugly and tired. “That’s crazy because something came up for me too. Does the presentation ring any bells?” His jaw tightens. “I’m serious, something did come up otherwise I would have been here. Look, I know how this looks but my phone broke.” The excuse lands heavy in the silence that follows. You stare at him incredulously. Was he really giving you that excuse right now? You start to turn around from his bullshit, not trusting yourself to speak, but he reaches out and holds you there by the wrist. “I know how it sounds, trust me, I wouldn’t believe you either If I were you—” “You’re right, I don’t believe you.” “That's not fair,” he says, desperate. You take a step back, but the wall is there and the crowd is there and he is still there, looking at you with that same helpless expression from yesterday like he can plead his way back into your good graces. “You dropped your phone? What else did you drop, your common sense? Your sense of responsibility?” “Come on, that’s not fair. You’re not even letting me apologise.” “You don’t have a choice,” you snap back. You take a deep breath to reset your thoughts, exhaling out any emotion leaving your voice empty. “Look, I get it. We didn't start off on the same side and maybe you never really stopped feeling that way, even when I thought we were friends. “Y/N—”

“Maybe it was my mistake for ever thinking that. So I’m sorry I’m so gullible.” Once you start, you find the words rushing out without much thought. Briefly, a small voice wonders if you’re really going to crash out like this in the middle of the busy science building, but oh well. There’s a twisted kind of satisfaction when you watch his face crumble. “I almost believed you really cared about whatever the fuck was happening between us, friendship or—whatever the hell it was. If this was revenge for everything that’s happened before, then you’re a real piece of shit, Satoru.” “I said I was sorry.” “And I’m supposed to do what with that exactly?” “Believe me.” You scoff. “Why should I?” His eyes widen a fraction and you press on. “Seriously, why? You say things and you disappear and every time something important is about to happen, you leave. You act like I matter and then the second I start to believe it, you’re gone again. So why should I believe you now?” “Because I’m here now,” he says, sharper than before. You laugh. “Now. You’re here now.” “I came as fast as I could.” “And I was supposed to know that how?” His nostrils flare. “What do you want me to say?” “Well, what am I supposed to think?” you demand. “Because right now it kind of looks like you freaked out after yesterday and decided avoiding me was easier. So it's fine. I see now that you don’t care about anything that was happening between us so, whatever. I don’t care either.” “That's not true.” Gojo forces out through clenched teeth. his face tightens and for a second, he looks angry too, and the sight of it sends a mean little thrill through your chest because good. Good. Let him feel bad. “I do care.” “But not enough to show up to the day of the presentation?” You make noise of disbelief. “Not showing up doesn’t even have anything to do with us, it’s just common sense if you care about your grades like I know you do!” “Exactly, so do you really think I wanted to miss out? Obviously I didn’t want to miss out on 20% too!” You can’t help it, you feel petty and latch onto his words. “Oh, so that’s your biggest concern after all, huh?” “Don't twist my words, you brought it up first.” He runs his free hand through his hair. “What are we even… look, I didn’t want to make you present by yourself. Something just  genuinely came up.”

You find a small part of yourself believing him. “What came up? a family emergency?” He doesn't say anything. You laugh. Nothing about this is funny. You feel like you’re losing your mind. “Okay. Sure. Something came up. You definitely didn’t do this to piss me off.” He groans. “Not everything is about you.” The silence after is immediate and total. His eyes widen almost at once, horror flashing across his face like he can hear himself only after the words are already out in the world. He takes half a step forward. “Wait—” “Okay, great.” “I didn’t mean to say that.” “No?” Your laugh comes out thin and shaky. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me.” “Y/N.” “I’m not making this about me, Satoru. You made it about me the second you promised something and then disappeared.” Your voice catches, but you force it steady again. “All I did was believe you.” He steps forward again, hand circling your wrist. You move to pull away but when you look up, you freeze. He looks awful up close. Paler than usual, lips chapped, a faint shadow purpling the skin just above the collar of his shirt where fabric has shifted just enough to expose it. His hand on your wrist is warm, too warm, and his fingers are shaking. A smarter, calmer version of you would ask why. This version however, only notices that he still won’t answer. “What?” you ask, because your voice has to be empty or you will break. “What exactly do you want from me?” He stares at you like the answer should be obvious. “Time,” he says at last. “Just give me more time.” For one beat, two, you can’t even process his words. Then something hot and sharp tears through your chest. “You cannot be serious. more time?” you repeat disbelief making the words go thin. “You say you care, you say you were trying, and then when I ask for one actual answer you tell me to wait. Again. Gonna tell me you’ll tell me later again too?” “Just listen to me for a second.” “No.” You take a shaky breath and it does nothing to steady you. “No, I am so tired, Satoru. I am tired of feeling stupid around you, I always have. I’m tired of guessing and I’m tired of every conversation with you ending like this, with me standing here waiting for you to stop looking at me like there’s something you’re dying to say but you won’t say it.” “That's not what this is.” “Then tell me what it is!” “I can’t!” The outburst turns heads this time and people slow as they pass. He notices a second too late and drags a hand over his face, breathing hard. When he speaks again, his voice drops, but it is no less intense for it. “I can’t,” he repeats. “Not here. Not like this.”

You press your lips together. “Then maybe whatever this is isn’t worth it.” The words shatter the conversation. You don’t mean them and you know you don’t mean them the second they leave your mouth. But you’re too proud, too hurt, to take them back and Gojo has gone still. You watch the moment it lands, watch him stop moving altogether, even to breathe. His mouth parts then closes, and he looks at you like he doesn’t recognise you for half a second, the sight making regret flash hot and immediate through your body. “Satoru—” A ringtone cuts through the air and you both freeze. The sound of the ringtone is so familiar by now, a haunting melody that signals the end of almost every conversation you’ve had with him. Your eyes follow the sound to his pocket. He told you his phone broke. Something in you just gives. You scoff at first, then laughter quickly follows. His face falls and he knows he’s lost you even before you shake his hold off, stepping back and looking away. His hand moves toward his pocket and stops. “Okay, I know this is really bad but please just wait.”“Enough, Satoru. I don’t know why you’re even making this that big of a deal,” you choke out, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll succeed in placing something stronger than your self-restraint between the two of you. “The project is over whether you cared to show up or not.”

He flinches and you can practically see him split in two, body angled toward you while something else keeps him from moving. His jaw is tight, hand flexing uselessly at his side, eyes on yours like he’s trying to hold the moment together through sheer force.

“Listen to me—”

“I need to get home,” you say.

He steps forward. “I’ll walk you to the station.”

You actually laugh and when you speak, you hate how tired you sound, how flat. “Why would you do that? I said the project is over, Gojo. And so is any reason for us to talk.

Gojo stiffens, arm falling slack to his side.

For a second, you think he might stop you or say something more. Instead, he just stands there, the phone finally gone silent in his pocket, his face stricken and too pale beneath the fluorescent lights.

You make it out of the building with your hands clenched and your mouth pressed into a thin line. The walk to the bus stop feels unreal, like moving through water. By the time you get there, your phone buzzes once and your heart lurches so hard it hurts.

shoko: u okay???

That bastard probably texted her about the situation. Of course he did. Somehow he could make time for that, but not for you. Something bitter and awful curls in your stomach.

You type back: “of course!!!!!!” because lying is contagious apparently, and add enough exclamation marks to make it look convincing before shoving your phone into your bag and sitting down when the bus pulls up to the curb.

The doors fold close and still, stupidly, some part of you looks up expecting him to be there.

Gojo should have known the two of you wouldn’t talk after the argument. There are no late-night calls anymore, no accidental lingering in the same space, no easy back-and-forth that used to slip so naturally between you, no watching you from the corner of his eye when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The silence that settles in the space left behind is slow and heavy and Gojo feels like he’s drowning. He tells himself it’s for the best. Maybe he flew too close to the sun and now he’s melting and falling and nothing, not his spider instincts nor his web, can catch him. You’re simply too radiant and too civilian for someone of his status quo. But then if that was true, why does it get under his skin every time he sees you with Suguru, laughing together somewhere on campus? Why does something in him still ache whenever he comes across a tweet he knows would make you laugh, only to remember you’ve blocked him? And why can’t he stop thinking about how easy it used to be between you, back when you looked at him like he was someone worth knowing, before everything got so complicated? And if he truly believed having you is as impossible as it seemed, then why was he following you back home? Spiderman shakes his head, wishing he didn’t have this restrictive masks on so he could run a hand through his hair and shake out his thoughts. Because he doesn’t have any ulterior motives as he follows close behind, rooftop to rooftop, as you make your way back from campus, no matter how sinister it sounds. No, he’s simply making sure a kind, helpless civilian gets home safe now that the sun has set and night creeps in. After all, you’re walking alone with your hands buried deep in your pockets and your shoulders curled in against the cold. He catches the slight shiver that runs through you, the quiet sneeze you try to stifle, the irritated little kick you give a loose rock after it nearly sent you stumbling. You look tired, closed off in a way he isn’t used to, and it hurts him to believe it might be his fault. “This is stupid,” he reasons. “I look like a creep.”

Despite the truth of his words, he lingers above you anyway, haunted by the contrast of it all, the way you once smiled at him so easily, the way your face fell when he disappointed you, the softness of your voice when you left him. You look at Spiderman with a warmth and openness you no longer spare Gojo, and he hates how selfishly relieved he is to get even that much. Fine. If you won’t have him as Gojo, he’ll take being Spiderman. 

Spiderman drops down in front of you in one smooth motion, feet hitting the pavement with a soft thud. “Hey—”

You move instantly, lunging forward to grab the back of his neck, other hand on his tricep, and hook your leg behind one of his. He blinks, standing upright one moment, before you pull his leg out from under him and he’s flipped onto his back on the ground. 

Your face softens as you look down at your perpetrator. “What the—Spiderman?”

You quickly let go and step back before realising you should at least help him up. He takes your hand, standing up and rubbing his shoulder. 

Kind and helpless civilian, my ass. 

“Are you okay?” you fuss, hands hovering uncertainly. “I mean, that was kind of your fault for scaring me though. But are you okay? Seriously, don’t do that ever again you could get hurt. But are you hurt?”

He winces, rolling his shoulder once more before chuckling. “There goes any worries I might have had about you.”

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a city to save?”

Spiderman drops his hands to his side. “It’s strange because it sounds like you don’t want me to be here.”

“It took you this long to realise?” you tease with a smile. 

“Actually,” he says, quieter now, “I wanted to thank you.”

That catches you off guard enough to still. “For what?” 

“For all the help recently.” He lifts one shoulder in a careless half-shrug, but there’s something more deliberate under it, something oddly sincere. “I don’t usually do sidekicks. They steal all my thunder, and everybody knows the side characters end up more popular than the lead anyway. Bad for morale. But you came pretty close.”

“That was…” You blink. “Almost nice. Thanks?” 

“Don’t get used to it. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Is that what this is?” you ask. “A gratitude tour?”

“God, no. I do enough free labour as it is.” He watches you laugh for a moment, eyes softening behind his mask before he says, “So. Are you free right now?”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Is this another deeply scientific survey on how normal civilians spend their evenings? Because your sample size is getting weirdly specific.”

He huffs a laugh and rocks back on his heels. “Not exactly. Although for the record, your data has been invaluable. Very compelling stuff. Lots of sarcasm. Mild threat level. Surprisingly strong upper body.”

“Flattery is not going to save you here.” You study him for a second. “What do you mean, then?”

He gestures vaguely down the street, then up at the skyline like he hasn’t fully committed to the idea himself. “I mean… you look like you’ve had a rough week, and I’ve had a rough week, and I thought maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve property damage or mutual yelling.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Geez, that narrows it down a little, doesn’t it?”

“I’m being serious.”

The joking edge in his voice softens into something a little more fragile and when you look at him more carefully, at the mask, at the battered suit, at the way he’s trying to sound casual about something he clearly thought through before showing up, you feel something warm blossom in your chest. 

“And what,” you ask slowly, “does Spiderman do when he’s not concussed?”

He spreads his hands. “Tonight? He was hoping to take a very pretty girl on a low-budget date.” 

You stare at him stunned before laughing softly, looking away before flickering your gaze back. “I bet you only say stuff like that behind the mask.”

“That was smooth, you can be honest.” He grins behind the mask, you can hear it in the shape of his voice. “But that complaint doesn’t exactly sound like a no.” 

You look away again, toward the empty stretch of pavement ahead, the city washed in evening light and the first hints of neon waking up around you. You think of the hollow room waiting at the end of this street, your cold sheets and tear-stained pillow, and then of how light you suddenly feel standing here with him. It is not enough to erase everything, but it is enough to loosen something in your chest that has been wound painfully tight for days.

When you look back at him, you’re smiling despite yourself. “I’m free.”

“Great,” he says immediately, a little too fast, then reins himself back in. “Great. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. You said yes. That’s good, that’s great, even.” 

You snort. “So where are we going?”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to let you in on a secret. “That depends. Are you going to scream if I say I had something less walkable in mind?”

It takes a second for the meaning to land, and when it does you gesture sharply upward. “Please don’t tell me you’re slinging me up there again. That’s happened to me twice now and neither of those experiences were fun.”

“I wouldn’t sling you,” he says, offended. “That sounds so careless and crass. I’d hold you very, very securely. In my arms, even.” 

“Can you even hold me? I just flipped you onto your back.” 

He laughs, then offers you his hand, gloved palm open between you. “Come on, just one swing. I’ll take it slow this time.”

You eye his hand, then his mask, then back to his hand. “You didn’t take it slow last time.”

“In my defence, we were under attack by sentient goo both times. Be gentle with me.” 

You hesitate before gently placing your hand in his. “Fine. But if I die, I’ll come back as a supervillain and haunt you specifically.” 

His fingers curl around yours, warm even through the suit. 

“No promises.”

Before you can second-guess yourself, he steps in, one arm sliding around your waist with practiced ease. The closeness knocks the breath from your lungs more effectively than the sudden lift when his feet leave the ground. You make a sharp noise and grab at his shoulders. 

“There it is,” he says, voice bright with delight and close to your ear. “That’s the exact reaction I was hoping for. My masculinity is doing just great, by the way.”

“Do not make this about you,” you snap, though the words come out thinner than intended.

“Bit hard not to,” he says lightly. “You are, technically, in my arms.”

His web catches somewhere high above with a sharp thwip and you only have a moment to gasp out the beginnings of a final protest before the pavement drops away beneath you. 

The city opens under you in one dizzying rush, all glowing traffic and dark rooftops and windows lit gold against the deepening blue of the evening. Your stomach lurches so violently you’re certain it gets left behind somewhere around the second floor of the nearest building, and your grip on his shoulders tightens with enough force to probably leave bruises through his suit. 

“Oh my God,” you choke out, voice snatched by the wind. “Oh my God, I’m flying. Oh my God, this is how I die.” 

He laughs, shameless and much too pleased with himself for someone who is holding your life in his hands. “That’s a little grim. If you’d only open your eyes, you’d see how beautiful it is.” 

“Open my eyes?” you repeat, incredulously. “Spiderman, my eyes will dry out and roll out of my head!”

His hold shifts just slightly, firmer at your waist as he catches another web and swings you both into a smoother arc. “Trust me,” he says, quieter this time, the teasing still there but softened around the edges. “Just for a second. Look.”

You crack your eyes open in narrow slits, and for one disorienting beat all you can really see is him—mask blurred at the edges, the line of his jaw beneath it, the hood rippling back with the force of the wind. Then your gaze drifts past him, out and down and everywhere at once.

Below, the harbour stretches out, black-blue and endless, broken only by the ribbons of reflected light from the bridge and the waterfront. Boasts sit like small, blinking stars, bobbing in the gentle waves, and the skyline curves around the edge of the bay, glittering and frankly unreal. 

“There,” he says, gentler now. “That’s better. I told you I’d take it easy this time.”

“You said a lot of things,” you mutter, though some of the panic has begun to leak out of your voice replaced by quiet awe. “Most of them were stupid.”

“Yeah, but were they charming stupid or just regular stupid?”

That manages to pull a short, unwilling laugh out of you, the gesture tipping your head back to look at the sky. The first stars are visible now, faint but there, and above them the clouds are smeared thin and silver. Then you look down at the water again, at how impossibly far below it is, and somehow that distance no longer terrifies you quite as much.

The water below catches the lights in broken gold, and he swings you through another perfect arc, close enough now that you can hear the faint slap of waves against the pylons. The city around you glitters as the sky deepens. His arm around your waist stays firm and sure, and with every swing your fear ebbs a little more, making room for something warm and foreign. 

He must feel the change in you because after a moment, he turns his head just enough for his voice to reach you clearly. 

“Okay,” he says. “Now that you trust me a little more, let me take you somewhere.” 

You lift your head to look at him. “Somewhere? I thought this was the date.” 

“This is the foreplay.” 

You grimace, wishing you weren’t being held hostage miles above deep water to pull back. “And just like that, I’m dry.” 

He laughs, the sound warm and easy. “But your complaining has finally stopped so I’d take that as a win. And for the record, I meant there’s more I still want to show you. I’m not blowing my entire budget on just one dramatic entrance.”

The next arc carries you around the edge of a low building, and then the shape of it begins to emerge properly. The amusement park stretches out in front of you, lights flickering on as dusk settles fully. The ferris wheel looms overhead, its metal frame catching the last of the sunset, and with most of the rides closed, the whole place feels strangely eerie in its emptiness. But then the water catches the light in soft ripples, the sky deepens into indigo, the first stars begin to blink into view, and it becomes something quietly beautiful. 

Spiderman watches you from the side, the light from the nearest streetlights in your eyes. His body is uncharacteristically still, mask tilted toward you. 

“Woah,” you breathe out at last. 

His shoulders relax just a fraction. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Thought you might like it. And look, I reserved the entire place out for you. It’s all yours for the entire night.”

“That’s because it’s closed.” 

He grins and holds out his hand. “Come on. I know a way for you to get a view of the city high up and without your eyeballs drying out on you. I’m trying to be accommodating now that I know you’re apparently very fragile about flying.”

“As any normal person would, I fear.” 

You eye his outstretched hand and then at the pier around you. The place feels suspended in time, the shuttered stalls, the way the lights glow without the usual crowds to dull them. 

“You’re very confident for someone who almost got flipped onto concrete five minutes ago,” you say, but take his hand anyway. 

“What can I say?” he shrugs, fingers warm as he interlaces them. “I trust you not to do it again. We’re close like that, right? But seriously, can we stop bringing that up? It’s a sensitive topic for me.” 

He leads you past a locked gate, showing off his lockpicking skills which prompts a raised brow and not the fawning he had initially expected, then to another gate to which you just had to look away from while he broke in. You walk beside him until he’s standing beneath the ferris wheel, metal bones creaking softly. 

Spiderman glances up then looks back down at you, holding out his hand in a flourish. 

“My lady,” he says, dipping his head. “Would you care to have a go?” 

“Real original,” you say but don’t protest when he guides you into one of the empty carriages. 

It sways slightly as you settle in, the door closing with a soft sound. Then the wheel jerks once, twice, then starts moving ever so slowly. Your breath catches as the ground drifts away, the pier shrinking beneath, lights blurring into a soft constellation of their own. There’s no rush like when you were swinging, just a gentle, steady climb lifting you above the city skyline.

You lean forward, hands gripping the edge of the carriage as the city opens up before you. It stretches out endlessly, lights scattered like spilled glitter, the dark water reflecting everything through a dreamy haze. 

“Is this what you see everyday?” you ask. 

Spiderman hums, relaxing into the seat opposite you “Maybe something close adjacent.”

“Well it’s gorgeous. I can’t believe I forgot how freeing it feels to go to amusement parks. There’s just something about being so high up, you know? But I guess I don’t need to be telling you that.” 

“Enamoured already? We haven’t even reached the top yet.” He stares at you for a moment. “Okay, pop quiz. Which do you like better, the ferris wheel or the swinging?” 

“Definitely the ferris wheel.”

“That hurts.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder to shoot him a cheeky grin. “Why are you sitting on the other side? Is the view better over there?”

He tilts his head and looks at you for a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says at last. “It’s pretty.”

He doesn’t pull his gaze away from you and it takes a second for the words to land properly, and another second for the warmth in your face to catch up with them. You laugh softly, more because you need somewhere to put the sudden nervousness than because it’s especially funny.

“You’re really pulling out all the stops today, aren’t you?” Your gaze flicker from the view back to him. “Is this something you do with all the civilians you save? I’d hate to embarrass myself by thinking I’m special.” 

“Would you compliment me back if I said it was just you?” 

“Maybe. Are you telling the truth?” 

“Yes.” He turns his body slightly so he can rest his elbow on the back of the seat, unabashedly staring right at you. “It’s just you.”

The carriage creaks softly. The wheel keeps turning and somewhere below, music too faint to make out drifts from some unseen speaker, somewhat staticky and distant. 

With nothing else to do, you laugh again, buying you some much needed time to figure out what to say next. “If you needed a boost to your ego, you could have just said so. You didn’t have to bring me to a half-abandoned amusement park and make me stare at the harbour to get it.”

“And the compliment?”

“I guess you’re not as annoying as I initially assumed you were.” 

“My ego definitely does not need the help,” he says easily. “And what kind of compliment is that? Give me something a little more impersonal.”

“You’re humble,” you observe with a good mannered snort. 

“It comes with the whole superhero thing.” He continues to watch you until he realises that this prolonged eye contact should come with some form of conversation.

Spiderman sits up a little, crossing one leg over the other. HIs ankle dangles and bumps into yours, a mere accident that makes you freeze so your body doesn’t move away.

