your mother claimed you’d come out the womb with a white coat on and a stethoscope in hand, your father would show off your awards, your medals, your trophies to whoever would listen about how brilliant his little girl was. teachers would vie against each other in hopes it’d be their classroom you’d step in, in their classroom that you’d excel and shine in.

since you’d turned seven, you knew what you wanted to be. it was an innocent career fair, of all things, a way to show kids what type of jobs they could pursue. firefighters, vets, police officers, office workers, and more showed up to talk about their experiences and answer all types of questions.

turns out dalmatians weren’t a complimentary perk of fire fighting. huh.

what really captured your attention, however, had been the doctor that showed up. her display hadn’t been as showy as the other people that went up before—there had been no flashy powerpoint with three hundred transitions, no kind of gift for listening in. just a realistic figure of a brain and a dream.

“hello everyone.” her voice was warm, gentle as she spoke. but she wasn’t talking down to you, like most adults tended to do. you liked her already. “i’m here to talk about my job as a doctor. i specialized as a neurologist at tokyo tech and i’ve just started as an attending.” most of the kids next to you were either doodling on the margin of their notebook, drawing stick figures and eyes, or they were simply just not bothering to pay attention.

but you leaned forward in your seat, your back straight as a pin as you watched intently. “this part of the brain’s called the cerebellum.” she points to the back of the brain, underneath the cerebrum. “it acts sort of as a little brain and it’s responsible for controlling your movements. most of the cases i get are either from trauma or a tumor, my most complicated one was actually five years ago…”

since then, you’d been determined in what career you wanted to pursue. there wasn’t any moment of self doubt, of waking up one day and realizing you’ve been chasing after a dream you no longer want to do. it started off simple, cutting up your plush animals and pretending to do surgery on them, stitching them back to health (and stabbing your fingers 3000 times in the process).

throughout middle school, you started as many preparatory ap courses you could take, piling up more and more work onto your load until you’re eventually buried in books. pre-ap algebra, pre-ap history, pre-ap english, you were doing it all.

that workload only intensified during high school. while many of your classmates were enjoying their last couple teenage years, you were buried in sat prep books and collegeboard textbooks that weighed your backpack down by twenty pounds.

when you weren’t at school, you were either at the library or going out to volunteer with cleaning up a beach or helping out at a soup kitchen. getting more than the necessary hours to fulfill your requirements, padding your resume into making you the ideal candidate. into making you one they just simply couldn’t refuse.

doing sports you never would’ve entertained under normal circumstances, joining groups you had a semblance of interest for to have something to list on your college application. stretching yourself out to fit into every slot you’ve signed up—to make it to every team meeting, every volunteering session, every tutoring session. exhaustion weighed heavily in your bones, dark circles practically engraved underneath your eyes.

tokyo tech’s prestigious, hard to get into if you weren’t legacy or had enough money to pad the university’s board. their university was essentially a feeder school into some of the best medical schools in the country. but you managed to get in, with a 4.5 gpa, a list of extracurriculars trailing almost a mile long, and a hefty stack of recommendations (after begging for months).

there was nothing in your way to getting into medical school. if you were determined in high school, you were much more determined now. practically living in and out of your school’s café, fueled by caffeine and spite to go through whatever mcat prep book you could find and still get your assignments done at least three weeks prior to the due date.

and yet, your intro to neuro professor seems keen on destroying that very goal. you’re certain of it.

“good afternoon class.” the class falls silent upon dr. yaga’s arrival, a couple students managing to trickle in as inconspicuously as possible before he shut the door. there was no room for tardiness, no room for any bullshit in his class. many dropped out before he’d even finished going through the syllabus first day.

his footsteps echoed through the auditorium, each one purposeful and determined. the promethium sparks to life, this week’s powerpoint up on the screen. “we will be working on a group project—” a chorus of groans erupts from the back, though a stern glare from dr. yaga has them quickly shutting up.

you’re not much of a fan either. people usually take too long to organize, to figure out what they want to do, just to end up doing a half assed attempt of what’s supposed to be their part of the project. or they usually make you feel like you’re intruding when you do go to ask to be a part. needless to say, you’re already dreading it.

“i will be selecting your partners for this assignment and it involves studying injuries to the brain and how it affects each function. for example, concussions, contusions, strokes, inflammation, each one of your groups will be responsible for choosing one and what part you want to focus on.

you have a month to work on this assignment before you have to present. i don’t care how you divide the work amongst yourselves, i need everyone to work equally on the project though.” hands shot up immediately after he was done speaking, an exasperated sigh leaving your professor’s lips.

most of the questions are repeats of what he’s already stated, his annoyance clear with each one he has to answer. “alright, if that’s all, i will now be assigning you to your groups. there will be no changes done to this, so don’t bother asking.” the last line’s directed towards you.

he starts off listing off names, the people in question already starting to move to their designed partner. chairs scrape against the floor, conversations are whispered while everyone’s slowly starting to get their space set up. your ears perk up at the mention of your name, leaned over against your desk to hear him clearly. there’s not many options left, but you hope it’s a decent one at the very least.

anyone but naoya zen’in at this rate. you’re not certain you’ll make it to graduation inside of a prison cell.

“suguru geto.”

the pencil in your grasp snaps between your fingers, pieces of splintered wood splattering across your once pristine workspace.

—

you don’t have a reason to hate suguru geto, not really. he hasn’t done anything to personally offend you or your bloodline, hasn’t done anything but meet your competitive streak with a simple, calm smile. with an easiness you could only wish to achieve in this lifetime.

it was infuriating, nonetheless.

the way suguru geto never had to bury his face into a book, never had to study, never had to show up to class with anything other than a mechanical pencil and a pink eraser to achieve the same things you did.

everything came naturally to him.

photography? the rule of thirds was practically encoded into his dna, lighting and background perfect around his subject each and every time. breaking the rule came just as easily, the man capable of creating perfect symmetry without focusing too deeply on the subject.

biology? suguru geto didn’t need to show up to class unless he needed to do a quiz, mastering the function of each organ without needing to open up a textbook. finishing up two hour quizzes in twenty minutes, labeling the humerus, femur, radius, and ulna without a bit of hesitation.

making friends? he didn’t even have to try to engage in conversation, people just naturally gravitated towards him like planets to the sun. wanting to talk with him, wanting to listen to him, they all just wanted a chance to be able to be around his proximity. it was almost a cult-like following.

everything you needed to work on, that you needed to pour energy and effort into, he excelled in.