“How have you been doing?” he asks, and the question comes out with an almost awkward plainness to it, stripped of the usual easy swagger. A second later he seems to hear himself and tries to recover, lifting one shoulder. “You seem a little quieter than usual. Not that I’ve been paying attention or anything. I just have, you know, a lot of care for the citizens of this city.”

The ferris wheel creaks as it carries you both a little higher, the lights of the pier shifting below in soft, sleepy colours. He watches you for a beat too long, and you know the joke gave him cover, but not much. The question is still sitting there between you, small and strangely careful.

You glance at him. “That was subtle. Really invisible work there.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I pride myself on my restraint. I could’ve been much creepier about it.”

“I’m sure that was difficult for you.”

“It was,” he says with a sigh. “You have no idea how hard I’m working right now to seem normal.”

You look back out over the water, the lights trembling across the surface. “I’ve been fine. That’s the official answer.”

“I think I’ve earned myself the unofficial answer,” he says quietly. 

You fold your arms loosely over your middle. “It’s ridiculously stupid. Like, who hangs out with a superhero and starts ranting about their situationship?”

He makes a little choked sound which makes you look over in concern. He quickly covers his mouth and waves you on. “Situationship? I didn’t know it would have counted as a situationship.”

You frown because what exactly does he know about what ‘it’ is? “It’s 2026, everyone’s idea of love is warped. If it doesn’t have a label then people will just slap the word ‘situationship’ over it and pray for the best.”

“Right, right. Please continue.” 

“Well, there was someone. Obviously.” You stop and let out a sigh, slumping. “Or maybe there wasn’t and I just made him into someone in my head. I can’t really tell anymore, it’s all just so messy. I thought maybe there was something there, I thought that was what everything was building up towards and then… we had this argument and it was honestly embarrassing looking back at it and now we don’t talk. So.” 

“Did you want there to be something?” 

Ignoring the fact that you’re having a love life talk with Spiderman, of all people, you answer honestly. “Of course. I wouldn’t be this annoyed if I didn’t.”

Spiderman lets his head knock against the window as he groans. “Okay. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. Of course you wanted something, of course.”

You glance sideways at him. “Why do you sound like that?” 

“Second-hand sorrow.”

“I think they call that empathy.”

“I just think,” he says, his voice a little rougher now, “it would’ve been easier if you’d said no. I’m only saying that because I’m looking out for you, obviously. As a public servant.”

You snort despite yourself but the heaviness settles back in quickly enough. “It would have been easier if he just kept being an asshole like when it all started. If he’d just kept being a dick, then fine, whatever, I could have lived with that if I never found out the kind of guy he is. But he wasn't, he ended up being kind. And funny. And actually decent and that really pisses me off. He made me hopeful and I think that might be the worst part.”

Spiderman goes very still across from you, shoulders pulling tighter and chin dipping just slightly so he’s staring a hole through the floor of the carriage. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone quieter. “Yeah,” he says. “That does sound pretty bad. Especially if he knew what he was doing.” You frown. “I don’t even know if he did. I can’t tell if he was just oblivious, or if he really did mean something by it but then freaked himself over nothing.” “That’s not better,” Spiderman retorts. “That makes him sound very pathetic.” You look at him properly now, the dim lights from below catching on the higher points of his face. “You’re taking this really personally for someone who doesn’t know him.” He lets out a short laugh. “Maybe I just have strong opinions about men disappointing women. Somebody has to, the bar is in hell.” You exhale a laugh through your nose. “Exactly.” The carriage gives a small creak as it keeps moving and for a few creaky moments, neither of you say anything. The quiet isn’t awkward, and he hasn’t said enough to put you in your thoughts, but it’s quiet anyway. Then Spiderman clears his throat and leans forward, elbow braced on his knees. “Okay, I’m going to say one more thing about it and then I’m going to stop being so emotionally available. It feels a little off brand to what we have going on.” You snort. “Sure, go for it.” “I think,” he starts carefully, “that if someone made you feel seen and hopeful for more and then disappeared, you’re allowed to think he’s a jerk. You don’t have to make excuses just because he also had some good qualities. Because being kind in some moments doesn’t cancel out making you feel abandoned in others. But maybe…” He takes a breath. “Don’t give up on him. Please.” For some reason, the sincerity in his voice makes you pause. Damn, so even superheroes experience situationships? Because he sounded really invested just then in a way that can only be explained as first-hand experience. You wonder what kind of person could break Spiderman’s heart like that. “Thanks for the love advice, Spiderman.” He nods solemnly. “No problem.” And because the entire situation is simply too ridiculous to keep a straight face, you laugh. He smiles too, watching you for a moment before letting out his own laugh. “There you are,” he says. “I was wondering what other crimes I’d have to commit tonight to fix the mood.” “We’re going to have to circle back and talk about the lockpicking eventually.” “As long as it isn’t today.” The carriage gives a gentler, longer groan as it continues descending. You let your head tip back against the seat and, almost absentmindedly, your eyes drift out toward the skyline again. You frown. “Oh.” He looks out too. “That sounded like a bad oh. What kind of oh was that?”

You look past him, past the window, toward the stretch of harbour and the city beyond. “I think we missed the top.” He blinks. “What?” “The peak,” you say, sitting forward. “The very top of the ferris wheel? We were talking and I didn’t even notice we’d already gone over it.” “Oh wow, that guy is the worst. He stole your ferris wheel climax too.” “Is it also part of your superhero job description to ruin every moment with some sexual innuendo?” He lifts both hands. “Okay, fair, I’m having a bad wording night. But this is hard on me okay? I arrange a beautiful nighttime ferris wheel, I listen supportively while you talk about another man, and still somehow I’m the bad guy.” “Right? How do you do it?” The carriage is nearly at the bottom now. Below, the pier glows in soft strings of light and you feel a strange sense of finality when it shudders to a stop. Before you can maneuver around a ‘thanks for tonight, see you first thing in the morning!’, Spiderman leans forward. “Don’t look so ready to go just yet, there’s still the aftercare part.” You sigh but don’t berate him. “There’s still more? Someone save me.” The carriage door clicks open with a soft metallic sound. He stands first and offers you his hand again, less theatrical this time, and more sincere. “Come on,” he says, voice soft in the wind. “Don’t go home yet. Stay with me a little longer, that’s all I’m asking. Let me be the part of tonight you remember better.” You look at the hand he’s still holding half between you. Then, before you can overthink it, you slip your hand into his. “But only because I’m curious what exactly counts as better.” He turns his hand, catching yours properly, and something in your stomach flips at the gesture. “Good,” he says, low and warm. “Because I’ve been trying very hard all night not to ask too obviously.”

You lied before. Swinging is leaps and bounds better than sitting stationary in a small carriage inching along at a snail’s pace. It’s exhilarating and freeing, and yes, your eyes still hurt when you open them too wide, but you’ve figured out the perfect amount of squinting to keep them from tearing up. Instead, you whoop and cheer as he swings you in high arcs and dramatic drops, skimming close enough to the ground that you might believe the end of your life is waiting there, if not for your growing trust that Spiderman will always pull you back up. Half your screams are still terror, though. Spiderman isn’t silent either. He laughs right into your ear when you cling to him tighter, praises you when you throw your head back and cheer, and points out his favourite places to sit and watch the sunrise. He complains that the city’s architecture doesn’t cater nearly enough to his swinging needs, as though that should have been a priority in urban planning. He carries you over a football stadium and you marvel at its size, the bright field below looking almost unreal from up here. “Think you can handle a little more?” he murmurs against your ear. High on adrenaline, you nod against his neck. Then he drops you. His arms slide out from under your knees and he quickly unwinds your hands from around his neck. One moment you are safe in his hold, and the next you are falling, a heavy body surrendered to gravity as the ground rushes up to meet you. Your scream could wake the whole city if it were not already awake. You look up. The sky above is vast, endless, strewn with stars so beautiful they almost make you forget the terror roaring through you. The wind screams in your ears, your clothes snapping against your body, and somewhere inside the panic there is a strange, suspended calm that feels almost like freedom. Just before the ground can meet your back, Spiderman swoops in from the side and catches you cleanly in his arms. The force of it steals another cry from you, but then he is already pulling you upward again, the momentum sweeping you into another great arc before gravity draws you back, over and over until the motion finally begins to slow. For one suspended moment, the two of you dangle in the air, saved from certain death by nothing but the web shot from his wrists. Metres above the ground, your life held so easily in someone else’s hands, you find that you feel no fear at all. In fact, you are laughing. It starts as a breathless, disbelieving sound, then spills into something uncontrollable, and he chuckles at first before his own laughter joins yours. You laugh until your lungs ache, until your face hurts, until all you can feel is the warmth of his breath against your cheek and the solid certainty of his arms around your back. He makes no move to set you down or sling you back to safety. Instead, he only keeps you there, held against his chest, his masked face angled down toward yours. You want to believe he is looking at you the way you are looking at him, full of wonder and something even softer than that, but it is hard to be certain when his face is hidden. Your laughter dwindles into one last helpless giggle as you peer up at him. “Nice catch.”

Your gaze drops from the white of his eyes to the shape of the mask stretched over the bridge of his nose, the faint outline of his mouth beneath the fabric. There has not been a single moment in your strange, ridiculous friendship with Spiderman when you have been so curious about who he is under that mask. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warm and low. “I kind of do this for a living.” You laugh softly, and he shivers when your breath mists against the fabric over his lips. “Do you remember when you first saved me?” you ask. “Yes, I slammed into a bus stop and ruined it forever. I also remember telling you to never mention that again,” he says immediately. You nod, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “We were so different back then. I almost thought you were shy the amount of times you ran away.” He is quiet for just long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, softly, “Pretty girls fluster me.” You snort, but there’s no hiding the warmth that spreads across your face, and for once you make no move to cover it. Let him see it. Let him know the effect he has on you, just how fiercely this thing burns within you, this aching desire to hold him close, to whisper his name and feel him shiver beneath your touch. Slowly, as if afraid to snap the fragile thread of tension between you, you pull your hand away from your chest and trail it up the side of his neck, your touch feather-light. You hear his breath catch. Feel it, too. Your fingers drift higher until your palm cups his cheek through the mask. “I want to know who you are,” you say softly. He flinches. “You can’t.” “Why not?” you ask, voice gentle. “You don’t trust me?” “That’s not it.” “Really?” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Because I would’ve accepted that as an answer.” He goes oddly still. “What?” Spiderman’s stunned silence makes you smile, and a quiet laugh slips out of you at how easy he is to read despite the mask. “What’s wrong? I’ve read the comics. I’ve seen the movies. I know what happens when the superhero reveals his identity.” You tip your head, eyes never leaving him. “Something bad always follows. It’s like punishment for their hubris. The main companion dies, or the hero has to choose between their lover and the world. It always ends in tragedy.” He recovers quickly enough, his arms tightening around your waist as if instinctively holding you closer. “You think I couldn’t save both you and the world?” You ignore the implications of his words, biting back a smile. “And that would be the hubris part.” He scoffs, though the sound comes out a touch too strained to be convincing. “That’s not why I can’t tell you my identity, princess.” “Then tell me why.” Your voice drops lower, soft as breath. “Because right now it feels like you’re making up rules as you go.” He hesitates. It is brief, but not brief enough. “You wouldn’t…” He swallows. “You wouldn’t feel the same. It would change things. It would change whatever this is.” You go quiet at that, mulling the words over. Then your hands drift from his neck to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath the suit. Looking up at him, you hum. “Do I know you?” Spiderman flinches again. “No.” You laugh softly at how bad he is at lying. “Alright. Are we friends?” He doesn’t react quite as strongly to that, which tells you enough to keep going. “Do we not get along?” “Hold on—” You immediately compose a mental list of all those who had once wronged you in some way. Some were easy to recall, their offences more recent like the cyclist that had rode past you one morning and knocked your coffee out of your hands leaving you confused and uncaffeinated for class, or your neighbour who is always throwing parties. Maybe it’s someone closer to you than that, like Naoya, or Toji, or Mei Mei, or that old lady that always comes in at 8am on a Thursday and routinely complains about her coffee not being hot enough. You frown at that last thought and Spiderman catches it, opening his mouth to stop you. “Are you a student, or—”

He hisses loud enough to cut you off. “Don’t guess. Don’t you dare. If you have to know, it’ll be because I told you, not because you stumbled into it by accident.” He pauses, then adds, more mutinously, “And I definitely don’t need to hear who you think I am. I’m sure you can imagine how terrible that might be for my ego.” You tilt your head, amused. “I get that, but I was only going to ask if—” “No.” “But I—” “I said no.” “Spiderman.” Your tone sharpens just enough to shut him up. “I was going to ask if you’re that old lady who always demands her coffee be molten before I hand it over. You know, the one who acts like I personally invented workplace safety regulations.” Spiderman doesn’t say anything for a long while. “What?” You laugh under your breath. “I definitely told you about her before. Or—” you pause, smiling to yourself, “told you about you, maybe. The one who always comes through drive-thru.” “Princess,” he says dryly, “I am not sixty years old.” “Perfect,” you reply. “Then I’m sure I wouldn’t otherwise care who you are.” And then he’s laughing. It bursts out of him bright and helpless, so sudden and genuine that it makes something in your chest go warm and dizzy. His head tips back, the white lenses of the mask curving with the shape of his smile, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your own grin from widening too much. If he laughed in your face every day for the rest of your life, you think you might let him, if only to know that this—him, here, now—is real. He’s talking again, you realise belatedly, his mask shifting with the movement of his mouth, but the words barely register. You’re too busy watching the fabric stretch and crease, too aware of how close he is, how little separates you now. Your fingers trail back up the side of his neck, and that silences him instantly. Despite all his earlier objections, he stills completely when your hand settles there. Your thumb grazes the seam where mask meets suit, and you stop, glancing up at him. “Can I?” “You can’t,” he whispers, just as softly, though he doesn’t move away. If anything, his hand only tightens on your waist. “I won’t look, I promise.” Your thumb traces small circles against his neck, your gaze locked on his. “I just want to touch you.” He shivers. You feel it run through him, sharp and involuntary. He says your name in a low rumble, the sound almost enough to undo you on its own. “This is a bad idea.” “If you tell me to stop, I will.” Looking down, you slip the tip of your finger beneath the narrow break between his bodysuit and the edge of his mask. “My arm is going to cramp,” he mutters weakly, and the attempt at humour only makes your smile deepen. You begin to peel the mask back. Just a little at first, just enough to reveal the bare line of his neck and feel the tense muscle there. Your fingertips glide over the exposed skin, and his breath catches again, but he still doesn’t stop you. You wonder how far he’ll let you go. You lift the mask higher, over the line of his jaw, and your eyes snag there before they can help it. Then over his mouth, where you pause for the briefest second, struck silent by the sight of him, before leaving the fabric gathered just beneath his nose. He tries for a smirk and you watch it form. “Was that all you wanted to see?” You lean in slowly, stopping just short of him to gauge his reaction. When he doesn’t move away, you close the distance until your nose brushes his. “For now,” you whisper. His eyes search yours through the mask, and whatever he finds there makes his mouth flatten into something almost pained.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” you murmur, and though you mean it, there is a terrible hollow ache opening in your chest now. Gojo’s face flashes uninvited through your mind and you shove it back, determined to bury it, though it’s clear enough from the way Spiderman goes tense that you haven’t done nearly as good a job as you’d hoped. You don’t want to use him like this. Over the past few months, Spiderman has become something steady in your life, a source of comfort in ways you never expected. Maybe it is because he has no face, no fixed place in your world, no history to complicate things. Maybe that’s why you have been able to tell him things you can’t even bring yourself to say to your friends. And now you are asking him for something you cannot take back. Still, your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit. “Please.” He moves before you can prepare for it, leaning in so suddenly your breath catches, your startled yelp cut off by the harsh press of his lips against yours. For one disorienting second, all thought disappears. Then he kisses you again, harder this time, and your hand flies up to hold him there, fingers tangling against his neck as though you can keep the moment from slipping away. His mouth is warm and real and a little clumsy with restraint, like he wants more and is trying very hard not to take it. The hand at your waist tightens, enough to make your pulse jump. And then he groans into the kiss, fierce and guttural before pulling away. The break leaves you both panting. You don’t speak at first but neither does he. You just stare at one another, lips swollen, breath unsteady, the last minute catching up all at once in a rush so overwhelming it feels almost unreal.You are already leaning in again before you fully register it, drawn by instinct more than thought, wanting to close the distance and do it all over— When suddenly gravity shifts. You let out a startled scream as the ground drops from under you and you pitch forward into him. His arms close around you automatically, holding you flush against his chest as the city begins to move beneath you. “What are you—” “I’m taking you back,” he says, voice rough. “What?” You twist, trying to look up at him, but he keeps you tucked in tight against him. “Wait a minute!” “I’m dropping you back at your dorm.” “Hold on a second!” “I can’t.” The words come out strained, almost frayed at the edges, and because his voice sounds like that—because the kiss is still there between you, lingering like heat—you let your protests falter.

The flight back is too quick. When he finally sets you down outside your dorm, your legs feel unsteady for more reasons than one. The second your feet hit the ground, your hands shoot to his arms, keeping hold so he can’t just disappear again. “You didn’t want it?” He doesn’t answer immediately, but with the mask still pushed halfway up, you see the way his jaw clenches. The truth hits you all at once, sharp and humiliating and you find your lips, once pressed against him, now forming the sound of an apology. “I’m sorry it was bad.” He makes a vague movement, like he wants to run a hand through his hair and has only just remembered the mask. “That’s not it.” “Then what is it?” The desperation in your voice makes you cringe the moment you hear it, but it’s too late to take back. He looks at you for a long, silent moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is unbearably soft. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? Revealing my identity would only hurt you.”

“I don't care about that, not right now."

“Y/N, listen to me. Listen to me. I could be anyone. I could be—I could be someone you know. Someone you don’t like or—Just, please. What if you regret this? You can’t hate me, I won’t survive it.”

His eyes soften, pleading for you to tell him to stop, to push him away because he simply lacks any strength to do so himself. Because Satoru is selfish and incorrigible and he’s a bug caught in your web, unable to get away. He needs you like he needs to breathe. But you, ever so difficult, simply shake your head. Your grip on his arms tightens. “I’m fine with that. I don’t need to know who you are. It doesn’t matter.” The words rush out now, tripping over each other. “The one I—” You falter, heart hammering. “The one I want in this moment is you. I don’t need to know who you are.” Spiderman watches you wordlessly as you trip over your own tongue. Then, after a beat that feels much longer than it is, he says, “I never said it was your mistake.” You inhale sharply and, before you can think better of it, lean in and steal a kiss from his lips. There isn’t enough time to consider what the hell you’re doing because he answers immediately. Whatever hesitation he’d been clinging to burns away the second your mouth meets his, seared off by heat and want and the unmistakable fact that this is really happening. This kiss is nothing like the last. It is harder, hungrier, and when his hand catches your wrist to pull you closer, it still doesn’t feel like enough. A low groan tears from him into your mouth, impatient and wrecked, and then he’s biting lightly at your bottom lip as though restraint is already slipping through his fingers. You gasp, and he takes the invitation immediately. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, coaxing every breathless sound from you until your whimpers are swallowed down by him. Still, it isn’t enough. How could it be? Not when he finally has you in his arms like this after wanting you for so long, after all the distance and hurt and wrong timing. His body urges you back a step, then another, until your shoulders brush the wall and he follows, crowding you there.

His hands slide up your waist and back down again, settling hard at your hips, while the other cups your jaw to hold you steady for the fierce, dizzying press of his mouth. You cling to him like he is the only solid thing in the world, and maybe right now he is. Your knees have gone weak enough that you don’t trust them to hold you without him. A crash sounds somewhere in the alley below. You jolt, teeth catching accidentally against his lip. He groans at the sting but pulls back, shooting the darkness beyond the window a withering glare like he could kill whatever interrupted him. You follow his line of sight, but nothing else happens. The alley settles back into stillness. After a second, he exhales and leans down until his forehead rests against yours. “You should probably check that out,” you murmur, more to break the thick, dizzy silence than out of any real conviction. He hums, the sound warm against your skin. “Then why aren’t you letting me go?” Only then do you realise your fingers have curled tight into the front of his suit. They only tighten further, pathetic and needy in a way you’d usually hate, but his answering chuckle is filthy and starved enough to make warmth bloom through you. “Stay,” you whisper. “Okay,” he says softly. “I won’t go.” You shake your head and lift it just enough to meet the white gaze of his mask, your own eyes dropping to his mouth for the briefest second. “No. Stay.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. His hand slips from your cheek and a second later a web shoots from his wrist and catches on the frame of your third-floor window. His other arm locks around you and suddenly he’s lifting you with him. Getting through the window is clumsy and breathless and far less graceful than the way he moves through the city. One of your shoes catches on the ledge, his shoulder bumps the frame, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly. It feels absurdly scandalous, sneaking through your own window like this, and the absurdity only makes it worse. He climbs in first, then turns immediately and offers you his hand. You take it with less hesitation than before, and he guides you through carefully, steadying you the moment your feet touch the floor, and for a second he doesn’t let go. He just keeps hold of you, standing close in the dimness of your room, eyes fixed on your face. “Are you sure?” he asks. You don’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t.” Something in him softens at that, though his voice stays low. “I still can’t let you see me.” You shake your head and close your eyes before your nerve can fail you. Your hands rise to the seam of his mask. “Trust me.” And because he does, he lets you pull it away. Truthfully, there’s a moment where temptation almost gets the better of you. He's right there, close enough to touch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin and the shape of his mouth. You’re touching him, your tongue has been inside his mouth and now you know his taste intimately. All it would take is a moment of weakness and the opening of your eyes to finally know who has been under the mask this entire time. Just one peek, one action to end the curiosity. Still, you hold yourself back. Don’t ruin the moment.

A soft chuckle brushes your lips, his bare breath warm against them now that the mask is out of the way. You steady your hands against his chest and feel the frantic pound of his heart beneath your palms. He shivers at the contact. He tries to be patient, he really does. Tries to make this moment careful, almost reverent, like you deserve. But Gojo is greedy. He’s greedy for your attention, for the spark in your eyes to flare up the moment his eyes lock on yours, he’s greedy for your touch, the brushing of fingers when you pass him his coffee in the morning, for that smile that you only ever seem to give him when he’s Spiderman. He is greedy for this version of you, soft and wanting and close enough to ruin him. His brow twitches, something cruel twisting in his stomach and he traces the seam of your lips with his tongue, pushing in even before you open your mouth to him. His tongue finds yours again before he can stop himself, the kiss turning deeper, hungrier. He presses you back against the window, one hand bracing against the sill behind you so the edge doesn’t dig into your spine while the other settles hard at your waist. He devours you completely, nothing tentative about him now. He kisses you like he’s starving as all his late night fantasies, your name on his tongue and his hand wrapped around his cock, become finally realised when he tastes you. You lightly tap his arm, and he pulls back to let you breathe but his lips don’t leave you for long. “God, I've wanted you for so long.” he nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. His hardness presses against your thigh, leaving you with no doubts about his words. "I can’t stop thinking about you, every time I close my eyes, you’re there. You're haunting me.” He continues to confess between heated kisses along your jawline. The utter longing in his voice, the depraved desperation as he presses impossibly closer, hands wanting to trace up your side but to also push you up into him, the heat of his mouth against your pulse point, it’s all too much and you let out a whimper. He groans softly against your skin, his restraint fraying even further at the noise. “Stop teasing me,” you gasp, tilting your head to give him more room and hating how needy you sound. His answer is rough and low. "I can’t help it.” Deciding you’ve had enough of him making you melt where you stand, you push at him instead. He lets himself be moved, following your blind guidance as you walk him backwards toward where you think your bed is. When the backs of his legs hit the mattress, he sits, and his fingers curl around your wrist to tug you closer between his knees. Your hands find his face again, fumbling slightly as they trace bare skin for the first time. The line of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the shape of a face you still refuse to see. He lets you explore him in silence, stilling beneath your touch in a way that feels almost unbearably intimate, pressing a kiss to your palm when your hand drifts closer to his mouth. Your fingers linger on the warmth of his skin, tracing the soft curve of his lips before dipping lower, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. He's so still under your touch, like he's afraid one wrong move will shatter this fragile moment, and it sends a thrill through you—the power you hold, even blinded. With your eyes closed, it blocks out everything but sensation, heightening every graze of your fingertips, every hitch in his breath. You can feel the rapid thump of his pulse beneath your palm, matching the frantic beat of your own heart.

He tilts his head slightly, nuzzling into your hand like a dog seeking affection, and the vulnerability in that small gesture makes your chest tighten. This masked hero, the one who swings through the city saving lives, is reduced to this—panting softly, body tense with barely contained need. It's intoxicating, knowing you can unravel him like this. “You're killing me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, laced with that desperate edge that makes your core clench. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just below the hem of your skirt, not pushing further but holding you there, grounding himself. “Please don’t stop here, touch me more.” Your finger grazes his boner through the tight fabric of his suit and he hisses, bowing inward. “Shit!” You pause. “A thought has occurred.” He lets out a long suffering sigh. “Please don’t ruin the mood.” You laugh softly, dragging your nails over his erection over and over, drinking in every flinch you feel from where you’re pressed against him. “I can’t help you if you’re still in this… spandex.” Spiderman huffs again but you feel him pull back and unzip his suit, wherever that zipper might be. “I’m so glad you can’t see me right now. There was no way I could get out of this suit in a hot way.” “Trust me, my imagination isn’t doing you any favours either.” You pause. “Do you have to wear a thong under your suit?” “The mood was really good five seconds ago. Don't ruin it because you’re curious about what I’m wearing underneath.” You giggle and your nerves evaporate. Sure, you’re about to have sex with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman and that might forever change the trajectory of your relationship with him, but at least it’s still him. When he sits back on the bed and guides you forward, you follow him without a second thought and kneel between his legs. “What are you—oh fuck.” He inhales sharply, hands never leaving you for long as they find purchase in your hair. “Fuck, you look so pretty.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, feeling it give way under his touch. He curses again. “I need your mouth on me, pretty girl.” You laugh at his eagerness and reward his honesty with your hands down his chest, breath quickening when he lets out a small sigh as your fingers graze his lower stomach. You allow yourself the time to trail a finger down his bare chest now that he is free from his spandex, marveling at the muscle you find tensing under your touch. Eventually, you find the waistband of his boxers. “So you do wear boxers?” “Y/N, please. The mood.” You tug his boxers down, slightly upset you can’t see the way his cock swings up, finally free from its restraints. The sounds he makes compensates and you find it hard to stay disappointed as he groans, the hand in your hair closing around to tug you impatiently towards his dick.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches you. Despite his apology, he doesn’t make an effort to loosen his hold that much.  You drag your hands up his thighs to find where they converge. You wrap your fingers around him, feeling out his shape. If he asked in that narcissistic way of his, you’d tell him he’s average size. Truthfully, he’s thicker and longer than you’d dare to admit, the slight curve a feature that has you pressing your thighs together. He bucks involuntarily, a whine escaping his lips that sounds so damn needy it makes you wetter. “Take your time,” he manages to grit out though it’s breathless. “I’m not going anywhere.” You wonder who he’s talking to because you’re sure as hell not going to take your time. Instead, you lean in closer, your breath ghosting his length and smell him—musky and hot after being trapped in that suit for so long. “You’re shaking already,” you whisper. “Haven’t you ever had a girl on her knees for you?” He doesn't answer, just lets out a shaky exhale, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. The silence is answer enough, and it makes you laugh, hard enough to be distracted by the pathetic twitch his cock gives at his own humiliation. “No way? The amazing Spiderman gets no game? My god, I almost feel sorry for you,” you coo mockingly, tongue flicking out to lap at the bead of pre-cum on his tip. He jolts, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat, you smile against his flushed skin. “All that heroic web-slinging but no one’s ever taken care of this?” Before he can respond, you take him into your mouth, lips sealing around the head as you suck gently. He tastes salty and slightly bitter, but the way he gasps all high and desperate makes you hum in approval, the vibration drawing another shiver from him. Your hands brace on his thighs, nails digging in as you bob your head, taking him deeper inch by inch. He’s not huge but he’s certainly responsive, hips twitching like he can’t help it, fucking shallowly into your mouth. “Shit—oh God, your mouth!” His words dissolve into a groan, his hand tightening in your messy strands. You hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling around the underside, tracing the vein that pulses against it. With your eyes closed, every sensation is amplified, the wet sounds of your sucking, the salty drip down your throat, the way his cock twitches on your tongue. You pull back slightly, letting spit string from your lips to his tip, and pump him with your hand, remembering to twist a little at the top. “There’s no way you’re going to cum already, are you?” Once again, you desperately wish to see him, to see him writhing under your touch, flushed with his eyes rolling back. “Don’t stop,” he begs, voice cracking. You oblige, leaning back down to swallow around him, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. He smells like sweat and arousal, and you gag a little when he thrusts too eagerly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan, letting him feel how much you want this, how his desperation turns you on.

His free hand claws at the bed, knuckles white, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, the way he's fighting not to come too soon. You speed up, slurping obscenely, one hand slipping down to cup his balls, rolling them gently. He cries out—actually cries out—head thrown back, and you feel powerful, desired, even as the mean streak in you wants to edge him until he breaks. But you’re aching too, pussy throbbing with neglect and its slickness soaks your thighs. You pop off him with a wet sound to which he whines in protest, hips jerking forward seeking more. “Not yet,” you say breathlessly and rise to your feet to push him back fully onto your bed. He goes willingly, sprawling out with the audible sounds of his pants. You climb over him, straddling his waist, and grind your soaked panties against his thick length. The friction makes you both moan, his hands flying to your hips to hold you there. “Please,” he pants. “Let me touch you. I need to—” You cut him off with a kiss, letting him taste himself from where your mouth met his cock. It’s messy and you rock against him harder, chasing that pressure on your clit. But it’s not enough. You need more. Pulling back, you guide one of his hands between your legs, pressing his fingers against your clothed pussy. “Feel how wet I am? It’s all for you. Now do something about it.” His fingers tremble as they slip under the fabric and brush against your folds, making you hiss at the contact. He’s clumsy at first, virgin nerves showing in the hesitant circles he rubs over your clit, but the sensation burns with your eyes closed, turning every awkward stroke into fire. You grind down to guide his rhythm and he learns fast, thumb pressing firmer, two fingers finding your entrance. “Like this?” he asks, voice small and eager, and you nod, biting your lip to stifle a moan as he pushes inside. He’s not skilled, all bumping knuckles, but God does the stretch feel good. You clench around him, riding his hand, the wet squelch filling the room. “Faster,” you demand, and he obeys, curling them experimentally, hitting that spot that makes your thighs quake. Sensory deprivation turns it overwhelming, leaving you drowning in the slide of his fingers, the heat of his palm grinding against your clit. You whimper as the pleasure builds and he drinks in every sound, pumping harder, thumb flicking relentlessly. “You’re so tight,” he murmurs in awe, free hand roaming your body, squeezing your breast through your shirt, pinching the nipple until you arch. “So wet for me. Fuck, I could do this all night.” But you can’t wait anymore. You shove his hand away, panting, and fumble with your clothes, stripping off your top and skirt, panties last. He helps, clumsy but enthusiastic, suit peeled down to his hips. Naked now, you feel exposed and vulnerable, but his hands are everywhere—stroking your sides, cupping your ass, pulling you down. He positions himself between your legs, leaning down to kiss you deeply while his hands memorise your curves, gliding them over your soft skin. It’s not enough. You roll your hips against him, trying to press him in, seeking that friction you desperately need. Spiderman lets out a low groan against your ear, his control slipping at your eager movements. He pulls back to watch, to drink in the sight of you writhing under him, at your hands fumbling desperately at his arms to draw him back in. “Give me a second,” he mumbles. “I want to take my time with you.” “Please don’t,” you whine. It’s infuriating, having him so close you can feel his heat against your skin and yet, it only emphasises the emptiness inside you. “Please just touch me.”

“I’ve got you, baby.” Unable to resist your needy sounds any longer, he finally gives in. He readjusts his position, guiding himself to your entrance. He thrusts up slightly, his dick gathering your slick at his tip, the both of you moaning at the friction. “Tell me what you want, Y/N. I need to hear how badly you need me.” He all but pleads, repeating the action over and over, eyes closed shut at every nudge against your clit. You whimper, fingers finding purchase on his biceps. “I’m not going to beg you, jerk.” He ruts up, the tip catching on your entrance and you almost believe it’s in until it slides right past. “Beg me,” he pleads again, mouth planting desperate kisses at your neck. The teasing drags on, his cockhead slipping through your folds, bumping your clit with every shallow thrust, but never filling you. It's torture, the heat of him so close, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room. You buck up, trying to impale yourself, but he holds your hips down, chuckling breathlessly against your throat. “Come on,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “Just say it. Tell me you want my cock inside you.” Your pride wars with the ache until it’s finally too much. “Fine,” you gasp, nails raking his back. “Fuck me. Please, just—put it in. I need it.” The words break him. With a guttural moan, he lines up and thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You're stretched full, walls fluttering around his thickness, and you cry out, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. “Oh God, yes,” he groans, stilling for a moment to adjust, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re perfect. So fucking tight.” You clench around him deliberately, and he whines, that puppy-like desperation surfacing again. “Move,” you plead as you rock up, and he does, pulling out halfway before slamming back in. The pace starts slow, experimental as his inexperience shows in the uneven rhythm. But it builds, thrusts deepening, the bed creaking under you. Each snap of his hips grinds his pubic bone against your clit, and with your eyes closed, it’s all you can focus on: the slap of skin, the wet glide of his cock, the way he fills you completely. He buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking marks into your skin, hands gripping your thighs to spread you wider. “Feels so good,” he mumbles between thrusts. "Like you were made for me. Can’t believe—fuck—” The tension coils tight in your belly, pleasure spiking with every plunge. He’s hitting deep now, tip kissing your cervix, and you arch sharply. But he’s greedy, wanting more, always more. One hand slips between you to find your clit again, rubbing in tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyelids. “Cum for me,” he pleads, voice hoarse. “Wanna feel you squeeze my dick. Please, Y/N.” The command, laced with desperation, tips you over. You shatter, pussy convulsing around him, milking his cock as waves crash through you. He follows seconds later, thrusting erratically before spilling inside, hot spurts painting your walls. He doesn’t even stop then, instead opting to slowly grind against your ass to push it all in. Finally, he collapses onto you as you both pant, bodies slick with sweat.

For a moment, there’s only the aftershocks and his softening cock still twitching inside you. Then he lifts his head and kisses you softly, reverently. “That was incredible,” he whispers. You smile lazily, fingers tracing his jaw once more. “Yeah?” He doesn’t pull out right away, staying buried deep as his breathing evens out, like he can't bear to leave your warmth. His hands roam lazily now, no longer frantic but exploratory as he maps out the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You must possess some kind of iron will because you keep your eyes closed even then such that you can feel every callus on his palms, every tremble in his touch. It’s intimate, this post-climax haze, and it stirs something softer in you despite the teasing edge you cling to. “You're still hard,” you murmur, shifting your hips experimentally and feel him twitch inside you. He groans, low and needy, burying his face in your shoulder. “Can’t help it,” he admits, voice muffled. “You feel too good. Like... I don’t want to stop. Ever.” The confession hangs there, vulnerable and raw, and you can’t resist poking at it. “Aw, puppy,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair. He nips at your collarbone in retaliation, but there’s no bite to it. “You like it,” he says, confidence peeking through the desperation. “The way I beg. Admit it.” You huff, but your body betrays you, clenching around him again. He takes it as an invitation and starts to rock slowly, shallow thrusts that keep him seated deep. It’s lazy and sensual and builds up friction without urgency. “Maybe,” you concede breathlessly, hands guiding his head. “But don’t think it makes you special.” “Liar.” He chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending tingles down your spine. His pace picks up slightly, one hand sliding down to where you’re joined, thumb circling your oversensitive clit. You gasp, the pleasure sharp after your orgasm, but he doesn’t stop, drawing out whimpers you can’t suppress. The room fills with the soft sounds of your shared breaths, the wet slide of him moving inside you, the occasional creak of the bed. He kisses up your neck, lips brushing the edge of the blindfold. “Is this okay?” he asks. “Yeah,” you whisper, turning your head to capture his mouth. The kiss is slower this time as you focus on simply exploring and memorising his taste. He pulls back eventually to sit up and change the angle, hooking your legs over his shoulders. The stretch is deeper like this, his cock hitting new spots that make you moan. “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes. “I always thought you were but when you’re like this… fuck.” The praise warms you and you reach for him blindly, fingers finding his chest. “Shut up and fuck me harder.” He laughs, but obeys, snapping his hips with renewed vigor. The position lets him grind deep, balls slapping against your ass, and you feel another climax building. His hand returns to your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and you shatter again, crying out, though not with his superhero name because that feels a little impersonal. He follows and spills with a whine, collapsing beside you this time. Now, when the darkness creeps in from the edges, it’s not because you’re making the conscious decision to keep your eyes closed. The afterglow lures you to sleep and he holds you throughout it all.

But Spiderman—no, Gojo—lies there with his heart still refusing to slow, greed silent for only a moment but never truly gone. His fingers trace absent patterns over your back as if committing every inch of you to memory like the repetition might somehow make this enough. As if this version of the night, this version of you, can be folded up and hidden somewhere safe for later. Because he knows, even now, that this is the only way he gets to have you. Not in daylight, not with your eyes open and knowing. Not as the boy who sits two rows away and grins when he beats everyone to the answer. Not as Gojo, all sharp edges and arrogance and every stupid mistake he’s made with you piling up behind him like a wall. He presses a kiss to your hair before he can stop himself. It is a stupid thing to do, indulgent and dangerous, but there is no one here to catch him at it, no one but the sleeping girl in his arms who doesn’t know the shape of his face and trusts him anyway. That makes it worse, makes his heart hurt so badly he has to take in a shuddering gasp to calm it, if only slightly. As Spiderman, you had pulled him inside your room by hand. As Spiderman, you had touched his face with your eyes closed and trusted what you found there. As Spiderman, you had kissed him like you meant it, let him close enough to hear the soft wrecked sounds you make when you say his name. It should feel like a victory. Some ugly, secret part of him has wanted this for too long not to recognise the shape of triumph when it finally arrives. And yet it settles strangely in his chest, tangled up with something meaner and sadder. He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today. His throat tightens. You shift against him again, this time with a sleepy little sigh, and his eyes close at once. If he were better, he thinks, he would leave now before the night can twist this into something cruel, before staying turns this into something impossible to explain later. Before morning puts light on all the parts of him that he intentionally leaves in the shadows away from your gaze.

He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today. But Gojo is a weak man so he stays. Long enough for your breathing to deepen fully and for your body to grow loose and heavy with sleep beside him. Long enough that he starts to imagine, against all reason, what it would be like if he didn’t have to move at all. If he could still be here when your eyes opened. if he could watch you wake and let himself be seen, just once, just enough to catch the flicker of emotion across your face. Would you be happy? Mad? Disappointed? But the universe is rarely this forgiving and patient, and he eventually pulls himself up on his elbows. You’re still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow now, hair spilled across the sheets, mouth parted slightly on a soft exhale. The sight of you unguarded in such a way makes something ache low and hopeless inside him. There’s a mark near your collarbone he has to drag his gaze away from before he becomes truly pathetic. “Don't do this to me,” he whispers, though whether he means you or fate or himself, he isn’t sure. Obviously, no one answers him. It would be easier if you weren’t like this. If you were messy or careless or cruel in your sleep. If you took up too much space, kicked him in that old wound that still refuses to heal. If you snored. If you drooled on the pillow. If there were anything in the world that made leaving you here feel less like carving something out of himself with his own hands and leaving it on the pillow next to your head. But there isn’t. So Gojo leans down and presses one last kiss to your temple. Before he goes, he stands beside the bed for one suspended moment, looking down at you with all the wretched fondness he never manages to contain well enough. “I'm sorry,” he whispers softly. Then he’s gone, slipping back through the window into the thinning dark before dawn. Morning comes gently. You wake slowly, feeling the ache of too little sleep and something duller lower down, soothed by the warmth trapped under your blanket. It’s a gloomy day outside and faint grey light slips in through the curtains. For one sweet, stupid second, the memory of the night before reaches you before your eyes properly open, and your mouth almost curves with it. You reach out to touch him and find nothing. Your eyes snap open. “Spiderman?” The name sounds ridiculous in the morning quiet. The space beside you is empty, no lingering body heat, no weight in the mattress, no messy shape of someone else, just rumpled sheets and a half-opened window blowing a chill into your room. It all looks so unbearably ordinary for a place where your life had felt, only hours ago, like it was tilting into something secret and miraculous. Something strange moves through you then, too tangled to name cleanly. The first is an easy one to decipher, disappointment, sharp and immediate. Then embarrassment, because some soft foolish part of you had expected to wake up and find him still there. Perhaps not unmasked, maybe not staying forever, but at the very least there to share the same sense of sheepishness you feel. Enough to prove last night hadn’t been a beautiful, selfish thing borrowed from the dark. You reach out and smooth your hand over the cold sheet once, as if you might find traces of your common sense there and regain some rational thought. It doesn’t, to no surprise. All it does is confirm what you already know. Your bed is empty.

Has the sun always felt so good on his skin? 

Gojo swings through the city as he does every morning. It’s a habit that comes from the obligation, something Geto had said in passing about the responsibilities of being a superhero—or something. Satoru never really listens when Geto scolds him and he certainly doesn’t care enough now to pull those words to the surface. 

His morning patrols are little more than a guilty pleasure anyway. To be above the city made everyone else seem like ants, feeble things that needed saving every minute of every day. But it’s fine. 

Because speaking of guilt, that’s what he should be feeling right now. But he doesn’t. In fact, Satoru is having a rather fine and dandy day. 

He high fives the police chief when they start scolding him on the mess of webs he left behind during the car chase. He tips the convenient store cashier when he pays for his energy drink, forgoing the whole ‘leave the store and then web cash to the worker’s chest’ bit that he always does. He smiles at the senior citizens when they eye him even though he knows the gesture won’t show through the mask. 

He finger guns the kids as they ride by in scooters and bulky, too-big helmets. He graciously rescues a balloon from a tree. He pets a dog on the way to class. 

His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jacket that he wears to keep away the winter chill, the new personal phone that he got, not his work phone, and that does a really good job of extinguishing his mood. 

Gojo settles down on the ground and ducks into a thin alleyway, pulling out his phone to check. 

It’s a calendar notification reminding him that today was the big outing, some aquarium outing he had to beg Shoko to be invited to. Once, he had looked forward to it but now, all he can think of is the hurt in your eyes, the way your mouth falls open in soft pleasure, the slight flutter in your eyes as you arch against his—

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and hurries back to his dorm. 