“okay, now go on and meet up with your group partner. exchange contact info, talk to one another, figure out what you want to do, all that.” professor yaga retreats from the podium over to his desk, taking a seat in front of his computer. the projector shuts off, leaving everyone to whisper amongst themselves.

you don’t stand up, slowly putting your stuff away. opening your backpack up at a snail’s pace, putting your laptop inside. suguru stands up from his spot at the top, quickly descending to the front. “hey.” he approaches your desk, taking a seat next to you.

geto inches closer to you, placing his laptop and notebook in front of him. in a sea of overwhelming axe body spray and dior sauvage, he’s calming. a velvety, warm aroma of sandalwood and bergamot makes itself known as he leans in, the scent lingering long after he’s pulled away. you hate yourself for how much you like it.

you clear your throat, forcing yourself to focus. there’s no need for introductions, no need to act friendly, “so i was thinking we could do the effects of stroke on the motor cortex and how it affects muscle movements,” you don’t hesitate in speaking up, watching as suguru already starts to type it up in a word document. at least he’s efficient.

“sounds good, you wanna meet up today?” geto looks up from his laptop, amethyst eyes meeting your own, “i know you’re busy and all. don’t want to intrude on your schedule.”

you were busy. you had to finish up studying for a quiz and finish up another project before this afternoon. but you suppose you could spare a few hours, if only for your grade. “we’ll meet up at the library at four pm. don’t be late.” you don’t give him a chance to respond, leaving right after the clock hit 12:30. he’s left scrambling to pick up his stuff while everyone else follows suit.

—

you’re already at the library by the time suguru geto steps in through the doors. sitting at the second floor on a table near the window, not enough for the sun to scorch your body, but just close enough where the space feels warm, that it feels like a blanket’s engulfed around your body. there’s a textbook in your hands, a notebook decorated in pink and blue highlighter next to you.

you almost look approachable from this distance, completely at ease in your element. lazily flipping through the pages, skimming through each paragraph before you’re annotating a couple notes down. suguru doesn’t go up just yet, taking the time to admire you from afar. how the sun he knows that as soon as he steps up, you’ll have your guard back up again.

the smell of caffeine makes you raise your head, looking over to see suguru placed a cup in front of you. “didn’t know which one you preferred so i settled for vanilla with three sugars,” he explains, taking a seat right in front of you. he's quick to take out his stuff, setting down his cup of tea next to him.

“thank… you.” your lips twist awkwardly as you force the words to come out, feeling a physical pain in your chest, even if they’re nothing more than a whisper. suguru seems to hear them all the same, giving you a curt nod. it’s disgusting, it’s humiliating, and it’s really fucking good??

bringing the cup to your lips, your taste buds are engulfed by the sweet taste of vanilla and creamer. it’s better than the coffee you’re used to from the watered down excuse from the student lounge.

suguru pretends not to notice the little pleased smile on your face, choosing instead to bask in it for as long as you’d allow him to. it’s the only time you’ve looked like you tolerated being here.

“are you capable enough of explaining the motor cortex while i take care of the research or do i have to do everything?” and just like that, your attitude returns. like you’ve suddenly remembered you’re supposed to hate him.

his eyes narrow as he meets your sudden glare, “i’m capable of doing the bare minimum, yes.” pulling out his notebook, you’re instantly drawn to the very detailed illustrations on his journal, his handwriting neat and precise. suguru skims through his notes on the primary motor cortex, long, slim fingers trailing behind the page with each word he reads.

nothing about him is sloppy, you’ve come to notice. his hair’s carefully tucked away from his face, his clothes are without creases, even his converse are miraculously clean. you force yourself to look away before he notices your lingering gaze, staring at your computer.

silence clung onto your quiet space of the library, only the sound of your taps against your keyboard echoing around the space. you’ve been scanning through abstracts for what seems to be an eternity, trying to find articles worth using in your project. the words start to mesh into one big times new roman blob.

the sun’s set by the time you’ve finished your session for the day, students trickling out the doors one by one. a few still linger on the tables, the sharp fluorescent from their computer screen only highlighting each and every one of their exhausted features.

rubbing a hand over your eyes, you’re forcing yourself to stay focused. to keep reading the paragraph in front of you—hemiparesis, studies show recovery after stroke is most effective in the first three to six months, neuroplasticity… “you want something to eat?” the question breaks you out of your stupor, looking up to see geto starting to pack up already.

he expects a protest at first, a why the hell would i endure more than necessary with you? but to his surprise, you merely shrugged, “sure. i get to pick the place, though.” you’d be stupid not to bank in on a chance to get free food, especially when you can hear your stomach growling in the silent halls of the library.