Ignoring Geto's casual greetings, Gojo opts to instead ceremoniously flop into his top bunk the moment he slings in through the open window. 

“How was patrol?”

“Don’t ask me stupid questions.”

“Okay.” Geto looks up from his book, turning in his chair to look up at the blue and white lump. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Gojo tugs off his mask, ruffling his hair as it falls messy before faceplanting back into his unmade bed. “Nothing.”

“You left the dorm beaming like everyday is just sunshine and rainbows to you, and now you’re back sulking. I wouldn’t call that nothing.” He pauses when he receives no response, before sighing. “Just make sure to ditch the attitude before we meet up with Shoko. And don’t take it out on Y/N.”

Gojo can’t help it, he chokes on his own breath. Geto , of course, notices. 

“What was that sound?” 

“That’s just how I breathe.” 

“You don’t always sound like a kicked puppy when you’re breathing.” His roommate stands to peek over the frame of the bunk bed, raising an eyebrow when he’s met with Gojo's devastated state. “Is this about your tragic loss to Venom? Look, he’ll come back and you’ll get another shot at being a good superhero, I promise.”

“It’s not that.”

“Is it Y/N then?”

Gojo lifts his head just enough to give him an incredulous look. “How did you…?”

“I saw what you were reposting on Tiktok.”

Gojo flops onto his back, hands over his face, feet kicking about in frustration. “God, even when she’s not around she drives me crazy!”

“Not that I’m not super sympathetic about your situation, but maybe it’s not the best idea to freak out about your normal civilian life when you’re Spiderman-ing. It’s better to keep those things separate, you know?” 

Gojo grabs his pillow and shoves it over his face. 

“Was that an agreement or an act of rebellion? Satoru, I’m serious. You can’t mix your personal life and your superhero activities together.” 

He stays quiet, or maybe he’s suffocated himself. Gojo kind of hopes it’s the latter if it’ll save him from telling the truth. 

Geto shakes his shoulder. “Dude, stop moping. We have that thing to go to and Shoko won’t be happy if you flake.”

Gojo remains limp and after a few more shakes, Geto frowns with the tiniest hint of worry. 

“Okay, out with it. What did you do?” 

At this, Gojo finally turns his head to look at his roommate mournfully. A slow, sinking sensation of dread drops in Geto's stomach as he searches this thin glimpse of his roommate’s face. 

“Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“How bad? Does she know?”

Gojo lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Worse.”

“You kissed her.” 

“Worse.” 

Geto's mouth drops open. “You fucked her? Satoru, what the fuck?”

“I don’t know, okay, it just happened!” 

Geto pulled his hand back as if burnt. “Just happened? These things don’t just happen! Sex doesn’t just happen!”

Gojo groans into his pillow. “We were both consenting adults in this, Suguru, it’s not a big deal!”

“That’s not the issue! She doesn’t know who you are, Satoru!”

“I know that!”

“Do you? Because if you did I don’t think you would have done that!” He runs a hand through his hair. “How does she not know?”

“She kept her eyes closed,” Gojo says.

“You kinky bitch.”

“It was the only way she wouldn’t see!”

“Really? Because I can think of other ways. Have you considered the tactic of just not fucking her in the first place?”

Gojo frowns as if in genuine thought before shaking his head. 

“Hell. This is my superhero. We’re all fucked.”

“Suguru, you have to help me.” Gojo sits up, head ducked slightly so as to not hit his head on the ceiling above. “I fucked up okay, I know I did. But it’s complicated, alright? Y/N and I aren’t… good right now. I thought we were and then I dropped my phone and then we fought and now she’s blocked me on everything. Even Linkedin. And Spotify!”

“Satoru, I help you with Spiderman stuff. I help you with last minute homework deadlines because you were too busy saving the world. I help you with lying to our friends about why you disappeared during a bathroom break for an hour that doesn’t involve emptying your guts into a toilet. I’m not helping you when you fumble a girl.”

“But what if I fumbled her because I’m Spiderman. I feel like that counts, right?” 

Geto turns and drops himself into his chair, the seat turning slightly at the momentum until he plants his feet down. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You still haven’t told me what happened.”

“Y/N and I broke up.”

“You weren’t dating.”

“A friendship break up then. A situationship break up.”

“Fine, whatever you want to call it. What even happened? Because every time we talked about her before that it sounded like things were going well.” 

“Things were going well. I almost kissed her like, five times. The sixth time would have definitely been the charm.”

Geto makes a face.”I feel like that’s an indication that things aren’t going well, but okay.”

“Anyway, remember when venom showed up a few days ago and I broke my phone?”

“And how you were knocked out for a night? I remember.”

“Right well,” Gojo takes in a deep breath that indicates he’s about to ramble, “because I broke my phone I wasn’t able to tell her something came up and I wouldn’t be able to make the presentation. I only woke up after we had to present, meaning she had to do it herself and now she hates me because she thinks I don’t take her seriously. and I can’t clarify that I do take her seriously because, again, she blocked me on everything. She also unadded me on every Google Doc she shared to me.”

“Damn, she’s serious.” For a moment, Geto seems genuinely apologetic. “That sucks man, I’m sorry you were cockblocked by Venom.”

“Well, it comes with the powers and responsibility and all that.” Gojo falls back onto his bed, starfished as far as his limbs can go before they hit the sides of his bunk bed. “You always have a solution to everything. Can’t you fix my love life too?”

“I can’t perform miracles, dumbass.”

“That's not your line. You’re meant to be sympathetic and helpful. Do you even care about me?” 

“No,” Geto says mournfully. “Unfortunately you’re the only one saving our city these days so I kind of have to stick around to make sure you don’t mess that up.” 

Gojo grabs his Agumon plushie and throws it down over the side of the railing. He doesn’t have to look over the edge to know it hit its target. “I’m serious, Suguru.”

Geto catches the plushie with ease and gives it a pat on its head, placing it gently on his lap. “I’m serious too. Maybe this is a good thing. I keep telling you that you have to keep your superhero life and your boring, normal person life separate. This just shows you what happens when you don’t do that.”

“Woah, thank you, Mr sunshine and rainbows.”

“Life isn’t sunshine and rainbows.”

“It is when you have the eyes to see it,” he sighs dramatically. “Is it too much to ask that I can just be Satoru and Spiderman without losing anything?” 

There’s something in Gojo's voice that makes Geto pause. Maybe it’s the lack of that whiny tilt to his cadence, maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoved his face into another plushie on his bed, voice muffled and hiding the desperate sound. 

Geto wants to tell him the truth, that if the world was good and just he could be every side of him, that he shouldn’t have to pick between being a weapon for the city’s safety and an actual person with hopes and dreams and wants. Geto wants to tell him that he shouldn’t have to pick being a superhero over being a person, but he can’t tell him that. Because as the world stands right now, Gojo simply can’t have both. 

“There's still that outing,” Geto finds himself saying. “Look, it sounds like you really hurt Y/N but she’s not unreasonable, you know that. I’m sure if you talk to her you can clear things up. Or just apologise now that time has settled.”

Gojo shuffles a little and sits up to look down at his roommate. "Weren't you just telling me I shouldn’t mix personal and work life?”

“You see Spider-Man as work?”

“Answer my question, man.”

Geto sighs. “The part of me that just wants to make sure you’re not hurt doing this whole superhero thing wants to tell you that. But the part of me that’s your friend doesn’t. It sucks that in this world no one can be their genuine self. But I mean it when I say that I want to see you happy and if you’re happy with Y/N then I hope things work out between the both of you.”

No one says anything for a while. Geto looks up. 

“Dude, what did you eat today to make you sprout all that feelings bullshit?” Gojo mimes throwing up. 

Geto rolls his eyes, grabbing the plushie on his lap to throw it back up at him. Gojo catches it, his Spiderman instincts never letting him down, and when he puts it down on his bed, he’s smiling. 

“So, any tips?”

“Just be yourself.” 

“I was and look how everything turned out.”

Geto hums. “Then maybe let’s start with your wardrobe. If you’re going to win Y/N back, you can’t show up to the function wearing the same one shirt.”

The aquarium is a shitty place to take someone you’re no longer on speaking terms with. 

It seems even the fish have figured out how to move around without touching. Silver fish turn as one body and never collide. Stingrays glide past each other like silk dragged through water. Even sharks know how to circle without making contact, all smooth instinct and measured distance, and that would be deeply meaningful if you weren’t currently trapped in a dark blue tunnel feeling like shit. 

It is, Shoko had said in the groupchat three days ago, supposed to be a fun, normal outing. You should have known then that something demonic had possessed her. 

The tunnel curves overhead in a long arc of glass, seawater casting wavering patterns of light over the floor and over the faces of people passing through. Children press their sticky palms to the glass, and a baby somewhere up ahead lets out a delighted shriek at the sight of some broad, ghostly thing drifting above. Couples walk slowly enough to be irritating, stopping every two steps to point things out to each other in soft voices. 

The entire place is built for wonder and you are having a terrible time. 

“Look,” you say from beside Shoko, pointing upward with none of the enthusiasm the gesture should probably contain, “a fish.” 

“I think that’s obviously a shark,” Utahime says, squinting upward. 

Geto hums, a telltale sign that he’s about to launch into his typical ragebaiting. “I’m pretty sure sharks are fish though, so what do you mean by that?”

“Oh come on, Geto. You know what I mean. There’s fish, and then there’s shark. If I say fish, no one is picturing that. They’re thinking of, like, a normal fish. Small, swimmy, not that giant thing above our heads.” 

“So now we’re racially profiling fish and sharks?” Geto pauses as if in deep thought. “So then by your logic, is a stingray fish-looking fish or shark-looking fish.” 

“A stingray is its own thing,” Utahime snaps. “Don’t piss me off in public.” 

“Seems complicated. Not very obvious then, is it?” 

On any other day, there’d be nothing more joyous than joining in and annoying Utahime. Today, however, you’re still figuring out how to move around without being touched. 

“At least give yourself the chance to have a good time,” Shoko remarks from beside you, none too impressed with your sulky mood. 

You know it isn’t fair to her but to say you’re in a bad mood is an understatement. Every voice only serves to grind your gears and the way people shove past you here and there makes you want to rip off your skin. 

Maybe because you got approximately no sleep. Maybe because your body still feels the phantom touch of another, the roughness in his voice as he utters your name all deprived and pleading. Maybe because Gojo is still six inches to your left, all long limbs and damp shadows under his eyes, and every time the crowd bottlenecks in the tunnel, you catch the faint clean scent of his soap like he took a shower earlier this morning. 

The tunnel narrows as it curves, forcing all of you into an untidy line. Shoko and Utahime end up leading, Geto just behind them, pointing out silly little things that pisses her Utahime and makes Shoko laugh. You had slowed down for all of three seconds to let a family with two children pass and made the tactical error of allowing Gojo to fall into step beside you. Now the two of you are trapped by the flow of bodies moving through the tunnel at exactly the kind of sluggish, reverent pace that grates against your frayed nerves.

Above, something glides over the glass. The baby up ahead screams again, only louder, such that it echoes down the winding tunnel.

“See, that wouldn't be a fish,” Geto is saying from up ahead.

You can hear utahime through the murmur of the crowd. “I figured.”

“Can’t be too sure.”

There's another shuffle of people from up ahead as if the presence of the stingray is a thing to fawn over, a stop-start of prams and schoolbags and a father trying to explain in a stage whisper why no, his child cannot touch the stingray, and the whole line compresses.

Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours.

You stiffen before you can even try to pretend it had no effect on you and he shifts back, creating what little space he can in a tunnel full of tourists and toddlers. You can feel his hesitation without even looking at him, that careful slouching in on himself he's been doing all day.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. 

You don’t bother with a response, looking in the opposite direction as if you had suddenly gained a deep appreciation for marine life. 

Shoko glances back over her shoulder to make sure she hasn’t lost either of you, and catches the way the two of you repel from each other. Her eyes flick from your face to Gojo’s, and narrow. 

Great, so not only are you miserable, but now you’re probably going to get grilled. 

“You two are weirdly quiet,” she cleverly deduces. 

“We’re in an aquarium,” you reply. “The whole point is to be quiet and to look at the fish. Or the sharks or—whatever.” 

“Are you at least having fun?” she tries again, though judging from her look, it’s clear she already has an answer in mind. 

“Definitely,” you mumble at the same time Gojo says, “So much fun.” 

You keep your mouth shut, refusing to look over at him. And Shoko, bless her patient heart, only tries again. 

“We’re about to reach the actual shark section. You love sharks, don’t you, Y/N?”

“Partial at best.”

“Or we could divert to look at the rock pools and touch some starfish. Doesn’t that sound like fun, Gojo?” 

“I guess.” He kicks at the ground, stubbornly glaring at the path. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, dropping her gentle parenting act just as the tunnel begins to open up again. The two of you separate like magnets of the same charge when there’s space to move, only heightening her annoyance. 

“You both are impossible! You’re acting like kids! Let’s age check real quick, how long are you two going to keep up this silent treatment act for?”

Gojo sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just drop it, Shoko? It’s really none of your business.”

“Woah,” Shoko says. “Gojo’s arrived.” 

“I’m serious.” He grits his teeth. “Leave it.”

Shoko looks over at you for your input but you keep quiet, hiding your own guilt by looking away. You’re acting like a kid, you know you are, but it’s hard not to when you have this man child walking beside you. 

And because Gojo has never won an argument against with Shoko, never has in the many, many years they’ve known each other, she grabs your hand and his arm and pulls you both together, positive versus positive charge be damned. You visibly flinch when his skin brushes yours, but her hands keep you together. 

“I don’t know what happened between you two,” she says, “but you’re going to sort it out right here right now, you hear me? The shark section is up ahead. I don’t care what happens in there, but when you walk out of it, you’re both going to get along. Understood?”

Gojo looks up from where he’s staring at the point of contact where your bodies touch. 

“I said, understood?” Shoko presses, drawing you both closer. 

You grimace and relent. “Fine, fine. Just let go, won’t you?”

She doesn’t, turning her fierce gaze to Gojo. “Your turn.”

“Shoko,” he starts, but his eyes are fixed over her shoulder. “Let go.” 

“I won’t until you tell me the two of you are going to start behaving like adults again." 

“Shoko, seriously—”

“Gojo, I’m not letting go until—”

You let out a frustrated exhale. “Just get it over with and say that you will.” 

“That’s not it.” 

His voice sharpens so suddenly that the three of you freeze. His hand closes around your arm, knocking Shoko’s grip off him in one abrupt movement, and you almost wince at how tight his fingers are. 

“Duck!” 

Considering you’re at an aquarium and not a zoo, his words confuse you. But the word barely leaves his mouth before the world ends, or at least the tunnel does. 

One moment you’re upright and irritated, and the next you’re on the slick aquarium floor with Gojo half over you, his hand clamped around the back of your head as glass bursts somewhere overhead in a noise so violent it seems to deafen you. Water follows half a second later, a freezing, roaring wall of it that slams into your legs and floods the corridor in one breathless rush. 

You gasp, inhaling panic with it. For one awful second, all you can see is dark water and something silver whipping past your face so quickly you can’t process whether it’s debris or fish or some secret third option. Gojo’s arms tighten around you just before the current hits full force, shielding you from the bulk of it. 

When the initial wave passes, he pushes himself up first, still braced over you, blinking the water from his eyes. “Are you okay? Actually, don’t answer straight away because then you’re probably lying. Are you hurt?”

You stare at him for half a second with your chest heaving, before snapping back into your body. “I think so. Was that enough time to seem genuine?”

“Yeah,” he says, then grabs your hand and hauls you upright with startling efficiency. 

A jagged hole has been torn through the glass overhead and water is still pouring through in punishing sheets, waves upon waves lapping at your feet. You ignore it all. 

“Shoko!” you shout immediately. “Utahime? Guys?”

“We’re here!” Shoko’s voice comes from somewhere to your right, thin through the alarms and the water. “We’re all okay!”

Through the flashing red light and beyond a rush of water you can’t imagine brushing past, you spot them.

Shoko has one arm around Utahime’s waist and the other braced against the wall, her hair plastered to her face by spray. Utahime is upright, but only just, one hand pressed over her calf where blood is already mixing into the water in thin red ribbons. Suguru is beside them, shoving a fallen display sign out of the way so a knot of panicked visitors can force themselves toward the nearest exit.

“We’re fine!” Geto yells. “Utahime got cut by the glass, but she can walk. We’re heading for the side stairs.”

Shoko twists back, catches sight of you and Gojo still standing there, and immediately cups her hands around her mouth. “What are you two doing? Move! I paid money for this outing and frankly I’d like at least four of us to live!”

Before either of you can answer, something booms deeper in the aquarium hard enough to rattle the glass beneath your feet. All around you, people are still trying to push toward the exits in a mess of uncoordinated panic. One aquarium staff member is shouting for everyone to stay calm in a voice already fraying at the edges and there’s a child sobbing somewhere to your right. Another tank further down the hall has cracked into a spiderweb of fractures that spread wider with every violent thud from beyond.

Gojo tenses, sensing something you can’t before he turns to you, hands on your shoulders. “Get to the exit.”

“Right, okay,” you say automatically, already reaching for his hand to drag him with you. Your fingers slide around his wrist and tug. “Come on.”

He doesn’t move.

You look back at him. “What are you doing?”

“You go with them,” he says, already looking past you toward the ruined hall. “I’ll follow after you.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Um, no?”

Your voice comes out louder than you mean it to, sharpened by the cold and the adrenaline and the immediate, furious certainty that no, absolutely not, you are not doing this with him again. Not here, not now, not when the floor is flooding and the walls are breaking and he still thinks he can look you in the face and say I’ll follow after like you were born yesterday.

“Do you have a death wish?” you demand. “Come on, the water is rising!”

“Look, I can handle myself.” His fingers tighten once against your shoulder, almost pleading. “I know what I’m doing so just wait outside. Don't worry about me and go.”

It is such a stupid thing to say that for a second you can only look at him.

Don’t worry about me.

As if that has ever worked. As if you haven’t spent weeks trying to ignore him and failing every single time. As if he hasn’t somehow made himself your problem since the moment he had called your grade out in the middle of that irrelevant tutorial room.

You glare at him, at his stupid fluffy white hair gone damp at the edges, at the thick-framed glasses he always pushes up his nose when he starts rambling about something ridiculous, at the stupid blue eyes that seem to shift colour with his mood and are now fixed on the corridor behind you instead of properly on you.

“I can’t,” you say.

His head snaps back to yours. “What?”

“I can’t just ignore you.” The words come out thinner than you want them to, but there’s no taking them back now. “I’ve tried and I just can’t.”

“This isn’t the time for that,” he says, brows furrowed in that way he gets when he’s annoyed.“Don’t be ridiculous, you could get hurt.”

“You could get hurt.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” you scoff before looking back at him. “You know what your problem is?”

He rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Oh, here we go. Tell me, tell me what my problem is—”

“Oh, I will. I’ll tell you what your fucking problem is—”

“Oh yeah, you’ll tell me? Cause you know me better than I know myself?” 

“Someone has to,” you snap, stepping toward him, daring him to take a step back. “Because clearly you’ve got no clue what you’re doing. Not with this, not with women, certainly not with me.”

He exhales. “Yeah? Well, you’re stuck up and impossible to control and you piss me off.”

“Are you a kid? You sound so dumb right now—”

A crash tears through the corridor hard enough to shake the ground beneath your feet and whatever insult you’ve both had gearing up immediately dies. You both look toward the corridor then to each other. 

“Probably not the best time for this,” you say. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s shelf this for later.”

“I’m still not going to ditch you so get that through your thick skull and whatever vast air bubble hugs your brain.” 

For one ridiculous second, despite the alarms and the flooding and the horrifying sounds of public infrastructure being turned inside out, Gojo actually looks like he wants to laugh. 

“Did you just call me an air head?” he asks, the words breathless and almost fond. “You’re never going to make things easy for me, are you?” 

You shoot him an incredulous look. “People are dying, Satoru. Lock in. What’s the plan?” 

He shakes his head like a dog. 

“Okay,” he says, back in motion now, words quick and sharp and all business because he clearly doesn’t trust himself to stay in the other mode any longer. “New plan. We get everyone we can to the exit, and then if you still want to tell me what my problem is, I’ll stand there and let you monologue. But don’t leave my sight and don’t try to be self-sacrificing.” 

“You’re telling me?” You snort. “Says the guy who was just about to run off and do exactly that.”

You brush past him, heading towards the tunnel where the sound originated. 

Despite every instinct telling him to grab you and pull you out, Gojo finds himself just standing there. He’s always been weak to you, this revelation is not one that comes with any surprise. All you’ve ever really had to do was look at him—properly look at him, with that sharp little glare that says he’s annoyed you again—and some pathetic part of him was already halfway to heel, tail practically wagging. It’s degrading almost, the Spiderman, reduced to nothing but a desperate man in love, but for some reason Gojo can’t find himself hating it completely. That was just how far he had fallen. He drags a hand through his hair and exhales sharply through his nose as he catches up behind you. The mask in his pocket feels impossibly heavy, like it knows better than he does, like it’s already calling him toward the moment he’s been putting off for too long. But he doesn't yet, and settles instead for following behind, every muscle bracing for the second this goes wrong. 

You are having much less sophisticated thoughts. You wonder to yourself as you trudge through the ankle deep water, what the fuck are you doing?

Your shoes are full of cold, disgusting salt water and what is, realistically, probably fish shit, when the safe outside had been right there within reach moments ago. You could have left. You could have gone with Shoko and Utahime and Geto and let the staff and the police and whoever else handles aquarium disasters deal with the rest. Instead, you had willingly walked back into where disaster struck. And for what? A boy?

Well, you think. At least you have the experience of fighting off two villains now. One and a half. Okay, more like two halves. That made one. So you’ve had one (1) moment of experience. That was enough, right? 

“Don’t worry,” you tell Gojo, noticing his uncharacteristic silence. “If anything happens, I’ll protect you.” He opens his mouth to reply, but whatever smart thing he had lined up dies the second the tunnel widens into the main shark gallery.

A man in a torn aquarium polo staggers through the burst corridor with black slick crawling up one arm and along the side of his throat, jerking in wet, ugly pulses under the emergency lights. A member of staff, who looks maybe nineteen and one bad shift away from quitting forever, is trying to wave people toward the side exit while very obviously trying not to cry.

Gojo is already moving, ignoring the way the room shudders when the symbiote host slams his fist into a pillar.

“I’m going to distract it so the people have time to get out of here. Stay here or go help them but do not get in the way.” 

He doesn’t check to see if you’ll agree before grabbing the nearest floating wet floor sign and hurling it at the man’s face with a pitcher’s accuracy. It smacks the figure’s shoulder and bounces away harmlessly, but it does the important thing. 

The ex-aquarium staff turns toward him and subsequently, you. 

“Okay,” you mutter, already moving. “Looks like you’ve got it from here!”

The host makes a low, distorted sound, half growl and half wet static, and barrels toward Gojo with one blackened arm swelling grotesquely around the elbow. Gojo ducks the first swing, grabs the edge of an overturned brochure stand, and yanks it into the path of the next. It shatters immediately, but the delay buys the nearest cluster of trapped visitors just enough time to break into motion.

You hurry to the sobbing staff member, a girl with her short black hair tied to one side, two hair clips holding her bangs away from her eyes. “Hey, hey, it’s okay! Just think of all the hazard pay you’ll get after this. For now, grab those two and head to the side exit.” 

She blinks at you, tears still flowing freely down her cheeks, but eventually nods. “What about you?” 

You jab a thumb behind you. “I’m kind of stuck here with this idiot. Now hurry.” 

Behind you, there’s a huge crash followed by Gojo saying, “You know, this is why no one likes staff team building exercises. There’s always one guy who takes it too far.”

The villain seems to not enjoy Gojo’s commentary because it roars. You turn in time to see Gojo skid sideways through the floodwater, one hand catching the low railing to keep from going down entirely. The black slick lashes for him again and misses, carving a line of ugly cracks through the decorative panel behind him instead. 

It’s not hard to tell that Gojo is losing and in fact, you’d be severely deluded if your nerd situationship sort-of close friend would win against a seemingly inhuman sentient black goo. At least he isn’t losing without dignity. He makes valiant attempts to shove the thing back a step, ducking under a swing only for the next to catch him high in the shoulder and throw him sideways into the viewing rail. 

Your heart drops to your ass quick, watching as Gojo drives himself back upright with a wince and a desperate glare for you to stay there. 

The symbiote host lurches toward him again, blackened arm distending with a wet, horrific ripple. 

Your brain finally catches up. 

Okay. Okay, think. 

You have seen this stupid black goo twice before now, which feels like two times too many. The first time, you used a fire extinguisher. The second, the steam wand from the cafe had done enough to make the goo retreat. So this thing clearly does not enjoy pressure or heat. 

You spin in place, eyes skittering wildly over the wrecked shark gallery. 

There’s debris everywhere, broken signage, upside down benches and a cardboard cutout of some mascot shark swims past you in ankle deep water. There’s a staff-only closet near the back, more brochure stands, maps on the wall, when your eyes finally see it. There, near the entrance of the tunnel, is a thick industrial hose line feeding into one of the side filtration systems, its pressure valve mounted low on the wall, bright red against the blue gloom. 

One of the sanitation steam lines that run along the upper maintenance track has ruptured where debris struck, hissing softly in the rumble of the crumbling aquarium. White vapour coughs out in fitful bursts, weak now but still there. 

“Satoru!”

He glances your way at the exact second the host slams him in the chest, sending him skidding through the water on his back. You wince. “Oh, sorry. Whenever you have the time.”

“I’m fine,” he chokes out, rolling out of the way in time to avoid a second blow. “Thanks for asking.”

You splash toward the pressure valve, shoes slipping against the tiles. “Shut up and use the environment! There’s a pressurised line here and steam up there. You’re just going to have to trust me on this one but I think I have an idea!”

The host, as if sensing your plan, turns towards you. Gojo curses, any sarcasm vanishing in an instant. 

“No! Don’t get closer!”

“Too late!” you yell back, already grabbing the valve wheel. “You’re getting your ass beat, Satoru, I’m not going to stand here and just let your ego handle it!” 

He rises to his feet, running to you though in the water, it’s only a pathetic sloshing that almost gives you the ick. “My ego? And you think your pride will handle it any better?”

No. 

“Yes!” 

You wrench at the valve and, because your life has always been full of miracles and good fortune, nothing happens. 

The host lunges in your direction again. Gojo catches him from the side, arm hooking around his neck for one desperate second before the black slick ripples up and flings him off. He crashes shoulder-first into the low barrier by the shark viewing glass.

He gasps and coughs, eyes blearily finding yours. “Get—get out of here. Now, Y/N.”

“I’m not giving up.” You brace one foot against the wall. “No pressure, literally.”

You yank at the wheel again but nothing still happens. There’s got to be a safety catch, a pin or latch or something. Your eyes dart over the assembly frantically even as the figure draws itself back on its legs. 

“Y/N!” Gojo calls out again, water sloshing around his body as he tries to follow. 

Your eyes skim frantically over the valve housing, over rusted bolts and warped metal and a tangle of pipes slick with spray, until they finally catch on a metal locking pin bent half-flat against the side.

Without another thought, you lunge for it and wrap both hands around the pin. 

Behind you, there’s a sharp, ugly sound—Gojo sucking in a breath through his teeth—followed by the violent splash of him slamming back into the host. You risk a glance over your shoulder just in time to see him catch the thing by the arm, twist with the momentum, and drive a punch into its face hard enough to make black slick spray across the floodwater.

Pulse spiking, you put your whole weight into the pin. And finally, it gives all at once, slipping free so suddenly you nearly fall backward into the floorwater. 

“Got you!” you hiss at the valve before throwing yourself against the wheel. 

This time, it turns. The line shudders to life with a deep, violent thump and water pressure surges through the pipes hard enough to rattle the wall. 

“Satoru!” you shout, looking up wildly. “To your left! Bring him here!” 

He turns his head fast, sees the line, sees you, and somehow understands immediately despite looking one bad hit away from passing out. You suppose he isn’t a genius for nothing.

Gojo stands with more purpose, moving in a tight arc through the floodwater, letting the thing follow. His movements are messier than they should be, attributed to the wounds he’s sustained. You can see it every time he favours his right side, every time his mouth tightens with every dodge. 

But he still keeps moving, still keeping the thin on him, keeping it away from you. Trusting your ridiculous plan that was concocted in under a minute. 

“Come on,” he calls, breathless and taunting all at once. “Come on and get me, you big ugly thing. I’ve had worse nights.”

The host lunges under the broken steam line. 

“Now!” you shout, a command for just yourself really, and crank the pressure line open fully. 

A brutal blast of high-pressure water erupts across the gallery and catches the host broadside, slamming into its blackened shoulder and neck with enough force to wrench it half off its feet. At the same time, a fresh burst of steam hisses from overhead where the damaged line gives way under the renewed vibration. And just as you’d hoped, the black slick convulses.

It peels back in twitching bands from the host’s throat and shoulder, recoiling from the steam with an ugly, wet shiver. It starts to back away on unsteady feet. 

“There!” you yell, voice cracking with triumph and panic all at once. “Again, use it again!”

Gojo doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the dangling steam pipe with both hands and yanks hard enough to shear the remaining bracket loose. The line drops lower, shrieking vapour across the host’s side.

The thing—not the man, but the thing—lets out a shrill cry, a sound so wrong it feels like it goes through your bones instead of your ears.

Gojo uses the opening immediately, slamming his shoulder into the host’s chest and driving him back into the support beam beside the shark viewing glass. The whole gallery shudders under the impact, but this time the host goes down hard, knees buckling under him as the black slick writhes and spasms under the steam.

You don’t realise you’ve moved until you’re already splashing toward him, relief making you stupid and light all at once. In your head, it should have been graceful, some dramatic run into his arms after shared survival and mutual competence. In reality, the water turns it into a pathetic, uneven waddle that Gojo, in an act of true mercy, only pretends not to notice.

“We did it!” you say, breathless and bright with adrenaline. “That was insane, but we did it. And I’m taking at least seventy percent of the credit, by the way, because without me you were just getting beaten up in a public aquarium—”

He smiles, just barely, and turns to look at you.

“Yeah,” he says, chest heaving. “I guess we—”

Something moves in the corner of his eye.

It isn’t the frantic, wild sort of movement from before, but something uglier for how deliberate it feels. A last-ditch effort. The host drags one arm free of the steam and the floodwater just enough for the black slick to surge violently down its length and gather into one long, brutal lash of muscle and tar.

It comes not for Gojo, but for you.

Gojo sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, his whole face changing before you can even register why. His mouth opens around the start of your name, warning already there, panic rising faster than the sound can leave him.

You are still a few crucial seconds behind.

By the time you catch the movement in your peripheral vision and start to turn, Gojo is already lunging forward. But the thing is too fast, the distance too wrong, and you can see the exact instant he realises he won’t make it to you in time as himself.

You turn just enough to see it.

Ah.

So this is how stupid people die.

Something white snaps through the air.

The strike jerks violently sideways before it can hit you, yanked off course so hard it slams into the side wall instead, cracking the tile with a wet, horrible impact. A scream tears from your throat, loud and sharp in the aftermath, but the thing barely registers to you now, not even when the goo gives one last shudder and forms something like a trembling fist aimed in your direction.

You don’t care about that anymore.

Instead, your eyes track the white line stretched taut across the gallery.

You follow it all the way back.

All the way to Gojo.

He stands there with his arm still half outstretched. His face is stricken with lingering panic, but there is something else there too, something like resignation, like he knows whatever happens next might end his world right here in a crumbling aquarium.

You look from his face to his wrist and then back again.

“What,” you say, finding no other words that fit the moment. “What the fuck.”

Gojo lowers his arm very slowly. Water drips from his sleeve, from his fingers, from the impossible thin connecting him to the wall beside you. 

“This is not how I wanted to tell you,” he says, his voice suddenly rough in a way you recognise far too well.

The host roars, and it’s that sound that snaps both of you back into motion.

Gojo’s hand goes to his pocket and comes back with the mask—of course it’s the mask. Blue and white, worn at the edges, and, hell, maybe you’re hallucinating now, but is that still the little tear you left in the fabric that night?

He hesitates just before pulling it over his head, eyes darting back to you as he says, “Please wait for me. Just this once, please wait.”

There is no time to process the fact that his eyes look almost frightened. No time to process the fact that the voice you’ve heard in your ear and the voice that has said your name in two different ways now belong to the same infuriating man. There is really no time to process anything at all.

So, shockingly, you do the mature thing.

You nod.

“Okay,” you say, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. “Okay. Go.”

You watch as Gojo stares at you, hopeless and pleading all at once, the mask slipping over his face. But now that you’ve seen him—seen him bare and vulnerable and desperately hoping—the blue and white can no longer hide it.

Spider-Man keeps looking at you even as he slings onto the adjacent wall, the sticky material catching with a faint smack.

“I’m going to explain everything,” he says. “I promise. Just—please. Please still be here when I come back.”

He doesn’t wait for your response, not properly. Maybe because he’s worried whatever words leave your gaping mouth will be a rejection. Maybe because if he waits another second, he’ll stay here looking at you until the whole room caves in around you. 

Spiderman slings out onto the adjacent wall, the web catching with a faint, sticky smack, and for one absurd second all you can think is that even upside down and half-bleeding he’s still showy. 

Then he launches and whatever restraint Gojo had been fighting with until now is gone. 

The host lunges towards you but you don’t flinch. There’s simply no fight in your body anymore. Not that it matters because Spiderman meets him in the centre of the gallery. 

What had looked clumsy and desperate when Gojo was still trying to pass for your average citizen becomes something else entirely now that he’s abandoned his facade. His body understands the room in ways you never could, every rail, every shattered edge, every unstable surface becomes a part of him when the web attaches to it, part of the fight. He lips under the host’s first strike and plants a hand against the flood tile, driving both feet into its chest hard enough to send it skidding backward through the water. 

He flicks his wrists out before the host can recover, pinning one arm to a fractured support beam, another line catching its ankle. 

The black slick surges and peels away from the first web, but it's too slow. Spiderman is already gone from where he was, slinging upward into the steam and dropping back down from above with enough force to slam the hose into the floor. 

The black mass writhes and lashes and tries to reform over the host’s body, but now there is no hesitation in the man fighting it, no room left for restraint. Spiderman moves with frightening precision, using every opening, every recoil, every half-second where the thing peels back under heat and sound. He webs one wrist, then the throat, then the opposite shoulder, dragging the host back into the pressure line each time he tears free. The slick recoils violently, shrieking, trying and failing to hold together.

Was it just you but did it look like Gojo was taking his frustration out on this thing? 

Your mind keeps trying and failing to fit the pieces together. It all comes together anyway, the way Gojo had always disappeared at the wrong times, the way Spiderman’s voice had felt familiar even when you told yourself that was ridiculous and known things about you he couldn’t have. The way he touched you, the way the other never quite did, not completely, as if afraid of what would happen if he started. 

All of it was him. Every humiliating, infuriating, impossible piece of it. 

The host tears free one last time, black goo surging over his chest in a final desperate wave. But by now, it should learn that doing something over and over again is a sign of insanity because Spiderman is already there. 

A webline catches high overhead and with a yank, the hanging steam pipe drops lower. Another shot takes the alarm cable and rips it loose in a shower of sparks. He drives forward, one hand wrapped around his web, the other braced against the host’s chest, and hurls him back into the flooded floor beneath the full force of the steam. 

The black mass writhes and shrieks then tears free all at once. It peels from the man’s body in one final, violent shudder and streaks away through the fractured wall paneling, vanishing into the dark beyond the gallery even as Spiderman attempts to stop it. 

Then the host collapses, dead. 

Then nothing. Of course, not complete silence as the alarms still ring and water still drips. But between the two of you, across the room now suddenly empty of the thing that had stood there, there is a different kind of stillness. 

Spiderman straightens slowly. He stands in front of the steam and the ruin and the broken shark glass, chest heaving, mask still over the face you now know too well, and even from here you can see the way his body sags just slightly under the cost of what he’s just done.

You stare at each other, the gap between endlessly vast until you decide to close it. 

Your shoes drag through the floodwater, sending up ugly little splashes with every step, and by the time you reach him, any dignity you might have salvaged from the reveal is long dead and buried beneath three inches of fish water. He stands there waiting, one hand hanging at his side while the other presses hard against his ribs. 

Your hands fist the front of his hoodie and he lets you.

“You are the biggest liar I have ever met in my entire life,” you say, voice trembling with the weight of everything. 

Spiderman—Gojo—lets out a weak laugh. “That sounds about right.”

You yank the mask up without another word. 

It catches for half a second on his nose before sliding free, damp and warm in your hand, and there he is. Just Satoru now. He’s pale, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around the hard pull of his breathing. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth and more blooming darkly beneath his hoodie where he’d been hit, but his eyes are on you and only you with that same awful, naked openness they had before he put the mask on.

“Satoru,” you say, and his name comes out rough, almost wounded.

His eyes lift to yours at once, terrified of what he might find there. 

You slap him. And honestly, compared to everything he went through less than a minute ago, compared to what he deals with everyday, you’d call the slap a puny, pathetic hit. Still, the hand from his side flies up to cup his cheek, looking more startled than in pain. 

“That,” you start,” is for lying to me.”

He gapes at you wordlessly. 

Then all at once, the rest of it rises inside you—the fear, the relief, the horrible rush of seeing that black strike coming at you and knowing, with perfect clarity, that Gojo would throw it all away to save you, even if it meant revealing his identity. 

You lift your hand again but this time not to strike. Instead, your fingers brush his jaw, trembling against the damp skin there, tracing the shape of him you thought you knew so well. You feel his pulse leap, hear his breath catch. 

“This,” you whisper, steadier now that you know this is what you want, “is for saving me.” 

You go up on your tippy toes, lean forward, and kiss him. 

Gojo freezes, arms held out in the air as he pieces together the scene. You’re not mad, well maybe you’re mad, but you’re over that now because you’re kissing him. Wait, you’re kissing him? Then what is he doing just standing there? 

A soft, startled sound escapes him, swallowed immediately by your mouth, before he’s drowning in it. The kiss turns desperate, all relief and fear and weeks of restrained feeling collapsing into one reckless, aching moment. 

One wraps around your waist and the other catches at your back, hauling you flush against him with desperation. You feel the wound in his ribs in the way his body tightens, the way his breath catches sharply through his nose, but he ignores it completely, pressing you closer like he needs the proof of you there, solid and real and choosing him.

When you finally pull back, it’s only because breathing becomes a necessity again. 

His forehead knocks against yours, his eyes fluttering close as he rests there, panting. 

The alarms are still going off somewhere beyond the ruined gallery. Water still laps around your ankles, cold and foul and full of things you would rather not identify. Security is shouting in the distance, voices getting closer, but here, in this stupid little pocket of aftermath, the world has narrowed down to the heat of his hands on you and the shape of his breath fanning over your mouth.

When he finally opens his eyes again, he looks a little dazed. Not concussed, though probably that too.

“You kissed me,” he says, and his voice comes out low and rough and almost disbelieving. “After everything?”

You stare at him. “Do you want me to take it back?”

His hands tighten instinctively at your waist. “No!” The answer leaves him quickly before he swallows, eyes flickering over your face to gauge your response. “No, please don’t do that.” 

“I’m still angry at you, you know.” 

“I know.”

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You kept lying to me.” You stop. “You also knew. This entire time you knew and you just played me twice over.” 

He winces a little at that. “Yeah. That one’s harder to defend.”

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before climbing back to your eyes, slower this time, more careful.

“I kept thinking there’d be a better time to tell you,” he says. “A version of this where I could do it right. Then every time I almost said something, it got harder because the longer I waited, the worse it got, and I knew that. I knew I was making it worse, I just—I was scared. It was easier for me that way but I also know it was cowardly and I’m sorry.”

You nod once. “And?” 

“And?” he repeats before he catches the disapproving look in your eyes and starts scrambling for more. “And… I’m sorry for—well. Actually I’m not sorry about that part.”

You hit him lightly on the arm. “Say you’re sorry for deceiving me.”

“Right, right. Sorry for deceiving you.” 

“And that you won’t do it again.” 

“And I won’t have sex with you in the Spiderman suit again.”

You hit him again but your mouth twitches before you can stop it, the familiarity of the banter easing the uncertainty. He catches it, of course, that tiny almost-smile, and his expression softens.

“I really am sorry,” he says again, slowly. “For all of it. The disappearing. The missed presentation. The lies. I wanted you in any way you’d give yourself to me, even if it meant you’d only take me as Spiderman. I shouldn’t have, but I did anyway. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You look at him for a long moment. “Do you really mean it or are you only saying that now that you’ve been caught?”

He winces and looks down at his feet submerged in water, before thinking better of it and looking up, face solemn and pained and deeply guilty. “I do mean it.”

You let him sit in his apology, the silence completely neutral. Finally, you let out a slow breathe and smile. “It’s okay, Satoru. I forgive you. I knew what I was getting myself in to.”

“Really?” “Really.” “Even if that was a jerk thing to do?” “Oh, so you know?” “Yes,” he says quickly. “Yes, I know. I was weak and I was stupid and God, I just needed you to look at me like—” He swallows, "like you are right now. Y/N I—I’m not proud of it and I need you to know that.”

“I know.”

He lets out a shuddering breath. “Okay. And one more thing—”

“If this is another apology, I'm going to hit you. I forgive you, I promise.” “Just one more.” His lips twitch but he maintains his straight face. “I am just overall deeply apologetic for being me in all of this and letting it become such a mess.” “Being you is, unfortunately, one of your biggest issues.” You pause, eyes flickering down to his lips. “But I think I’m willing to work around that one.” 

You watch his eyes drop to your mouth in turn, watch the decision happen in him, quiet and unmistakable. He leans in first this time, just enough for his breath to warm your lips, just enough to make your pulse trip over itself—

“They’re in here somewhere!”

The shout tears through the gallery from the corridor behind you, followed immediately by the unmistakable chaos of multiple people splashing through floodwater at once.

“Please save them!”

“Utahime,” Suguru’s voice says, strained and much closer now, “if you scream at the police one more time, they’re going to leave us here—”

You jerk back so fast you nearly headbutt him and then his maybe concussion would have been a definite one.

Gojo blinks at you, dazed and breathing hard, his mouth still parted from the kiss you almost had before he too regains his senses and pulls back just enough to stop sharing the same air. Then, the both of you turn to that tunnel.

Utahime barrels into the gallery first, wild-eyed and soaked,hands cupping around her mouth as she calls your names, the wound on her leg now wrapped up. Shoko walks in right behind her with a tight expression that immediately crumbles at the scene. Geto is just behind them followed by two officers and what appears to be the entire remaining aquarium emergency staff.