—

suguru wholeheartedly expects you to drain his pockets, expects you to pick an expensive restaurant where reservations are a three month wait, where the menus don’t have the prices next to them, and chandeliers glisten overhead in dizzying glamour.

but you settle for a small ramen shop not to far off campus, tucked away in a corner. it’d be hard to miss if you weren’t looking for it. a bell chimes overhead upon your arrival, the rich scent of broth and vegetables permeating through the air with each step you took inside.

one of the shop owners stepped out from the back, approaching you with a tight embrace. “we’ve missed you around here. you don’t show your face too much anymore,” she jests with a small, wistful sigh. you’ve been neglecting coming over, often finding yourself too tired to make the walk over, resigned to cooking yourself cheap ramen.

she doesn’t seem to linger on it for too long—turning to look over at geto, a bright smile immediately taking over her features. she doesn’t hesitate in embracing him in the same tight hug, “ooh, you finally got yourself a boyfriend. he’s real handsome.”

the idea nearly makes you recoil in your spot. “he’s not my bo-”

“thank you onēsan,” geto’s quick to interrupt your previous protest, a shit eating grin on his face when you turn to look at him. if looks could kill, he’s certain he’d be six feet under right now. but, alas, you’re not that powerful (yet), so you simply follow behind the two over to a small booth in the back.

the lights are dimmed down, the shadows playing over each crevice of his face. it’s too warm, too intimate. “what would you like to order?” you don’t need to flip through the menu brochure, “i’ll get your tsukumi soba, please.”

geto spends a few seconds scanning through the menu, reading over one side before flipping it around. “your beef yakisoba, please.” she takes away your menus, retreating into the back to get the noodles started up. ambient music plays in the background, your fingers tapping against the table. it’s still for a minute, quiet.

he breaks the silence first, gesturing to the space around you, “so can i ask why you picked this place?”

you purse your lips, pretending to be deep in thought before uttering, “no, you cannot.”

“alright then.” geto’s not sure why he expected another response to you, why he expected that one dinner would be enough to change your mind about him.

you merely raise a brow, unimpressed. “do you give up so easily on your endeavors?”

“no,” he’s quick to defend, “i just don’t want to risk making you uncomfortable.”

you can’t believe you’re letting suguru know you on a more intimate level, already regretting the words before you’re even speaking. “i chose this place because the owner’s been kind to me—” he perks up like a puppy at the information, so much for being nonchalant (he couldn’t be even if he tried), “—i came here when i didn’t have anything other than five bucks to my name. and even though the business isn’t doing so well, she covered the rest for me that day.

“i haven’t been here in a while. but i like to come whenever i have a little extra money and i have the time to.” you don’t add your father had been nearly laid off from his position at the time of the incident, leaving you scrambling to figure out how to pay rent on time, much less worry about an actual meal. the old woman had extended a hand of kindness where you weren’t expecting any.

geto clears his throat, “thank you for letting me know this little slice of you. it’s nice knowing you as something other than the valedictorian with a grudge.” you let out a noncommittal hum in response, watching as the old woman walked over with your food. you were welcomed by the earthy scent of the noodles, the aroma wafting throughout the table.

you could feel your mouth start to water before she even finished putting the plates down. “enjoy,” she tells you both, once again leaving you completely alone. there’s no rush when it comes to eating for either of you, no sense of urgency to get out. you blow on your noodles, twisting them around your chopsticks before taking a bite.

“so, are they up to your palate?” why you were making conversation with geto, you didn’t know. but nevertheless, you couldn’t exactly take the words back once they’d left your lips.

“they are. better than what i’m used to.” you savor each drop that lands on your tongue, each bite of the egg yolk that you take. it’s just the right amount of runny, the taste melding in perfectly with the broth. geto makes a few comments here in between about how good the beef is, how the noodles taste, and for once, you don’t find yourself wanting to smash a keyboard over his head.

you even make a few remarks yourself, about the different kinds of noodles that the shop offered. like you were already planning out to come here with him again. the thought should’ve been unsettling, should’ve been straight of your worst nightmares, but it wasn’t all too bad.

geto doesn’t hesitate in leaving a hefty tip behind when the check comes, earning a bright smile from the old lady. it seems she approves of him.

“do you want me to walk you back home?” he speaks up once you make it out of the shop, lingering on the street. it’s dark outside and you still had a long way to walk back home—but it’s just what you need. being in close proximity with geto has messed with your head enough, made him seem tolerable for one afternoon.

“i’d rather take my chances getting kidnapped,” you retort, already starting to walk away. he doesn’t linger for too long, walking away in the opposite direction. the walk back home is brisk, only a few cars passing by on the street, a nice chill in the air. it doesn’t take long for you to reach your building,

you’re certain you see a figure swinging away from the same direction geto had just headed in. you amount it to exhaustion, to your mind playing tricks on you. stepping inside your apartment, you’re welcomed to complete darkness—both of your parents already off to bed.

following suit, you drop your backpack off on the floor and get changed into your pair of pajamas as quietly as you can. you’ve barely managed to get into bed, to snuggle underneath your warm blanket, when your phone buzzes.

a message from geto.

geto: i hope you didn’t get kidnapped on your way home.

you: i’m sure that you’d be delighted to hear that, less competition for valedictorian after all.

geto: fair point. but then i’d have to do this project all by myself :(

you: i’m sure you’d be able to figure out if you rubbed your last two brain cells together

geto: i’m sure. good night.

—

as begrudging as it becomes to admit, you slowly start to get comfortable to having suguru around. to having your designed meet up at the library every monday and wednesday at four, being greeted with a warm cup of coffee and a kind of patience a saint would be jealous of.

it’s ridiculous. suguru doesn’t stoop as low as to meet your biting remarks with one of his own. he simply treats it with a calm smile, with a, “yeah, i’ll get that done.” when you bite out an order to do something.

“you’re more capable than i gave you credit for,” you remark, opening up the powerpoint to find that he’d settled on picking a nice theme. he’d picked up on where you left off last night with ease—sorting out your scrambled mess of notes into something feasible.

it was weird having someone you didn’t have to constantly be explaining yourself to. weird, but nice.

“well, you set a high bar. i, at least, have to make the effort to be worthy of working with you,” he retorts, reaching over. a quiet laugh escapes you, a sound he wants to bottle up just so he knows he’s not imaging it.

“your efforts are greatly appreciated.” you’re not sure when’s the last time you’ve been such at ease working on a group project. maybe never. you’re usually too stressed out trying to pick up where everyone else is lacking. plugging your earbuds on, you get back to reading through an article on motor functions.

“you should send me that playlist. for motivational purposes, of course,” suguru speaks up when you’re finished for the night. amongst corny science memes (from his part) and photos of cats he’s found on the street, you send him your playlist. showing him a glimpse of your soul—or at least what you like to listen to.

of course, it’s in alphabetical order. he finds himself playing each song, carefully listening to each of the lyrics. wondering what your thoughts were when listening, how you related to each one. your mind was a complex cavern, one that he intended to explore fully.

and across the city, you find yourself thinking about every interaction you’ve been having with him lately. about how he’s changed his brand of pencils to pentel 0.5mm in case you’d ever ask for one, the way his touch makes you feel like your body’s been electrocuted, how he’s memorized your coffee order by now.

you’re thinking too much about it, aren’t you? definitely. no way in hell you’re starting to develop feelings for suguru geto. you hate him. you hate him. you hate him.

and yet, why can’t you convince yourself of the fact?

“you’re acting weird. you okay?” suguru doesn’t hesitate to call you out, noticing you’ve been all too quiet during your session today. no biting remarks, no jokes, just silence. at first, it was comforting. now it just seems unsettling.

you nearly jump out of your seat, having been staring at the same word—and—for the past five minutes. you clear your throat, nodding. “i’m alright.” he’s not convinced but he lets it go. maybe you’re just having a bad day. you’re grateful he doesn’t try to ask any more questions, but… you miss the conversation.

fuck, you’re screwed.

—

suguru: can’t show up to our library session tonight, try not to miss me too much ;)

you’re not sure why you almost feel…disappointed at the news. it’s not like you wanted him to see that you’d put in more effort into dressing up today—that you’d ditched your (very comfortable) hoodie and sweats for a pair of jeans and a nice blouse you’d gotten on a discount rack. that you’d put on a dab of mascara and tinted gloss.

absolutely not. you didn’t care.

with nothing else to do around campus, you decide to head back home. flipping the tv on, you quickly come to find out each news channel’s covering the same segment—a giant lizard terrorizing the city while spider-man swings from building to building before jumping into action.

the hero picks up a decent looking buick, the expensive car practically weightless in his arms, tossing it over. it pierces through the air like a bullet, cameramen at the scene quickly panning their cameras to the zooming vehicle going at what seems to be a hundred miles per hour. it lands.

and spider-man misses. tossing it a mile past the point where the lizard’s crawling up a building, the car crashing into nothing but a mess of glass and debris. police sirens speed closer to the scene of the crime, thick clouds of grey smoke from the impact clouding up the atmosphere.

that’d be your last straw, you think. coming out of a late shift only to find your car completely totaled into smithereens. without so much as having some kind of insurance it’d be covered under.

luckily, it’s not you.

with that thought, you shut your tv off. choosing instead to work on some assignments, to work on converting radon mass into mols, to filling out equations that had more symbols than numbers on it. the hours pour over slowly, sun fading away into the shadows as night takes over.

there’s a knock on your window. you live on the third floor, that’s enough to unsettle you as it is. no one could get up here without using the fire escape, and that seemed like too much of a hassle just to rob you. right? another knock followed after the first, forcing you to get up from your spot.

shoving the curtains to the side, you’re met with the sight of spider-man outside your window. his suit’s ripped and tattered, exposing slivers of a blood streaked gash running down his chest. his chest heaves with each ragged and hoarse breath that leaves his lungs, a sharp pain digging through his ribs.

he leans against your windowsill, clutching a hand tightly against his stomach. his other hand reaches up, swiping at the constricting mask concealing his identity. black hair falls in long waves once its freed from its confines, a face you’re too familiar with meeting your gaze.

suguru. he leans his head back, a smear of blood marking his cheek. he’s never looked as hot as he did now—bleeding out and groaning at your windowsill. “hey, nice to see you again,” he lets out a breathy chuckle, “room looks cozy.”

there’s about a million questions bubbling in your head. how’d he manage to go to school and be the city’s hero? how’d he deal with the burden placed on his shoulders? still, there’s no time for you to be surprised. you have to act quick before he loses any more blood.

easing him into your bed, you get out your suturing kit with 140 pieces inside. pulling on a pair of gloves, you’re quick to get out what you need. a nylon needle, a silk piece of thread, some alcohol pads, and an advil just in case. “why’d you come to me?” you bring yourself to ask, pulling away at the sopping latex fabric.

it falls to your bedroom floor with an unceremonious plop, blood smearing onto your hardwood floors. you’d clean it up later. for now, you focus on evaluating the wound. the slash cut deep enough where stitches were necessary, but it seemed straight forward for the most part.

“you’re the only one in our program i trust not to drive a needle through a vein and stab me half to death,” he responds after a bit, his breathing labored as your hands squish the wound together. trying to make some sense of the ragged edges you’re trying to line up, of where you needed to poke the needle through.

“high praise,” you murmur, blood seeping and dripping from the rag you were delicately rubbing against his skin. cleaning him up as gently as possible, trying to avoid hurting the gash any more than necessary. any more than you needed to before the next step.

silence settles over your room as you draw the needle through his skin, piercing just deep enough to ensure it’d be sealed properly. forcing your trembling hands to steady, you get to work. sliding the needle through his skin, tightening the thread against each edge of the gash with each knot you do. it’s not perfect—you know that much, but it’s enough for right now.

“are you okay?” you’re the first one to break the silence tonight, gently wiping away at the streaks of crimson marring his scarred skin. blood dribbles and pours from the gash, quiet winces leaving his lips when you happen to press too hard.

a disgruntled, frustrated sigh leaves his lips, “no. the lizard escaped from me at last minute and i have no idea how to start looking for him.” taking your gloves off, you’re now faced with an incredibly hard decision. figuring out what suguru was going to wear.

you’re sure he’s bound to get questions if he walks out in a spider-man costume, digging through your cabinets to find something. an old pair of sweats that’s been too big and an oversized shirt. that’s good enough. “thanks.” suguru takes the clothes from you, quickly sliding them on.