You shove the mask still in your hand into your pocket, fingers fumbling once against the wet fabric, but don’t do much more to break away from the incriminating position. His hand is still on your waist, your own fingers are still hooked into the front of his hoodie, and your chest is pressed flush against his. 

Shoko is the first to say something. “Well. I guess you guys did make up after all.” 

“Did this happen before or after you took the crazy madman down?” Utahime says, deciding that is the most important detail to clarify. 

“Are you two not done yet or should we come back in a bit?” 

It’s Geto’s words that finally has you pulling apart, blushing madly and eyes looking frantically away from each other.

And when the police finally reach the two of you, shouting over one another and very tactfully ignoring your swollen lips, you feel something brush against your hand. Gojo’s fingers curl carefully around yours, warm and tentative despite everything, and, more importantly, despite the very audible snickering coming from your right where your friends have been herded aside to let the officers work, you lace your fingers through his without hesitation.

Because with Gojo’s thumb brushing against the side of your hand while an officer asks if either of you can walk unassisted, it’s hard to feel like the world is ending anymore. You had spent so long acting like meeting Gojo Satoru on March 15th at 10:12am was the beginning of your personal apocalypse. Granted, he is still infuriating and he is still a liar. But standing there in a flooded aquarium with his hand in yours and his blood on his shirt and a superhero mask hidden in your pocket, you can’t help thinking maybe you’d been a little dramatic.

Or maybe not. Maybe the world really had ended when you met Gojo Satoru. It’s just that, now that you’ve survived the aftermath, you’re starting to think the next one might be better.

a/n: PHEWW thank u for making it to the end! this has been the unwanted child in my drafts for three whole years and rewriting it was a pain considering how unfunny i was but if there’s one less lonely girl in the world then it’s worth it <3 this was a lot longer but i had to cut down for tumblr’s character limit ☹️ rip to all the shoko + utahime silly scenes and the injured spiderman scene and the lab satoru scene and the—[GUNSHOT] regardless !! shoutout to flatline as always and to all the national days we missed the deadlines to <3 see you guys on the 28th for national burger day on this fine burger month 🍔

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you take a deep breath, humid air filling your lungs. “okay. i like how funny you are. sometimes i think you might genuinely be the funniest person i know. you find humor in things no one else does and you make me laugh even when i want to strangle you. but i think you should know that your pranks aren’t funny in the slightest and you really need to stop messing with ‘gumi and nanami”

“i think my pranks are hilarious” he protests. you hold up a finger to his lips to silence him.

“nope,” you say firmly, though there’s no real heat behind it. “your pranks are cruel and unnecessary. poor megumi just wants to live his life without you constantly trying to give him an aneurysm.”

satoru nips playfully at your finger, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. you yank your hand back with a gasp, swatting at his shoulder.

“i retract my previous statement. you’re not funny, you’re annoying” you grumble, though you can’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “quit messing around or i’ll go back to reading.”

“noooo,” he whines, “i’ll behave, i promise. cross my heart and hope to die. well, not really die. that wouldn’t be very fun” you glare at him, but you carry on regardless

“another thing i unfortunately like about you is how caring you are,” you hum, “you try — and fail — to hide it but anyone who truly knows you, knows that you’ve got the biggest heart in the universe.”

you shift, getting more comfortable, your fingers tracing the faint scar that starts at his neck and trails down his torso. he tenses slightly but he doesn’t shrink away. “and how selfless you are” you add softly, “the sorcerer killer was an asshole, but you’re still taking care of his kids. you took them in and gave them a home. you didn’t have to do that ‘toru. no one would’ve blamed you if you didn’t.”

you pause, your fingers still tracing his scar, “you could’ve walked away y’know ? after everything. you could’ve left it all behind and no one would’ve been able to stop you. but you put your own feelings aside and you stayed which leads to my favorite thing about you,” you say, and now your voice is barely a whisper. “the thing i love most about you is that you’re strong.”

you hold up a hand before he can make a remark about how that’s kind of his whole deal “and i’m not saying this because you’re the strongest. i’m not talking about your cursed energy or the six eyes or any of that. i mean you’re strong in here.” you reach out and gently tap his chest, right over his heart.

“you’ve been through so much, ‘toru. you carry the weight of this whole world on your shoulders, you’ve seen so much suffering. you’ve lost so many people. and you never, ever let it crush you. you’ve seen the absolute worst of our world, and yet you keep smiling every single day. you choose to find joy even in the darkest moments. and it makes me feel safe, makes me feel like everything might actually be okay.”

you feel your own eyes start to prickle with tears. “and i love you,” you say, the words feeling huge and overwhelming in the small, hot room. “i love you with my whole heart. every part of you.”

for a moment, he’s just staring at you, his expression unreadable. and then you see it. a shimmer in his eyes. a single, perfect tear escapes, tracing a path through the faint sheen of sweat on his cheek. and then he’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and all his weight is pressing into you, pinning you to the old leather couch.

“satoru — get off me — you’re heavy—” you squeal, pushing at his shoulders to no avail. it’s like trying to move a mountain.“it’s like a sauna in here, get off !!!” he’s not listening. he’s burying his face in the crook of your neck, and you can feel the dampness of his tears against your skin as he peppers kisses against your jaw, cheek, and the corner of your mouth.

“i love you,” he’s murmuring between kisses, his voice thick with emotion. “i love you, i love you, i love you.” you’re still squirming, still complaining about the heat and his weight, but your protests are losing their steam. your hands, which were pushing him away, are now pulling him closer. his eyes are shining, and his smile is so wide it looks like it might split his face in half. the summer heat doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore.

satoru’s got you pressed into the mattress, one hand holding himself up near your hair, the other hooked under your hip like you might try to escape. you’re not. you couldn’t if you wanted to. not with the way he's anchored you down, trapping you beneath himself.

satoru lifts you, just enough, to press himself flush against you.

“say it again,” he breathes against your mouth, all smug and wrecked in the same breath.

“say what?” breathless, your nails dig down his back.

he grinds into you thoroughly. “that thing you said about my legs.”

you’d laugh if you had the air for it. “you’re obsessed with yourself.”

“mm.” satoru kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “and you’re obsessed with here.”

he grabs your hand, drags it down his thigh. the muscle flexes under your palm, warm and solid and ridiculous. “go on. touch. i know you want to.”

you do. you really do.

but you don’t. which makes satoru shift, spreading his knees wider, caging you in completely.

there you are—nowhere to go, nothing but him and his stupid perfect body and that insufferable grin. and doesn't he know just how to rub it in.

“see?” he rolls his hips again, sluggish and dirty, and you actually whimper. “told you these legs were good for something.”

“shut up—”“taking it so pretty.. and you were complaining about my legs earlier.”

you try to respond, but he drives deeper and the words turn into a choked moan.

“mm, that’s what i thought.”

your nails rake down satoru’s back. he groans—loud—and bites your lower lip hard enough to sting.

“fuck—” you gasp and he pulls back just enough to look at you, blindfold half in place, teeth sharp and dangerous. “you like that? like when i get a little mean?”

you yank him down by his stupid perfect hair then and kiss him like you’re trying to devour the ego out of him. satoru laughs into your mouth—a bright and unhinged sound—and then flips you both so fast you barely register the motion.

his firm hands find your hips in a stifling grip. and his legs—god, his legs—bend up, feet planted on the mattress, giving him leverage to fuck up into you like he's trying to break you.

you brace your hands on his chest, trying to find some rhythm, some control—but satoru doesn’t let you.

he thrusts into you, sharp and merciless, his hips snapping up to meet yours with brutal urgency. the sound is wet, filthy. you feel every inch of him, every ridge, pulse, and your brain’s melting.

the blindfold sits right under his bottom lip now. “look at me.” satoru demands, the tenor low and rough.

you shake your head, barely, eyes squeezed shut. it’s too much. way too much.

his hand leaves your hip in response, grabs your jaw and forces your face up in an unforgiving clasp. “i said look at me.”

you force an eye open. both the feel of him, and the intensity of his focus is hard to stand.

“there you are,” satoru breathes. “there’s my good girl.”

his thumb traces your lower lip, and you part your mouth without thinking. he pushes in, just the tip—and you suck it instinctively. satoru’s hips stutter.

“fuck—”

you smirk. weakly, but you smirk. got him.

his hand tightens on your chin. “oh, you think that’s funny?”

satoru flips you again—the fast motion is disorienting. now you’re on your stomach, face pressed into the pillow and he is behind you, one hand on your hip and the other pressing between your shoulder blades to arch you back into him.

“since you wanna play games,” he murmurs by your ear, “let’s do that.”

satoru pushes in again—gradual, cruel. he’s everywhere—his height, his heat, his presence. you can’t move. can’t think. can only take what he gives.

“take it,” he grunts, pace increasing. “take—it—all.”

you’re sobbing now, tears soaking your cheeks, your fingers clawing at his grasp.

“please—”

“please what?”

“please—i can’t—”

“yes you can.” satoru says, final. “you can.”

his hand slides from between your shoulder to your hair, fisting it gently and pulling your head back just enough that you can hear him slightly better.

“don’t you dare quit on me now.” satoru whispers, or at least he intends to, but the words come out moreso in a growl. “you owe me that much.”

your mind’s too far gone to know what he means. satoru is ‘owed’ simply because he says so. because he’s gojo satoru and he’s earned every sound you make with every devastating hilt of his hips, every torturous clasp of your body against his, and every bit of vulgarity that falls from his lips.

and my god, does he deliver, continuously, refusing to to let up in any way shape or form. if anything the snap of his lower body gets dizzyingly speedy, skin slapping against yours with a rhythm that’s lost all pretense of control.

he’s chasing something now, and so are you.

but then—his hold falters, a scantly tremor in the hand that fisted your hair and a jerk in the steady motion against your back. you feel it in the way his breathing turns real ragged against your neck. he’s close. so close.

yet, satoru pushes to hold on—because the competitive streak in him wants to best you, hear you fall apart first.

only for his body to be in the process of actively betraying him, of course.

“satoru—” you groan his name, because you feel it too—the how of him losing it, shattering behind you.

“don’t—” he tries, voice cracking. “don’t you dare—not yet—”

his hips twitch again. his clutch on your hair tightens—then loosens—then tightens like he’s clinging to the last thread of his control.

“please—” you’re not even sure what you’re begging for. more. less. him.

and that’s what does satoru in. the sound of you pleading—for him—sends him over the edge. he groans your name—a broken syllable—and spills into you with a force that makes his knees buckle. satoru’s forehead drops to the back of your neck, his breath hot and jagged against your sticky skin.

then he collapses. not gracefully. not dramatically. just… falls, taking you with him, his weight pressing you into the mattress like a weighted blanket of pure exhaustion.

“holy shit,” he mumbles into your hair.

you huff, giving a faint laugh. the reaction itself is energy enough for satoru to go unlimp.

he pulls out slowly, rolls you over. his stupid long legs curl around you— successfully cocooned, entirely tucked against his chest.

“toldya.” satoru murmurs against your temple. “useful, right?” your hand moves up to smack him—and is caught by his by the wrist right before you can make impact.

he doesn’t see your mouth coming, however, so you bite his shoulder. hard.

Apollo was powerful, yet Eros was unkind. After he poked and played and had his fun, Apollo left Eros alone in the forest, giving him no mind. He didn't know, however, that the God of Love would prove far more wicked than he had thought.

As with his hurt pride, Eros plucked a few creamy feathers from his wings and prepared two arrows. They were completely different, one creating love, the other banishing it entirely. A savage decision, truly, yet how could a prideful man of Eros's sort leave Apollo without the fruit of his wrath?

So he drew the arrow of love and shot it right through his bones. Letting it seep deep and gravely, spreading the lustful obsession of the most wicked charm. The utterly deadly one, making one obsessed and wretched over the darling of their desires.

Usually, his arrows were meant to strike those who wished to be deeply in love. Yet, as the rage was ravaging Eros's mind, he decided to make Apollo the most obsessed yet unhappy man in the entire world.

As for the other one, meant to banish the love, he shot at the daughter of the River's God.

The most beautiful nymph of all, with a face carved by the waves themselves. A chin utterly kind and cheeks wholly sweet, as eyes carried a gentleness of petals' peppered kisses. A wild birdie she was, basking carefree beneath the searing sun, as she lay and drank and danced without giving a mind to no mankind nor other little divinities. Nothing plagued her cheeky mind, and no worry could ever haunt her velvety forehead.

After all, she was the River God's most precious child, and he allowed her everything, guided by a parent's blissful love.

Her giggle bloomed in the nearby trees, and tender gaze lit the powdery midnight sky. A true beauty of utterly rare sight, so impossible it seemed too not be caught in Apollo's sight!

The God of Sun and Music and Poetry had never been in love. He enjoyed the bodily pleasures rather often, yet had never come upon a thing so deadly and wicked called love.

He knew that Gods and mortals joyed in it with the passion seething in their blood – for there were Hades and his Persephone, Aphrodite and Ares, even Orpheus and Eurydice, too, although it seemed that love of humankind was of a rather cruel sort.

Apollo, or, well, Satoru Gojo, as his true name was, never gave it much thought. The Goddesses and Gods were utterly beautiful, true, yet none of them had ever made his heart race with the swell and tenderness that all the poets wrote of.

He had never felt this tickling pinch his spine, nor the sudden blissful pain puncturing through his heart. No lover had ever bewitched his soul in an almost maddening way, and so he thought that the thing called love was simply not a part of his fate. Even if, that was rather fine too.

And yet… the serpents of fate are wicked.

Another summer evening it was, while Dionysus threw a joyous party as Gods usually liked to do. With wine spilling all over the golden cups and jolly laughter swirling through the tall grasses of the midnight land.

Gods there were of all sorts – trees and rivers and plants, each with loveliest offspring too, joined the grand feast.

It happened thirty moons or so before Eros shot Satoru with an arrow of maddening love. One evening, when the God who devoted his mind to no one set his eyes on… you.

A Goddess? Dearests, no.

As if you were the Goddess, he would fear that Aphrodite, driven by jealousy, would quickly pluck your eyes out. For the moment you entered the banquet held on the hidden beach, where waves rolled in deep foams, and moonlight spilt its cold kisses onto the heavy stones, Satoru needed to hold his breath.

This feeling, which he had read – written – about so often, suddenly bloomed in the swells of his heart. His hand flew towards his chest, crumpling the ivory tunic that covered the sizzling skin. His mind was struck, as if by a trickery spell, making him lose interest in the men and women chirping by his side.

The lyre in his hands felt heavy as he plucked the crystal strings, producing an unpleasant tone. But how could he not, if his eyes were devouring a beauty he'd never seen before?

And that evening, he followed you like a lost pup. With an ocean gaze lingering longer on the swells of your body, wrapped in a flimsy dress, and on your sweet cheeks, giggling foxily as the salty breeze smooched them. The flicker of the candles peppering long tables cast a lovely flame upon your skin, basking it in gold and warmth, as he imagined licking it clean.

Satoru Gojo was a poet too. A God of Poetry, after all, yet his mind was miserably empty whenever he tried to put your beauty into words. No one had ever shone brighter than you, and no giggle forced this weird, foreign feeling to seep through the marrow of his ribcage.

He was always responsible for the music and jolly, while his dearest friend Dionysus spilt the wine into guests' cups. The merry atmosphere tickled him in a pleasant way, and the mere thought of going back to one of his temples with a few little birdies forced a cheeky smile upon his brazen lips.

The women, Goddesses, and little divinities who didn't wish to be smooched by Satoru's muscular arms were indeed few. Yet the nymph who bewitched his mind in the utmost wretched way didn't bestow him with lovely eyes even once.

Dionysus noticed Apollo's frown crumbling, so he jumped to his side with a whisper, "Hm, isn't she your type, my dearest God?"

Satoru glanced at the slyness on Suguru's lips and bit the inside of his soft cheek. "That's the problem. And yet it seems I'm not quite hers."

Suguru pushed a raven lock of his hair back behind his ear, and lavender eyes oogled your giggling body with a slight grin. "Do you wish me to give her a bit of my special wine?"

The special wine was simply spiked with an aphrodisiac. Some Gods loved to use it to heighten their own sexual pleasure, while others too… made the object of their desires a bit mellow. A bit more balmy and sweet, and so Satoru already imagined your body melting beneath his fingers as he held it dearly within his delicate grasp.

Feeding you the special wine would be easy. And yet, Satoru didn't wish to be a bastard.

"Oh, but you are," Suguru chuckled, sensing the thought in his friend's mind. "I don't think there's any God more selfish than you."

Satoru knew it was the truth, for his character was rather… oh well… let's simply say he wasn't known to be the kindest and most lovable pick among the women. The most beautiful one? Surely. The best in offering sexual pleasures? Indeed. Yet he was the most arrogant bastard on the Mountain's peak, and every creature living beneath the Midetarrean sun knew of it far and well.

You most likely knew it too, so that's why the stars bouncing off your eyes did not look his way even for a second.

His head fell against Suguru's shoulder, the heavy wine coating his tongue with a sweet taste. His mind buzzed with a clash of drunken and desperate thoughts, a pulsing desire already flowing like liquid through his veins.

"I want to approach her in a nice way," he muttered, feeling Suguru's body tremble with wicked laughter.

"You can only dream, my God. She had rejected all attempts to woo her. The men and the Gods were rebuffed before they could grasp the weight of her eyes," Suguru hummed, feeling Satoru's head suddenly grow heavy on his shoulder.

"Is it her father's fault?"

Suguru shook his head. "The River God wishes for nothing more than to see his grandchildren's blooming cheeks. It's she who sniffs at all her suitors. After all, she is a virgin huntress, bound by Artemis's chastity laws." Satoru's head grew heavier. "You'd better forget about her, my God."

But how could he! His heart raced for no one but her. And even if she was a virgin beauty, Satoru didn't mind it at all, for he truly believed in the power of his charming soul. The arrogant confidence of the Sun God was truly impossible to dim!

And so that evening, Apollo decided to fulfil your father's deepest wish and become a man worthy of his daughter's hand. The one who would turn the virgin huntress into his most delicate, lovely petal.

At first, he began strolling around the meadows you usually spent your time in. Where the river curved and bent like a serpent's snake, and crystal droplets smooched your body, immersing you deep. You often sat with other sisters, and Satoru would approach you all with his foxed smile, dripping with a few sweetish words about your utter charm.

The other nymphs giggled, blushing gently at the lyricism spilling from his lips, as if the words of the most passionate, heart-throbbing kind were meant for them indeed. They looked at your unfazed face with a sly smile, knowing that their sister would reject Apollo's advances as she did with all her other suitors.

The Sun God knelt on the riverbank, looking down at your naked body hidden beneath the water's gentle swells. He could see nothing but the swell of your breasts, with perked nipples smooched by the river's kisses. You were meant to stay a virgin, true, but no one said you couldn't use the charms of yours to make the men spill miserably right beneath your feet.

So you glanced, for the first time, at God's idyllic face and waved your hand with a soft sigh. "I don't need your courtship, my God. There's nothing you can say that will force my mind to change. And to answer the question you most anticipate – no, I won't marry you."

Other suitors would back away instantly, feeling the intimidating air your glance carried across the lush plains. Your head tilted wickedly, lips curving into a playful beam, as if you knew the wretched state you always left them in.

Because a man's nature was to challenge his luck. Who didn't think that maybe their fate would be to change the virgin's mind? As all of them thought of you as the gentle, timid petal, not knowing that the virgin huntress was indeed a true beast hidden beneath the loveliest female cheeks!

But the Apollo, of course, couldn't be more turned on by your harsh rejection. The truth was that he almost didn't hear a word. No, instead he focused on the way your lips curved into a tricky smile. How crystalline droplets clung to your half-dipped breasts, with liquid sun spilling all over your warm skin. He traced them one by one, dripping from the damp hair and down the chest. His eyes seemed to be enamoured by your heavy gaze, slightly squinted and teasing, as if you already knew that your rejection would pinch his wretched heart.

And so a truthful, "My Goddess, you're ethereally beautiful with this wrath-wrinkle of yours," fell with his deep, obsessed sigh.

The nymphs gasped, covering their lips with gentle hands. Their mingling eyes glanced between your squinted gaze and the God's wretched sigh, as they awaited how this concern would unfold.

"I'm not a Goddess, and I don't need your praise," you said, your voice dripping with disinterest. "Find yourself another muse, my God. There's no need to waste your precious time on a simple nymph."

You bounced off the river's edge and swam to the other one, where the Sun God knelt. With the golden halo smooching his pale cheeks and ivory tunic crumpling on muscular shoulders. Feet clad in long, serpent sandals, golden laurel laying high on frosted head.

You've seen men of his sort, yet he was the first to look down on you with such a wretched gaze. Like a doomed lover, trapped in a circle of unrequited love, as if his heart had never swelled for any beauty but your gentlest soul.

He watched you carefully as you swam his way, unhurriedly, slowly. Water flowed over your body in soft waves, and warm wind shook the sole strings of your hair as it fell.

Your arms rested on the lush grass as you looked up at him through a curtain of wet lashes. "My God, I think it's time for you to go."

Satoru smiled – foxily, slyly, yet truthfully – before his hand reached out to cup your lovely cheek. You quickly pulled back, letting the tips of his fingers only catch a whisper of your soft lips.

His head tilted, a few creamy strands falling loosely over his straight brows. "I don't wish to hurt you, my Goddess." He grabbed the hem of his tunic. "I simply hope you'll grant me a chance."

He was kneeling, propping himself on his toes, as his fingers itched to grab a single lock of yours.