“i’m sure you’ll find him. you’re nothing if not persistent,” you reassure, swiping away at a hair that covered his face. lightly, you dragged a clean rag through his cheeks, wiping away ruby colored streaks in three swipes. his gaze goes to your lips, your breath catches in your throat.

you’re too close. you should pull away, should tell him to leave and go back to studying. instead, you lean into the kiss. slowly and tentatively pressing your lips against his own, one of your hands coming to rest on his shoulder.

bruised hands settle on your waist, tugging you closer against his body. his lips brush against yours with all the patience in the world, the taste of him intoxicating up close. nothing else—not the city of new york, not the lizard—mattered. his lips locked against yours like a missing puzzle piece, slotting against yours perfectly.

“is this why you’ve been acting weird towards me?” suguru breathes out when he pulls away, forehead resting against your own. the proximity, of being mere inches apart, has heat rising up your neck, up to your face. everywhere you turned, he was there.

“yes,” your response comes out as a breathless whisper, his fingers drawing small lines against your arms. there’s no rush to the moment, no rush into pulling yourselves apart. a shiver runs down your spine as his touch ghosts even higher, leaving you wanting more.

hinges creak against themselves as soon as your bedroom door’s swung open, your father standing in the doorway. his eyes immediately narrowed at the sight of suguru plopped down on your bed, the two of you too close for comfort. you quickly scooted away, putting on a few inches of distance.

it wasn’t enough to erase his intrigue. with an exasperated huff, he rubbed a hand over his temples, “do you want to tell me why there’s a guy over this late? and with your door closed?” not particularly, but you figured it wasn’t as much as a question as an accusation.

“he…uh…” oh no, you hesitated. your father’s brows merely furrowed while you scrambled to find any reasonable excuse to have suguru geto in your bed at 10 pm. c’mon think think think. he’s getting suspicious.

suguru can practically see the wheels turning in your head, his teeth biting down on his lip to keep himself from snickering. your eyes dart from one corner of your room to the next, to your bed, to your nightstand before you take hold of the shut laptop next to you, blurting out, “he came to work on our project!”

“out!” your father exclaims just as soon as you’ve finished trying to find an excuse, “project my ass, we use the front door in this house for those.” he storms off into the living room, presumably to continue to continue watching his late night soccer game.

suguru let out a quiet laugh, leaning over to press a small kiss on your forehead. it doesn’t feel like enough after your admission, feels too small. but, it’s what you’ll have to make do for now. “for someone so smart, you sure are a bad liar, pretty girl.”

you’re left alone again.

you can’t focus on your project. the blank screen on your monitor burnt into your retinas, blinking cursor on the screen taunting you with each second that passes.

you can’t sleep either. you’ve tried. tossed and turned from one side to the next, throwing your leg over one of your prized plushies to no avail. you try counting sheep, you try listening to calming asmr in attempts it’d still your racing mind. nothing works. frustration boils deep in your gut, your thighs rubbing against one another.

you don’t think about suguru as just the guy you once hated and are now starting to develop a crush on, but you see him as spider-man too. see the responsibility that he takes on to protect the city, to ensure that people feel just a little bit safer walking down the streets while keeping up with school. while still managing to get you your coffee every day without so much as a protest.

the more that you get to know about him, the more that you realize that you’ve already fallen for him. tonight—that kiss—had just cemented the fact, your mind lingering on how soft he’d been. how gentle and reverent he’d treated you, being patient without treating you like you couldn’t handle it.

with a resigned sigh, you slowly began to trail your fingers down your navel. dragging your fingertips against the sensitive flesh, picturing geto’s long, digits as your eyes flutter shut. imagining his soft, plush lips making their way down your body the same you are, with an amount of reverence and tenderness.

you don’t dip your fingers inside your cunt just yet, rubbing yourself through the thin material of your panties, sliding your fingertips against your clothed slit, slowly starting to drip through the thin material. your fingers move up, rubbing at your neglected clit in small little circles.

deep in the back of his mind, suguru knows he’s not supposed to intrude on such a private moment. and yet, he can’t bring himself to leave.

he can hear footsteps up to five miles away, can hear every whispered conversation, and yet all he can focus on is the way your breath picks up, the sound of your cunt squelching around the fingers. on your rapid heartbeat thumping against your chest, on the whisper of his name that you thought left your lips into the dead of night.

wait, what?

“oh, fuck, suguru.” a breathless whisper leaves your lips, his ears perking up underneath the mask. he can practically taste you on his tongue with how intense the scent penetrates through your bedroom walls. his cock throbs in the latex, precum smearing onto the costume. that’s enough to get him sliding the costume down to his mid thighs, leaving him nearly exposed.

anybody could look up and see the city’s hero jerking himself off on the side of a building. that should’ve been enough to stop him, to make him wait until he was in his room. but no, instead, he wraps his hand around his shaft, thumb smearing precum alllll the way down to the base.

you are all that consumes his thoughts, his very being.

pushing your panties to the side, you dip two fingers inside your cunt with a wet little shlickk. all the while picturing suguru’s thick fingers instead of your own, picturing how’d he finger you. he’d start slow—just to tease you. so you decide to slowly start pumping your fingers in and out, slick dripping down to your knuckles.

suguru starts off at the same pace you’re going, timing his own orgasm to your own. soul ties and the such. his fingers wrap tightly around his cock, fist slowly dragging uppp and downn the shaft. he rubs at his swollen cockhead, smearing precum over his fist and his dick.

“o-oh fuck,” a hushed moan leaves your lips, your fingers curling about a inch in. you’re hitting your g-spot with each thrust of your fingertips, back bowed into an arch. would he let you cum? maybe if he was feeling kind enough. you rub at your clit, pushing yourself to reach your peak only to let it slip through your fingers right at the precipice.

when you do let yourself cum to the thought of it being on suguru’s fingers, of imagining him bringing them up to his mouth, wrapping his lips around them and tasting you fully, you soak your fingers and sheets underneath with a shuddered little moan.

suguru isn’t faring well outside of your window either.

sweat dribbles down from his forehead, heavy load of cum covering his hand and stomach. he leans his head back, listening to your racing heartbeat slowly return back to normal. he wipes his hand off on the side of his costume, zipping it back up before reluctantly heading back home.

so much for hating him.

—

you avoid suguru geto completely after that.

it wasn’t that hard in the grand scheme of things. sure, you were both confined to the same building for most of the day, but you avoided taking any main hallways you were certain to find him in. avoided lingering in the lounge for too long, hiding away in the back stairwell and doing some assignments. it’s quite nice the few times you get lucky and there’s no one making out underneath.

and sure, you had a few classes together, but you avoid being in your usual spots. go up to sit in the back instead of the front, in one of the far right wings of the auditorium where even the professor’s surprised when they take attendance. you don’t linger too much after class either, immediately leaving upon dismissal with your head down.

but even then, you supposed you should’ve accounted for how to avoid him at your own home.

“do i have to keep showing up to your house all bruised and battered for you to spare your friendly neighborhood spider-man five minutes?” suguru pops his head in through your window, sliding his mask off once he was inside.

you raise a brow, leaning in closer to take a look at the ‘wound’ he’s whining and pouting about. it’s a simple cut across his cheek, already starting to heal from his enhanced abilities. “you came over for this?”

“yes. i’m dying, doc,” he deadpans much to your dismay. you gesture for him to take a seat on your bed, watching as he makes himself at home amongst your plushies. taking a hold of your kit, you stand in between his legs to clean up the cut.

that’s not good enough for suguru.

“what the—” his hands take hold of your waist, easing you down onto his lap. your thighs rest upon either side of his own, your ass pressed directly on top of his lap. moving forward slightly, you grind yourself against him, a quiet moan leaving your lips upon feeling the tip against your clit.

how very unprofessional of you.

you force yourself to stay focused, taking his face in your hand. purple eyes glimmer underneath the pale moonlight, meeting your gaze as your fingers brush against the ‘bruise.’ slowly, you dab on a little bit of antibiotic onto the cut before plastering on a hello kitty bandaid on his cheek. “perfect.”

neither one of you moves. suguru’s hands stay splayed against your waist, holding you tightly against his body. trying to keep you there as long as possible. you let him, your fingers ghosting across his face before you reluctantly pull your hand away.

this time, his hand cradles your cheek, “i haven’t been able to stop thinking about your lips since the last time i’ve seen you. thinking about kissing you again.” he didn’t kiss you like he had last time, gentle and patient, no, he kissed you like he was desperate (which he, admittedly, was).

your hips swivel as you grind yourself down on his hardening cock, feeling each ridge against your dripping cunt. heavy breaths leave your lips the faster you start moving against him, the more you feel his tip prodding into your clothed pussy. “this feel good?” he questions, his hands moving up your nightshirt. cupping your breasts in between his hands, rubbing his thumb around your nipples.

“y-yeah, feels good,” you nod, head thrown back and back arched. your nails dig into his shoulders, using that as leverage as you move yourself against him. his lips move down to your neck, leaving kiss after kiss as he trails his way down. he slides your shirt off, tossing it to one corner of your room.

“can i taste you, please?” you nod, expecting him to get down on his knees and get in between your legs. to start slowly kissing his way up your legs before making his way to your cunt. but no, you watch as he crawls up to your ceiling, sticking it it before hanging upside down.

a thin, white string’s clutched between his fingers, keeping him in position. suguru hangs off your roof with relative ease, onyx strands cascading onto your silk sheets. he leans forward, his free hand swiping at the slick dribbling from your puffy folds.

syrupy strings cling onto his gloved fingertips, tongue enveloping around the latex to taste every last drop. “need to taste all of you, spread out for me,” suguru uses his free hand to spread your legs apart, your ass up in the air as you settle into an arch, “there we go. just like that, princess.”

he delves in like a man starving, his tongue swiping across your slit, lapping up every drop of your essence. your fingers tightly wrap around your sheets, hips moving back to meet his eager mouth. he’s unabashed with each swipe, with each lick to your sopping pussy.

suguru takes one of your folds in his mouth, spit slobbering over the sensitive skin to mix with the syrupy slick dripping onto his tongue, starting to make out with your lower pair of lips. “fuck, you’re so good to me, wanna stay here,” he’s already pussydrunk, each babble leaving his lips like water.

while nothing about him is sloppy, the way that he’s making out with your pussy certainly is. he takes note of what makes your heart run faster, what makes you react to adjust what he does. no reaction you make goes unnoticed.

you gushed around his mouth and chin like a running faucet, your essence smeared all over his face. suguru slid his tongue in and outt of your cunt, his nose nudging against your sensitive clit with each push. “so, so good sugu,” you whined against him, eyes rolling back. each swipe of his tongue, the desperate way he ate you out, had you inching closer and closer to your orgasm.

“mm, i know, i know,” he coos, jaw falling slack as he buries his face in between your legs. he alternates between making out with your folds, tracing his tongue across each one, and thrusting his tongue in and out of your hole. suguru licks up a broad stripe up your cunt to your clit, the tip of his tongue drawing a small circle onto the nub.

blood rushes down to his head, almost making him feel high off the taste of your cunt. his lips latch onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the nub. “fuck, fuck, sugu, just like that!” your praise only serves to spur him on, your orgasm the only thing on his mind.

two of his fingers dip inside your cunt, filling you even better than you’d imagined just a few days ago. suguru curls his fingers perfectly, drawing out desperate moans from your lips with each prod against your g-spot. he continues sucking around your clit, pleasure building up deep in your gut.

his fingers spread you open, pearlescent slick dribbling down his gloved fingers. your hips move on their own accord, pushing them even deeper as you chase your orgasm. “gonna cum, gonna cum,” you babble, smearing yourself across his face and fingers. your own couldn’t compare to this, not by a long mile.