"I won't. I pledged Artemis my virginity. I'm a huntress, not your silly muse. Leave this place, or you'll taste the blood of my arrows."

And these words had indeed been bold, as all three realms of this world knew that no man had been more skilful in archery than Apollo himself.

If anyone else had spoken them in such a daring manner, the wrath of Apollo would bring painful consequences.

Yet when he heard it in this lovely yet viper-like tone of yours, a shiver ran down his spine. His hair stood on end as if electrified, and an ethereal aura smouldering around his figure suddenly intensified.

He wasn't afraid, oh surely no.

But rather, the swelling enamour, pinching his fingertips, washed over his heart. Your wicked personality wasn't an issue of any sort, but rather made the Sun God burn with an unexplainable desire. Heat that seeped down to his loins as he took a whistling breath.

"My Goddess, do you know who you're threatening to?"

You knew, of course, yet the urge to play with his boastful ego suddenly proved stronger than the choice to simply leave him be. You've met men like him before – too proud, too arrogant, the ones who'd never heard the word no. Yet of all you'd rejected, Apollo – Satoru Gojo – was the worst of all.

He was the Sun God, after all, who took satisfaction in the fact that the world, indeed, revolved around him. A personification of vanity and smugness, surpassing even Narcissus's pompous pride.

He knew what spell his wicked beauty cast over the nymph's petal cheeks. He knew the virgin maiden would fall for him most pitiably, needing only a single glance from his lustful eyes. His touch was soft, and his hands roamed over the women's tender bodies in the most loving way, yet never leaving them with the true tenderness that should fill his heart.

Satoru Gojo was a simple scum you wished to have nothing to do with. A cheeky smile tugged at your lips as you rested your arms on the river's edge and lifted half your body out of the water.

He didn't try to hide the ocean gaze, immediately snapping down towards your perked nipples, with crystal droplets dripping down the lush glass. Your head tilted, eyes turning kitty-like, as the blessed kisses of sunshine, of his sun, peppered your wet cheeks.

"To just yet another miserable man," fell almost mockingly, prompting a sudden movement around his hips. You've noticed it, and so you turned your lips into a disgusted grimace. "Go away, my God, and know my mercy. I won't be that nice next time."

You fully lifted yourself from the water, standing next to his kneeling body, naked. His gaze followed up your thighs, the mound of your pussy, the plush of your belly, tracing every crystalline line carving into your body. When it finally met your eyes, his throat bobbed.

"My Goddess, you're truly underestimating my feelings for you."

A scoff slipped past your lips as your eyes rolled. "For the God of Poetry, I expected more flowery words."

And so, ignoring whether he wished to say anything next, you simply passed him by. Going deeper into the woods, leaving the Sun God with nothing but the lingering fragrance of your blooming skin in the air, and the painfully, wickedly wretched pleasure bubbling in his loins.

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

You truly thought that he would give up.

That the Sun God, like any other man, wouldn't wish to pursue a woman who looked at him with nothing but a deep scowl between her beautiful brows.

And yet, for the next thirty moons, he always seemed to be there. Somewhere around, following you like a shadow, with eyes and lips and mind always speaking loudly, giving you neither peace nor serenity among the quiet fields of your home.

Whenever you went hunting, his arrows sliced through the air faster than yours, striking the animals and beasts with power that crumbled the heavens themselves, and a gasp always slipped past your lips.

Quiet, voiceless, yet somehow leaving you speechless upon seeing the strength the Sun God possessed.

He found you every single day, appearing like a spectre by the riverbank, a bow slung over his muscular shoulder, gold and softly feathered, mingling beneath the rising sun.

"Where are we going today, my Goddess?" He jumped to your side with a smile, immediately sniffing the fresh, flowery scent that clung to your sparkling hair.

You gave him no mind, simply following deeper into the warm, moist woods. The sun was barely high, and so you watched the trees wake from the slumber's tight arms.

"I'm going for breakfast, and you can do whatever you want."

Yet you knew that no matter how mundane your day was, Satoru Gojo would follow you nonstop. Just to steal a glance at your lips as you wrapped them around the orange's sweetest juice, the sugary stickiness dripping down your blooming cheeks. To watch the way your back bent whenever you drew yet another deadly arrow. How muscles beneath your flimsy tunic worked, and the sweat bubbled at the back of your neck as he traced it with a hungry gaze.

A few weeks had to pass before you started to tolerate his daily company.

He still acted bold and proud, often boasting like a peacock right in front of your irritated eyes, yet tried to keep his hands away, even though you'd noticed how his fingers curled whenever your tunic brushed their tips.

But then one day… something had changed.

You didn't know what, but well, he did.

Eros's wicked arrow had struck his bones, making his gut leak with maddening love. He was aware of the wretched ache in his heart, yet only after being struck by a love-spell of sorts did something beastly unlock in his mind.

As for the arrow meant to banish love, Eros shot it towards Apollo's dearest one. As all the Gods on Olympus already knew of his wretched state, Eros played his dirty trick, ensuring that the sweetest nymph would never glance at Apollo again.

But… well. A man in such haunting love is truly a hellish creature himself.

When the love-bound arrow struck his back, he took it with a wicked pleasure. Yet, when he saw another one flying boldly towards the curve of yours, he grabbed it swiftly, before the leaking peak could ever brush your skin.

It was a sudden movement as he stepped closer, his hand shooting toward something over your shoulder.

It happened yet another day, as you both walked the serpentine paths through his temple's lush garden. There's a little cove I wish to show you. How about a quick dip? After spending a month in his presence, you sighed and nodded, as nothing gave you more wicked pleasure than seeing him lose his mind at the sight of your naked body in fresh mountain waters.

And so, while your tunic fell to the ground and a warm wind brushed your hair with a soft tickle, he suddenly stepped closer.

Too close. Before a sudden crack of splintering wood sounded behind you, he drew an arrow, his long fingers clenching it.

"What is it?" you furrowed, looking at the long wooden arrow crushed in his strong grip.

He threw it to the side, taking the ivory tunic off his body. "Nothing, probably someone's lost arrow. Give it no mind."

But how could you, when something deep in your chest panged? You were a huntress, after all, so how could you not notice an arrow slashing at your side? There was never a moment when you would let your guard down, and yet, being in Satoru's presence somehow pulled a blissful laziness to seep into your mind.

He was always there – looking, watching, carefully observing each of your moves. Swooshing away a few men who dared to approach your side while he kept his eyes on you for too long.

To tear their limbs apart and unleash plagues across their lands with a single arrow. Something… you didn't know about, since there was no need to trouble your sweet mind. To reveal a sinister side of him that would shatter the gradually improving image you held of him.

His mind was already wicked. Heart wrenched by the pull of love so strong that it seeped into him from the inside. So the moment the love arrow struck his back, the feelings he had tried to keep within his heart suddenly burst with brutish, uncontrollable force.

He simply needed to make you his.

So you hummed softly, taking the first step into the little cove, with water slipping in from the nearby sea. A crisp chill hugged your limbs as you took a deep breath.

He watched you with a smile before dipping into the water too. "Rather good, isn't it?"

You nodded, leaning your arms over one of the sizzling stones. "Mhm."

Your bashful eyes roved over his ethereal body, lingering a moment longer on the broad, muscular back and meaty thighs. A warmth seeped through your loins, so you quickly looked away.

But he saw it. Of course he did, and so his body drifted a little closer, just to feel the saltiness wrapping your skin. Your hair fell loosely over your wet shoulder, and warmth crept up your soft neck.

The slight ache from the morning's hunt still pinched your muscles, so you turned to him again, only to see that he had suddenly come far too close.

A soft cough escaped your throat as you pressed yourself closer to the stone. "Could you, hm, give me a quick massage, my God?"

Satoru chuckled. "A massage? Is that how you wish to use the powerful Sun God?"

A scoff slipped past your lips as you turned back and rested your cheek against the warm stone. With eyes slightly lidded, you knew he, anyway, would give you whatever you wanted.

"Is there anything else you're good for?" A cheeky question slipped past your lips, followed by a low sigh.

He stood mere millimetres from your arched back, and the heat radiating from his body was smouldering your drenched skin. Long, thick fingers settled gently on your shoulders before he began pressing the muscles. Your body melted beneath his strong touch, and your mind went all fuzzy – nothing but soft moans and sighs would fill the little, hidden cove.

"I'm sure you can find a few things you could make good use of," his voice dripped with seduction, tickling your hair-covered cheeks.

A tsk fell past your lips. "You have only filth in your mind."

Well, how could he not? When your back arched so deliciously, with water hugging solely your slightly dipped hips? He could see the swell of your ass almost brushing his thighs, and if he took a little step forward, the tip of his leaking cock would surely brush your skin.

It was a blessing that you lay pressed to the stone in a blissfully unaware state, not knowing that the Sun God was going through pure torture right behind your back. With the fat, long cock sticking to his abdomen, little pearls of precum dripping down the veiny curve.

"You make me act filthy, my Goddess."

A month ago, you would have smacked his cheek and left him be. But now, with his fingers digging deep into the muscles of your back, a lovely laugh slipped past your lips.

"It's a pity I'm a wretched virgin, hm?" You straightened your spine, as if trying to give him a better view. "My God, you truly have extraordinary restraint."

Oh, how he loved this cheeky side of yours. The pure filth spilling from your virgin lips, eyes taking on a nasty look whenever you caught him staring at your nipples peeking through the tunic. The way you always undressed yourself in front of him without blushing like a birdie, taking full pleasure in the fact that he couldn't touch you as he wished.

Who said that a virgin should be timid and cowardly? If you could keep your chastity while still enjoying the wretched state you put men in?

And which God would be more fun to tease than the one who slipped through numerous affairs?

Satoru hummed, pressing your back a little harder. Slipping lower, and lower, through your ribcage and waist, rolling the little dimples just above your hips. "Have I? I'm afraid this restraint might one day snap."

A shudder ran down your spine as you tried to keep your head steady. Your bow lay still on the river's bank, and if he tried to misbehave even a bit, you would simply shoot him clean.

And yet, your hips rolled, as if trying to chase the pleasure his touch gave. "I'll be there when it happens." You looked over your shoulder, not missing the squint he gave you… "And I'll make sure to bring you to your senses," …and the reddened tip sticking to his hips. "I think you might wish to take care of it. Maybe with one of your muses?"

Or whores, as you actually wanted to say.

His cock trembled as you looked at it, and Satoru could only chuckle. Nastily, mischievously, with the fingers pulling your hips a bit closer. Yet not close enough for your wet pussy to feel the meaty shaft graze her lips.

"You are my muse, Goddess," he leaned closer, his warm breath brushing your cheeks. "Do you wish to hear the poems I've written about you?"

The sizzling sun licked your spine, eyes followed as his plush lips leaned to your ear. "Are they as filthy as your mind?"

He nodded, fingers slipping down towards the swell of your hips. Rolling deep circles, loosening the tightness in your muscles. "How could they not?" Snowy hair almost tickled your ear. "Who do you think I pleasure myself to? You may be a virgin, my Goddess, but I have my needs too."

With a sudden movement, he flipped you over, pressing your back to the warm stone. His thick cock stuck to the white trail of his abdomen, yet still not touching your dripping cunt.

You may've pledged chastity, yet you couldn't control your body's simple needs.

"You can't do anything to me," you said, yet something in your voice quivered.

His head tilted wickedly, and his eyes shone as he gripped the fat shaft. "But you can watch, hm?" A thumb swirled over the pearly tip, smearing the sticky cum over the reddened head. "Or is it also against your chastity?"

Maybe it was. Yet your head shook as back pressed closer to the stone. The water swelled over your hips, leaving your breasts bare to his starving gaze.

"Hm, thought so." His fingers slipped to your cheek, brushing a few wet locks away. "My Goddess, you truly are a wicked creature."

Pleasure, distress, haunting desire clashed with each other in your mind, yet your body froze in place. Lips fell only slightly open, eyes bulging like porcelain plates, seeing the fatness he gripped. Leaking with creamy droplets of precum, soaking his long fingers and veiny thickness.

Saying he was large would be an understatement.

Something in your belly squeezed, imagining his bulging head hit the deepest–

"Stop," the word slipped out in a shudder as you turned your head away. With warm cheeks and a trembling lip, as if the Sun God's look of himself pleasuring himself solely on your blooming face were against every pledge you had made. "Go and find one of your filthy muses."

Satoru chuckled before his fingers pinched your chin, turning your head back. He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing yours. "I can't think of anyone but you, my Goddess. Look what a wretched man I am because of you." His thumb brushed your lower lip, then slipped boldly onto your tongue. "Do you truly wish to put your Sun God through such a tor–"

Yet before he could finish, your hand met his cheek. A slap bounced off the water, turning his face left. To bring it back to face your wrath, you slapped it again.

His creamy face bloomed like the softest rose, and a shiver of pleasure ran down his spine. Excitement pinched his heart as fingers clenched around the fat shaft with a low, groany moan.

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking down at your face, burning with rage. "Slap me again, my Goddess, and I'll make you arch that pretty ass of yours for me again."

You didn't know where this sudden change had come from, yet the man standing in front of you was not the one who had pestered you for the past thirty moons.

No, as Satoru Gojo, who now stood mere millimetres from your body, with his musky scent clouding you tight and his fat cock trembling at the sheer look of yours – look much, much madder.

Wretched, obsessed, with the flame dancing behind his watery eyes and a wicked smile tugging at his rosy lips

Another shiver ran down your spine when he started pumping his shaft faster. Smearing the creamy cum all over the bulging veins, throwing his head back yet still following the gentle rise of your trembling breasts.

The rage bubbled beneath your heart, and a tiny thread of heat smouldered on your cheeks. He leaned a bit closer, and closer, and closer, until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He didn't touch you in any other way, yet the sole impact left you breathless.

"My Goddess, you smell so good," he took a deep breath close to your neck, letting another groan escape his lips. "So delicious, ah, I can only imagine how sweet the scent is down there."

A shuddered breath escaped your tightened throat, feeling his muscular, massive body looming over yours like a deathly threat. Long fingers pumped his cock faster, breathless moans hit your drenched skin, before he finally stilled.

With the gentle, petal kiss upon your shoulder and his cheek nuzzling against your skin.

Something warm spilt over your belly. And you didn't need to look down to know what it would be.

"You're disgusting," fell in pure wrath, as you pushed him away. "Nothing but filthy scum. I hope this satisfied your hunger, because the next time I see you, my God, not even your wicked arrows will be able to save you from my rage."

You left the water with a shuddering, vexing tremor washing over your spine, and this little, agonisingly rubbing feeling that spilt hotly all over your mind.

Satoru followed your body with a slick smile, the saltiness of your skin still tasting heavy on his lips.

The Sun God was of a cunning nature. Wicked and wrathful, always doing things one way. His way. 

Three weeks had passed before he had a chance to see you again.

His heart heaved in agony as he couldn't find you anywhere. As always, he came at the first break of day to join you on the morning hunt, but you simply weren't there. Waiting for him with a scowl, yet still giggling at all his foolish jokes and accepting a bit of help.

He was waiting by the river's bank from morning till night, yet you hadn't appeared even once. As if the waves themselves had trapped you beneath the surface.

He asked around – the nymphs, the Goddesses, the plains – yet everyone said they hadn't seen you for days. Or maybe they simply lied to him, as you couldn't simply disappear.

And so for the next three weeks, he walked through the lands like a shadow. He barely enjoyed anyone's company, sitting in his temple only to get drunk on the sweetest wine, letting his creamy skin be scorched beneath his own, merciless sun. A shadow of a man he was, as his heart simply couldn't bear the separation you imposed with such anger.

After two weeks, he met his twin sister, Artemis, to whom you pledged your chastity. He loved his sister dearly and knew her like the back of his hand. Thus, with a single glance, he could tell she knew everything that had happened between the two of you.

And based on her furrowed forehead and tsk that fell when she saw his grinning face entering her temple – she wasn't happy.

"I won't tell you where she is," she murmured, brushing her long, creamy hair aside as she enjoyed the warm kisses in the sun.

She lay on the sofa by her pool, with nothing but a long tunic gently wrapped around her body. Satoru hung over her wrinkled forehead and pressed a finger to satin skin. "My sister, such a beautiful woman you are, and yet you always seem so angry."

Shihori smacked his hand, glancing up at his brother with the same blue eyes. "Because you always make me angry, fool."

Satoru lifted her legs and rested them on his thighs as he joined her on the sofa. "Tell me where she is."

Shihori couldn't care less about her brother's wicked wish, so she shook her head. "You know she pledged her virginity, hm?"

Satoru hummed, playing with the long tunic as he brushed his sister's ankles. "I do."

"So you also must know what will happen if she breaks her vow?"

Of course he knew. That's why he came here.

"What if I told you I love her?" he asked, drawing his sister's attention. "I want to make her my wife. Give her to me, and I promise I will be in your debt forever."

Shihori propped herself up on elbows, letting long white hair brush her rosy cheeks. She was as beautiful as her younger brother – by a minute only. Possessing the same archery skill and a power that trembled the heavens.

With a slim chin and wicked eyes, matching the proudish smile. Strong and bold, with neatly carved muscles bulging beneath her satin skin and an authoritative tone that always made Satoru slightly squirm. But she was his older sister, after all, so how could he not feel the utter love and respect for the same blood?

"And why would I do that?" Shihori lifted her straight brow. "Why would I change my rules for this little nymph?"

"Because you love me," Satoru grinned. "And I suppose it would be rather proper to remind you that enjoying women's company also counts as losing one's virginity. My dearest virgin-goddess sister."

Shihori squinted, kicking his side with her foot. "Whatever I do with my nymphs is none of your business."

Satoru grabbed her ankle before biting her big toe, just as he used to tease her when they were children.

"I suppose some Gods would be interested in how the protector of young women and their virginity fucks with her dearest followers," he chuckled as she kicked him again. "You're no better than me, my sister. The same scum-blood runs in our veins. So let me have her, and I won't say a word."

Shihori glared at him. Morality and the need to give her little brother everything were clearly at war in her mind before she waved her hand and lay back down.

"Fine, I won't punish her. Just don't do anything stupid," she laughed, feeling Satoru's sweet kiss on her cheek. "She'll join another feast in a week. Just wait for her there. Oh, and bring me some of this Suguru's special wine."

Satoru tilted his head, another wicked grin already tugging at his lips. He knew his sister wasn't the saint everyone took her for, yet he had no idea how coy she was.

"And what do you need an aphrodisiac-spiked wine for?"

She opened one eye, shooting a set of daggers straight at his heart. But before another bark could pass her plush lips, Satoru chuckled once again. "Ah, what was this rumour, hm…" His eyes gleamed with a foul grin.

"What rumour?" Shihori asked through her teeth, yet the rosy warmth hit her cheeks.

Satoru stood up from the sofa, giving his muscular back a long, groany stretch. He scratched his chin before looking over his shoulder towards his sister. Oh, her anger only fueled his playful mind.

"Nothing, just that our dearest stepmother has been surprisingly benevolent lately," he observed, another wave of warmth wrapping around her neck. "I suppose it's because Hera truly enjoys the company of her stepdaughter. I wonder what makes her so happy that even Zeus no longer gets scolded for all his affairs."

Shihori slipped a pillow from beneath her head and threw it at his head. "Go out, before I change my mind!"

And so he left, with a crackling chuckle bouncing off the temple's walls and his older sister burning from embarrassment.

Yet now, with his sister's blessing, there was nothing that could stop him from pursuing your love.

And so he knew that the next time you met, he would make you his, whether you liked it or not.

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

The moon spilt coldly over the feast's heavy tables as the Gods and Goddesses gathered around the flickering candles. The night was warm, as the summer breeze tickled the cheerful cheeks of the giggling nymphs, who listened to Satoru playing soft harp tunes.

An ivory tunic, as always, fell down his muscular shoulders, as the moon spilt dripping kisses on the lightened side of his face.

Finger played softly through the harp's gentle strings, yet lingered on your laughing cheeks. Something panged deep in his chest at how carefree you were with other divinities. You sipped your wine without giving Satoru much thought, as if you hadn't disappeared from Earth for the past three weeks.

Your laugh sliced sweetly through the air, tickling his ears. He desperately tried to force eye contact, yet you gave him nothing but the lovely side of your cheek.

An irritated tsk escaped his lips, an unpleasant anger bubbling deep in his chest. A few Gods approached you with a smile, forcing another wave of rage to wash over Satoru's spine.

Before he could step in, seeing how you slowly warmed yourself to some small God's side, a low, chuckling whistle slashed through the air.

"It seems like things didn't work your way," Suguru said, brushing Satoru's arm with his. "What? She rejected you?"

Satoru sighed, rolling his tense shoulders. "She's just a little nervous."

Suguru squinted his lavender eyes, clearly dissatisfied with such a roundabout answer. Raven hair tickled Satoru's cheek as he tilted his head. Satoru rarely saw his friend concerned with anyone but him, yet his forehead furrowed with a gentle wrinkle.

"Give her some of this wine," Satoru mumbled.

Suguru drew in a long breath, shooting his head towards Satoru. "But you said–"

He started, but Satoru quickly added. "I know what I said." He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes squinting furiously. "Give her a little. Just to soothe her a bit."

Suguru chuckled, hitting his friend's back. "As you wish, my God."

"Ah, also, prepare a bit for Shihori."

Looking over his shoulder, Suguru rolled a laugh. "Your sister? What does she need it for?"

Satoru gestured with his chin towards the start of the table, where three of the brothers and their wives sat among the elite. With Persephone straddling Hades's hips, a quiet goddess wrapped around Poseidon's arm, and Hera… sitting utterly bored and giving Zeus's drunken laugh no mind.