“that’s it, come for me, take what you want from me,” suguru’s words unraveled you like a birthday present, your orgasm hitting your body in waves. shudders rack through your body, your legs shaking as your release spurted out of you, coating his mouth, chin, and nose. he’s quick to lap up at the drops lingering on his lips, wrapping his mouth around his fingers. sucking them off completely, a moan leaving his lips at the taste.

suguru made quick work of sliding down the rest of his costume, letting it fall on your floor. his cock slapped against his stomach once released, tan at the base with a couple veins running up the thick shaft, tip a reddish pink and dripping drops of precum. a slight eight inches if you had to go off on estimate.

he moves to his spot behind you, wrapping a hand around his shaft. slowly starting to swipe it up and down your folds, tip nudging against your sensitive clit. “i thought it was fuck me, c’mon sweetheart, tell sugu how much you hate him

“fuck y—” his cock sinks in completely, lips parting into a moan while your walls clench around him, tightly wrapped around his shaft like a vice. suguru doesn’t move just yet, even as you push your hips back for some kind of friction, “come on, finish your sentence. don’t be rude.”

you’re too desperate to form a cohesive thought—blurting out the first thing on your mind, “oh fuck me, please!”

“with pleasure, sweetheart.” he pulls back in one swift motion, hips snapping against your own when he thrusts back in, curve of his cock dizzying as it hit every single spot that had your toes curl. "ah ah ah, fuck, don't stop!" suguru doesn’t start off fast, but he starts off deep—letting you feel every inch he was stuffing inside. your cunt dripped around his shaft, squelching as your slick mixed in with the drops of precum dribbling down.

“like this?” he has the audacity to ask, his hands gripping onto your waist as he fucks into you. your ass jiggles back against him with each shove of his cock, balls smacking against the back of your thighs. he starts to move faster, pounding into your cunt like he wanted to imprint the shape of him into your walls.

“j-just like that!” you respond, head buried into the sheets in front of you. the grip you had on your sheets tightens tenfold, body jerking back and forth. that just won’t do. he raises your head up from its hiding spot, turning your head to kiss you. it’s sloppy, it’s desperate, and it’s more teeth and tongue than anything.

it’s perfect.

“keep your head up, wanna hear every little moan,” he babbles behind you, reveling in every little ah! ah! ah! that left your lips, moans mixing in with the sound of skin slapping against skin. your eyes roll back, drool leaking from your lips with every inch he drags across your cunt.

suguru plants one of his feet up on the bed, the position allowing for him to thrust even deeper. his tip kissed your cervix with each punishing thrust of his hips, each vein and ridge rubbing against your walls deliciously. one of his hands moves down in between your legs, rubbing desperate little circles around your clit.

you clamp down around his shaft, your release quickly building up. suguru feels his own approaching, balls tightening up, but he’s determined. determined to make you gush around his cock before he spills his load. your legs tremble and quake, orgasm hitting you much more intense than last time.

your release dribbles and spurts around his shaft, a creamy ring at the base as he pulls back. his hips stutter while he tries to maintain his pace, abs clenching the longer he tries to prolong his orgasm. “come for me, suguru, fill me up.” that’s enough to drag a strangled moan from his lips, a thick load of cum painting your walls white.

suguru remains still for a second before gently pulling his softening cock out, watching as you all but collapse face down onto your bed. “where do you keep your rags?” he moves across your bedroom, heading over to the bathroom.

“second cabinet on the right.” he grabs a few, making sure to get one wet enough to clean up between your legs. he takes the opportunity that your parents aren’t home to leave your bedroom, going over to grab a water bottle.

“here, take a sip.” he holds it up against your mouth, your hands reaching out to take hold of it. a moment of stillness, calm settles over your bedroom as he lightly rubs the rag against your skin, wiping away the milky trails of cum dribbling down your cunt and thighs. you close off the bottle, setting it aside on your nightstand.

“my photography class is making me submit my portfolio for my final, wanted to know if you’d be my model for tomorrow,” he speaks up, settling next to you. he wipes the sweat away from your forehead with a clean rag, just as gently as he’d done before. your body feels sluggish and limp, melting into his embrace as he wraps a hand around your stomach.

“that sounds nice. i’ll show up around three,” you whisper before succumbing to sleep, one of your own arms wrapped around his chest. even if suguru wanted to move (which he didn’t), he couldn’t move with how tightly you were holding onto him. it was the nicest sleep you’ve had thus far, the most relaxed you’ve allowed yourself to be.

the walk over to his apartment was quiet, the city still with each step you took. the trees rustled with each light breeze that passed, birds chirped a melody in the distance. for once, there weren’t any police sirens or honking cars out on the street.

maybe that should’ve been your first sign something was wrong.

—

the quiet before the storm never seems to last for very long, does it?

you never made it to his apartment. never sent a text message saying you couldn’t make it, no kind of explanation. suguru had been waiting for hours now, unwilling to accept the fact he’d simply been ghosted out of the blue. sure, you’d done that before, but his gut told him otherwise.

turning his tv on, he was greeted by the sight of the lizard. he’d regenerated faster than expected, all the effort that suguru put into fighting him the first time diminished into nothing but cheap headlines. but that’s not all that he sees. when the camera pans in, focusing on the lizard’s scaly hand, his heart drops to his ass.