Suguru followed his gaze before a devilish laugh escaped his throat. "Don't tell me she fucks with the queen mother herself?"

Satoru crossed his arms over his broad chest and let out a soft hum. Suguru tilted his head, admiring Hera's gentle cheeks. "Well, she's quite beautiful. No wonder she's stopped going crazy over Zeus's affairs lately."

Satoru watched as his friend took another pot of wine before rejoining the Gods. His golden tongue whispered the sweetest secrets, and the divinities laughed and blushed beneath Dionysus's soothing lines. After all, a God of Laughter, Wine and Theatre, he knew exactly how to play on people's minds.

You weren't an exception. As he approached and wrapped his arms around you and your friend, a gentle laugh made your eyes lift. Satoru bit the inside of his cheek, catching Suguru's sly glance, while his fingers clenched around your soft arm.

But still, he poured you another cup of the sweetest wine, watching you close as you took a sip. And another, another, another, before humming softly about how delicious it tastes.

A few minutes passed before something warm began to spill across your chest. A kind of fog clouded your mind – sweet and gentle, yet sizzling like the sun.

The nymph sitting right next to you grabbed your arm, looking at your hottish face with a furrow. "Hey, are you okay? Do you need some water?"

You drew in a sharp breath, feeling her cold skin against yours. Your head shook as a soft "I'm fine" barely passed your lips.

Excusing yourself, you rose from the chair and headed to a quieter part of the beach, where gentle waves lapped inside the small cove. Surrounded by the forest and shielded by tall trees, the spot offered a peaceful retreat. The salty breeze gently touched your cheeks, while your throat felt parched, and you scratched it with long nails.

The fog clouding your head was getting thicker, denser, spreading all over your body till the fingertips tingled with a pinching pleasure.

Something wet dripped down your inner thighs, and as you hid yourself behind a tree and slipped a hand beneath the long dress, you felt the stickiness coating your sizzling skin. But more so… the moment your finger brushed your swollen folds, a low bounce of the softly rolling waves.

"Fuck," slipped in a whisper, as you felt the burning pleasure fill your lower belly.

You looked around, seeing that neither mortal nor God peered into the little cove. The bay seemed completely private, with nothing but moonlight spilling onto the smooth sand and soft whispers rolling off the crystal waves.

You took a deep breath, unconsciously rubbing your thighs together. Just to feel a faint friction, yet too embarrassed to slip your finger up again.

You've never felt it before. This… sensation.

Pleasure.

Or maybe you did, yet your mind refused to accept that Apollo, or Satoru Gojo, was the only man who woke a dangerous flame deep in your chest.

Maybe you simply wished to forget about the warmth that boiled deep within your lower belly when his muscular body stood right in front of yours. The look on his handsome face, lost in utter pleasure, and his long fingers wrapped around his filthy cock.

You tried not to think of it again, as the moment the image of his shaft slipped again into your mind, another moany sigh rolled past your lips. Your pussy clenched around nothing, letting another batch of stickiness coat your thighs. Trickling down the skin, till you've noticed a little, wet drop landing on the sand.

"Fuck, fuckfuckfuck," you cried, feeling the burning sensation pinch your skin harder. Perking your nipples, softening your body, as if preparing you to accept the pleasure that needed to be spilt.

Bracing yourself against the stony wall, you took a few steps. On trembling legs, you felt the weakness slowly seep into your marrow. You walked slowly, trying to go deeper into the nearby forest, just to reach the river.

Somewhere safe.

You moved slowly, with wetness dripping down your legs and heavy breaths escaping your burning lungs. Your eyes were misty, nearly teary, as the feverish, floral heat enveloped your entire body.

Waves rolled past your bare feet, sandals long forgotten somewhere in the back. Your burning body couldn't bear the dress clinging to your skin, so you began to undress unconsciously.

One cloth after another, before falling down your knees, to crawl towards the river's banks.

"Do you need help, my Goddess?"

Someone's voice filled your balmy mind.

No, not someone's.

His.

Of the God whom you wished to see the last, as the sole fragrance of his skin pinched your senses in an utmost sinful way.

And, oh, he must've watched you now in such an embarrassing stance!

Kneeling with your sizzling body, you shed the sea-drenched dress behind you. The intense desire overwhelmed your reason as you presented yourself fully before his daring gaze.

"Go away," you barely breathed. "You can't see me in such a state."

But Satoru merely chuckled before you heard his heavy footsteps coming your way. Ocean eyes hummed at all the garments you'd left behind before settling on your clenched thighs and slightly arched back as you tried to crawl towards the nearest river.

He squinted, seeing the wetness dripping down your thighs and a gentle shimmer from your swollen pussy.

"My Goddess, it seems that you do feel unwell," He chuckled, taking another step your way. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Your head shook as you tried to crawl faster, only to get away from him as fast as you could. An attempt to stand up ended in a miserable fall onto the sand, drawing a soft giggle from Satoru's lips. He knelt by your side, brushing away a few strands of hair sticking to your cheeks.

"Oh my," he hummed, seeing the utter loveliness of your drugged face.

With cheeks sweet as fresh cherries and eyes softened by an alluring scowl. A gentle pout tugged at your lips as you unconsciously nuzzled against his skin. Another hand cupped your cheek as he held your face in a possessive grip. His big thumbs, tight yet delicate, brushed your skin.

"What is it, my Goddess?" He whispered, allowing a lenient sigh to spill past your lips. "What happened here, hm? Are you a bit too drunk?"

You nodded, thinking of nothing but the pleasant grip of his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you were slowly giving in.

A miserable attempt to push him away ended solely with you even more pathetically landing on the soft sand. Your back hit it with a dull thud, as Satoru placed his fingers on your knees. Thumb rolled gently in circles, as if he knew how much pleasure your body took from each brush of his skin.

"Say it," he muttered, leaning closer. Plush lips brushed one of your knees, eyes never leaving your fogged face. "Say that you want me to help you, my Goddess. I know how to make you feel good."

Oh, and you knew too, which is why your knees tried to close again. But his grip was too strong, and he brutally forced them forward, folding you in half.

With your bare pussy dripping filthy onto the sand and perked nipples waiting to be softly brushed by his thumb.

The moonlight kissed his handsome, sharp side as he leaned in once again. To hang right over your face, observing with wicked pleasure the tears forming beneath your lids. As if he could see the fuzzy mess of your mind, with morality and a simple, human need drawing a brutal tight.

"I c-can't," you mumbled, feeling the heat drip down your tongue. It felt much heavier than before, barely touching your feverish roof. "Stop, I can't, the chastity–"

"Shhh," Satoru cooed, pressing your thighs to your chest. Till the swell of your ass glued off the drenched sand. "Artemis will forgive you."

His nose traced the plush of your cheek. Lips peppering your skin softly, leaving traces down your chin. His tongue swirled sweetly around one of your nipples, through the burning neck, perked breasts.

You wished to fight it – you truly did, yet a sugary moan slipped past your lips.

"No, she–ah!" you cried, as he softly bit your nipple.

"It's alright, my Goddess. Don't resist it," he murmured, with one hand feeling your breasts as his lips traced a path down your body. He gently bit, grazed, and nipped your skin before resting his cheek against your mound. "Allow me to take care of you. Just say you want it," he whispered, as his finger rolled your nipple, causing another cry to escape your lips.

"I'm a v-virgin, wait…" Your hand landed on Satoru's head, tugging softly on his hair.

Satoru groaned, feeling your gentle finger scratch his scalp. "I'll take good care of you. It won't hurt, I promise," he mumbled right into the drenched mound of your cunt, as the fragrance of sugary juices already hit his senses. "Fuck, my Goddess. Just let me have a taste. I won't put it in…" promise?

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling his warm breath almost brush your core. Not quite, yet the mere sight of him, lying so handsomely between your thighs, was enough to force a nod.

A nod, which would never happen if your mind wasn't on the verge of spilling. If your body wasn't melting beneath his touch, thighs spreading even wider, just to open your cunt to his starving mouth.

It was utterly embarrassing, humiliating, mostly sinful act and yet… when his tongue finally licked the juices off your clit, a shuddering moan bounced off the cove's stones.

He didn't waste a time, pushing the drenched muscle right inside your spasming cunt. Slurping, ravishing on the waves of wetness that spilt from your hole in unnaturally large bursts. Droplet after droplet, trickling down his chin and landing softly on the sand.

"My Goddess, fuck, I knew you would taste so good," he slurred, letting your juices stick to his lips. "My sweetest love, mhm, I was waiting a month for you."

Your fingers clenched around his hair as you tried to slightly pull him back. "W-wait, that's–nghhh–too much, my God!"

Your body had always been much weaker than his, but now, with neediness running through your blood, it seemed impossible to do anything but allow yourself to be wrapped in his lips.

He took your hand, slipping it down your belly. Down to your clenching cunt, only to press your two fingers against the swollen clit.

"Do you feel it, my Goddess?" He chuckled, looking up at your warm cheeks. "Do you feel how wet you are? That's what you wanted to take away from me."

He directed your pads to press softly, pinchily, till another moan spilt past your lips. His tongue slurping on your tight core, fingers of one hand rolling your nipples. Squeezing the plush breasts, till a painful pleasure tickled your spine.

And the other hand…

"Wait!" You screamed, quickly catching his wrist. "N-no penetration… just…" Oh dearest, how embarrassing it was to say out loud! "… use your tongue. I can't lose my virginity."

My sweet foolish nymph, Satoru thought, before an innocent, "Of course, my Goddess," fell past his plush lips.

The waves and waves of ethereal pleasure washed over your spine as he devoured your sweet pussy with a starving need. Nose all glued with your juices, cheeks nastily squeezed by your trembling thighs, tongue working on your clit and hole, trying to stretch her as much as he could.

His creamy forehead furrowed with a wrinkle, brows tight, as you pushed a few soft strands of his hair away.

"My God, please t-take a breath," you cried, yet the spilling lustfulness seeped like a flame through your skin. "I'm–mhmm–t-there's something…" Before you could point at your lower belly, his hand pressed right there.

Squeezing your little pouch, as if trying to feel the slick, filthy cum splashing beneath your skin.

"You need to cum, my Goddess," he mumbled drunkenly, sucking on your plush clit. "But for that, I need to put my finger in."

You bit your lower lip, looking down at his wretched face.

His cheek nuzzled against your soft thigh, kissing the clit softly. "Please? Just a finger. I promise, it'll be fine."

Oh, he looked stunning. With those alluring eyes and innocent pout, as if aware that his angelic face alone was enough to make your head spin.

So you nodded, rather unconsciously, and watched him push one finger in.

"Oh," slipped moany at the new feeling. "Oh, my God, mhmm, i-it's–"

"Now you can cum for me," Satoru whispered, going back to sucking your clit.

He knew where your sweet spot was – how couldn't he? – so within a second, you started squirming beneath his grip.

One of his hands rested on your belly while the other was deep inside your tight, clenching walls. He kissed, brushed, and lightly peppered your most sensitive spot with his finger until your thighs finally clenched around his head.

Locking him in a tight, shuddering embrace as he drunkenly moaned over your spilling juices. With a single flick of his tongue, you melted beneath his maddening touch, squirting all over his cheeks, chin and nose, till the Sun God was left nothing but a wretched man, hugging nastily to your velvety skin.

Your head felt a bit less feverish, with the crimson fog finally clearing from in front of your eyes and fresh summer air finally filling your lungs.

For a mere second, you felt normal again.

Satoru still lay between your spread legs, kissing the slippery skin of your inner thighs softly.

"Welcome back, my Goddess," he muttered, licking the last juices dripping from your pussy.

You watched him with pure terror swirling behind your eyes. "I… this feeling…"

"Mmm," he hummed, softly biting a plush of your thigh. "Someone must've spiked your wine, my Goddess. Have you angered anyone recently?"

Oh, he was such a scum.

Your lovely brows furrowed, a drop of sweat slipping down your temple. "No, I… I don't know. There was…" you, wanted to slip, yet you bit down on your tongue.

Satoru pouted, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. "My Goddess, I vow to find that bastard and slash his throat," he whispered, kissing your thigh and moving upward, even biting gently into your calf. "But for now, brace yourself for another wave."

And true to his promise, the heat once more kissed your cheeks. It climbed up your neck, seeped into fingertips, curled beneath lower belly, and caused another slick to slide down your cunt.

A fogginess once again swirled in front of your eyes, and an anxiety bubbled somewhere deep in your tightened throat.

Satoru flipped you onto your belly, with a soft, "Shhh, it's fine, my Goddess. You'll be fine."

Gentle, wet kisses landed on your shivering spine, leaving hottish traces down the skin.

"What a-are you doing?" fell shuddered.

But you didn't catch his reply. Truly, you heard nothing at all but the swoosh of his tunic as it landed close to your sand-plastered face.

"My God–ah!" Slipped in a pitched moan, as something fat poked on your swollen pussy.

The heat was teasing, gently pinching your damp folds, rolling waves of intense pleasure whenever Satoru stirred your cunt. His fingers spread the heat in a soft hum, and something heavy, round, pressed against your tight entrance.

"My God, what–"

"My love," Satoru let out an utterly innocent whimper, as if trying to stifle the tears wracking beneath his lids. You couldn't see the devilish smile tugging at his lips, his face tightly pressed into the sand. "Allow me to make you feel good. I can make the pain go away, just let me…" His swollen head slipped in a little, forcing a shattered moan from your throat.

"Wait!" You tried to crawl away, but he pressed a hand between your shoulder blades. Keeping you tight in place, with his massive body fully resting on yours.

"It's okay, my love. It won't hurt, I promise," he hummed, another hand massaging the swell of your hips. Spreading your drenched folds a bit farther to see the tip of his cock getting sucked by your weeping cunt. "My Goddess, don't make her wait any longer. She's just wishing to get fucked, ahh."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stop your hips from slamming against his. As, dearest heavens, the way his sole head stretched your cunt brought an unparalleled, maddened pleasure, bubbling deep inside your belly. The pledge you made re chastity was trying to fight the aroused, lustful thoughts. The thick, warm fog that made your body liquefy beneath his touch, and your mind go all hot.

"My virginity–" You started, yet Satoru quickly snapped back.

"I talked to my sister, love. She won't punish you," he whispered, leaning down to lick a long stripe down your spine. "Because now you're mine. So say you want it, hm? Say you want me to fuck your tight cunt and fill her up."

He bit, licked, kissed your skin, while slowly, oh so painfully slow, poking your drenched hole.

"Just the tip, my love," he whispered, brushing away a few strands of hair hiding your lovely side. "I don't want to hurt you, my Goddess. I'll slip just a little tip."

And with an arousal fogging your mind, you nodded. Forcing a wicked laugh past his plush lips as he kissed your cheek.

"Mhm, that's right, my love," his cock slid through your tight walls, snugging inside your plush warmth. "Oh fuck, my Goddess, you truly are a fucking virgin."

You drew in a sharp breath, feeling his heavy cock slip into your belly. It was anything but the tip, forcing a sudden burst of tears to roll down your cheeks.

The pain mixed with pleasure as his shaft forced its way deep inside your pussy. You could feel every pulsing vein throbbing against your walls, the pumped head smooching your sweet spot, as he pushed and pushed, while pressing your body to the sand.

A moany cry bounced pitifully off the crystal waves before he quickly rolled you again.

This time, your back hit the sand, thighs folding up to your chest.

And when you looked up at his face… oh.

The Sun God hung over your crying cheeks with nothing but an utterly wicked, handsome smile. Eyes shining beneath the cold moon, adding to their ocean-blue hues a kiss of sin. He giggled, kissing the single tear that soaked your cheek.

And an angel, no, rather a demon, keeping you in his tight, possessed embrace.

Your hands pressed to his chest, as he pushed harder. "My God, you said just the tip," fell harshly, seeing a grin coiling in his gaze.

"My Goddess, you truly are ruthless," he leaned down to place a soft kiss on your lips. "How could I ever lie to you? I'm barely in, I promise."

Yet when you tried to look down, his strong fingers grabbed your chin, keeping your eyes fixed on his.

"You don't trust me?" He pouted, peppering your skin with soft kisses. "Don't look down there, my love. Focus on me."

Your head lulled right as he bit the side of your neck. Licking, sucking on it gently, while still forcing his cock through your walls.

It wasn't just the tip, and although you should be angry, the way he kept you folded left little room for movement. With his single arm pressing your legs tight, fingers keeping your chin up, and massive, heavy body leaning on yours.

He started to move faster, faster, faster, pumping you poor, weeping cunt with his heavy cock. It hit every inch of your lower belly, brushing past the sweet spot and smooching up to the slowly swelling womb. You could feel his round head nuzzle deep inside your pulsing warmth, as your tight walls wrapped around him, as if trying to lock him in.

A low hiss slipped past his rosy lips as you cried out in painful pleasure. Your blood ran hot as he tried to fuck each drop of aphrodisiac from your veins, pushing your body deeper into the sand.

The nasty squelch bounced off the water, spilling deep into the cave and catching in your scattered hair. He brought your face back, giggling at the sight of your utterly fucked eyes.

"My beautiful Goddess," he whispered, before slipping his hand down your belly. At this point, with heat bubbling in your belly, your thighs stayed open, pressed to your chest, as if your body was freely inviting him in. "My sweet, beautiful Goddess. Tell me how good you feel."

His demand forced wrath and balmy submissiveness upon your fucked mind, and so a sweet, honest, "G-good, ahh, you're filling me s-so good," fell embarrassingly past your lips.

As no matter how much you wanted to refuse, it did feel good. Dearest, it felt amazing, handling his hefty cock fully sliding inside your warmth, till wet balls hit your lifted ass. Head kissing your womb, veins pulsing in rhythm with your plush walls, as they pushed out waves and waves of fresh cum. Coating his full length in your juices, till whenever he pulled out, a crystal thread formed between your cunt and his creamy, happy trail.

His hands kneading your softness turned your mind to balm, and fingers playing with your swollen bud forced a moan, so you truly, shamefully so, allowed your body to give in to his touch.

"My God, nghh, I'm going to–"

Before you could finish, he crashed his lips against yours. He slipped a groan deep inside your throat as he started to fuck you faster. More relentless, brutal, forcing upon your virgin cunt a strength you weren't used to.

"My God, p-please–ahhh–slow down," you cried into his lips, yet received only a low chuckle.

"I know how to make you cum, my love. Your pussy needs to be fucked properly," he licked the tears dripping down your cheeks before capturing your lips again. "You're close, hm? I can feel it in your belly."

His hands pressed to your lower pouch, feeling his cock hit the soft skin, before slipping down to your cunt. Rolling your clit in mean, squelching pinches.

"S-satoru," his name finally escaped your throat, as you wrapped your arms behind his neck. "So good, you're–ngh–filling me–ahhh."

He chuckled, seeing your lidded eyes and messy blabber falling past your lips. "I know, my Goddess, your–ahh–pussy feels so fucking good. My sweetest, I promise to take good care of you."

He hid his face in the crook of your neck before finally going still. Your back arched, nipples pressing to his chest, before a soaked cry ripped from your throat. Juices gushing all over his abdomen, cock, as he hit your womb painfully, filling it with sticky ropes of cum. Till you felt the heavy creaminess sticking to your walls, stuffing you heavily, madly full.

A filthy fog once again seeped into your mind, and for a single minute you felt your strength return to your body. For a mere moment, it allowed you to smack his fair cheek. It left him fully unfazed, with a cheeky grin still plastered to his handsome face and a low chuckle forcing its way past his lips.

"My Goddess, is that how you should treat your future husband?" he asked, then brutally turned you back onto your belly. You tried to crawl, kicking him back, but he simply smacked your ass. "Come on, my love. Don't try to fight me. If I hadn't found you, who knows who would?"

Your breath hitched when you felt his cock harden again. Still snuggling deep inside you cunt, as you felt his shaft stretch your poor, weeping walls.

"I–ahh–I fucking hate you," you snapped through gritted teeth, your hips slowly rocking against his. Whatever you'd drunk still flowed in your veins, forcing another fog over your mind. "I hate you, so, s-so–mhm Satoru, just, fuck, p-please–"

His fingers dug deep into your perked-up ass, ocean eyes glimmering at the sight of your arched back. Sweat beaded on your neck, and your teary gaze looked over your shoulder in a furious, desperate, pleading manner.

He chuckled, taking a little vial from his tattered tunic. Opening it with his teeth, he handed it your way.

"What is it?" you asked, trying to sound at least a bit suspicious.

His eyes squinted, lips turned wickedly up. "Just a simple water. You'll feel a bit better."

"Drink it first."

"You don't trust me?"

You bit down your lip, shaking your head a bit.

Satoru hummed before taking a sip of the liquid without hesitation. It seeped warmly through his body, dripping down to the burning loins.

Seeing that he truly acted normally, you took it from his fingers and drank it all in one go. But… oh.

You shot head his way, seeing nothing, but a nasty grin. "This…"

He leaned closer, pressing his hand back between your shoulder blades. His face drew nearer, then he licked your lips with his wine-sweetened tongue. "Tastes similar, my love?"

A wave of heat was rolling faster, an even stronger aphrodisiac flowing through your veins. Breathing became harder, your mind already blind, as he pushed your melted body into a deeper arch.

"I love you so much, my Goddess," he whispered, peppering your sizzling cheek. "I'll make you feel so good. So fucking good, I promise. My sweet, beautiful wife. Just trust me."

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

Yesss, I'll write Artemis!Femjo and Hera!Reader, because we're the milf and she's the MOTHER FUCKER