“come out, come out if you want to see your girlfriend again, spider.” each taunt only makes his blood boil, watching helplessly as the lizard dangled your limp body from side to side. dropping you, gasps erupting from the public watching, before his tail wrapped around your body. “you know where to find me.”

pulling the mask on to defend the city had always felt like an obligation, some kind of punishment for sneaking out during a field trip and getting himself bit by a radioactive spider. but this time, it felt more like necessity. adrenaline pumped through his veins, pushing him through each building he swung and pulled himself off of.

of course, the lizard couldn’t have made things easy enough for him. sneaking through the clock tower, he came across a machine set to go off in thirty minutes, containing a vial full of lizard dna. if the average person would so much as inhale even a speck of air when it went off, they’d immediately face the effects.

effects that their body wasn’t suited to take, effects that their body would reject until their untimely demise. the countdown ticked, 30… 29… 28… and right at the same time spider-man made his appearance, the lizard decided to give him a choice. the city of new york or you.

spider-man was a hero revered for his ability to think fast on his feet, for his ability to swing into action with the best possible solution.

but suguru was fucking scared.

he could hear his heart thumping in his ears, his breaths coming out in short little wisps. even one little second was too much to waste, a second that could’ve to save you. to save the city of new york. the machine doesn’t take long to deactivate, only needing the vial to be removed. with a quick swipe, he was ready for action.

he couldn’t afford to hesitate now. suguru tossed himself off the clocktower’s peak, diving straight towards where you were helplessly flailing around. your hands clawed at pure air, reaching out for a final salvation to no avail. his wrist flicked forward, a silken web extending out to your chest.

four strings extended from the original web, a hand reaching out towards your body. you flailed helplessly in mid air, hearing people gasp and scream right behind you. you couldn’t focus on them, couldn’t focus on anything but suguru. the air feels cold, too loud in your ears, your vision blurry. the ground seems so close, and yet so far away. like you’re falling in slow motion.

suguru was so close, he was nearly there. his fingertips grazed against your skin, reaching out to take hold of your hand. just as soon as he thought he’d assured a tight grip over your body, you slipped away from his fingers. the web connected to your body, a second too late.

the memories behind your eyelids weren’t ones about your academic achievements, about a party you skipped to get your pre-sat score higher. no, you got painful reminders of everything you didn’t get to do. that you didn’t get to go out on a date with suguru, that you didn’t get the chance to get to know him better, that you’d die and no one would know you as anything other than the girl with a tight stick up her ass. you’d never be able to do those things, either.

never get to feel the warmth of the sun against your face again, never get to feel the softness and tenderness from suguru’s touch. that one, you think, hurts the most.

CRACK.

he felt it before he heard it. felt the moment your heart went silent, the moment that spider-man failed you. still, he persisted. there must be something he could still do, anything at all.

he can’t afford to lose you, he just can’t.

his hands hooked underneath your legs when he got close enough, cradling you close to his chest. “hey,” his voice cracks, tears welling underneath his mask. “open your eyes, please. talk to me. say you hate me, say you love me, say anything.

“just… come back to me. please.” guilt seeps in through the open wound with a vengeance, a reminder you wouldn’t have been in this predicament if he wasn’t so careless. if spider-man hadn’t allowed himself to feel a smidge of happiness, you’d still be alive.

you had many dreams in the world. and that’s all they would be, just dreams.

—

WHERE IS SPIDER-MAN?!

article published by the daily bugle, 2026

spider-man. the man we seek out to solve most of our problems throughout the city whether it be the simplest of bank robberies or a giant lizard wrecking havoc amongst the city.

he has shown up time and time again in our time of need, in times where everything was once thought of as a lost cause. but one has to wonder, how good is this dependence?

the webbed vigilante has left us to our own devices, having gone missing for months now. we are completely helpless, doubting our finest officers that put their lives on the line to keep us safe. this sick hero’s been working on his own merit, on his own accord without any policing, to ‘protect’ the city.

“then you should’ve married someone else,” you chirp, devil incarnate that you are. you don’t even look up. you just stir your suspiciously dark coffee with the spoon that clinks against the chipped mug like a ticking time bomb, and let the toaster burn like a war crime. your foot taps along to your little murder melody. casually. as if you weren’t desecrating breakfast.

“i’m starting to think you burned the prenup too,” he deadpans.

you finally glance at him. eyes sparkling like you were born to torment him specifically. and unfortunately, it’s doing things to him. terrible, weak-willed things. his stomach flips. he blames the smoke.

“i taped it to your mirror,” you say sweetly. “next to the note that said ‘cry about it.’ did you not find it?”

his soul leaves his body. he gasps. dramatically. insulted on a spiritual level. how dare you. he clutches at his chest like a betrayed prince in a historical drama. he stumbles back half a step, just for theatrics.

“you are trying to get me to file for divorce,” he hisses, holding up a spoon like a cursed weapon of vengeance. it glints under the kitchen light like it has seen war. “don’t lie to me. you want out so badly you’re staging breakfast-related psychological warfare.”

“oh, sweetie,” you coo, flipping blackened toast onto a plate with the smugness of a cat knocking a glass off a table. the plate already holds two other casualties. “i don’t want out. i want you to want out. i’m playing the long game.”

long game. she says. like this is chess. like she’s some evil strategist in a romance anime and he’s the fool who underestimated her power. (he did. and he regrets it daily.) his eye twitches again. he’s starting to suspect it’s permanent.

he sits down at the kitchen table like it personally offended him. he folds his arms with the poise of a man entering battle. he makes eye contact with the toast. it stares back, dark and crispy, like it knows what it did. like it enjoyed it.

revenge mode: activated.

by noon, he’s already replaced all the sugar with salt. moved your favorite mug to the top shelf—the one that says “world’s okayest spouse.” changed your alarm to 5:47am because that’s a cursed time. a liminal hour where nothing good happens. he even puts the bathroom mirror slightly off-center just to watch you suffer.

you retaliate by vacuuming at 3am. with jazz music. loudly. wearing heels that click like tiny war drums. you twirl the vacuum cord like a lasso and blow him a kiss when he opens the door, eyes bloodshot and betrayal deep in his bones.

he retaliates by changing your ringtone to a baby crying and calling you ten times in a row during your nap. it echoes through the apartment like a banshee. a cursed infant banshee.

you steal his hoodie. his favorite hoodie. the one that makes him feel safe. the one that smells like peace. and you wear it. with confidence. standing on the kitchen counter, sipping from the mug he moved, like a gremlin goddess claiming her throne. your ankles swing above the sink, feet bare, expression smug. your hair is messy, the hoodie swallowing you whole, sleeves flopping every time you lift your arm.

he walks in, sees you perched there, and feels something in his soul crack like bad porcelain. he’s still holding a toothbrush. his mouth is half-foamed. betrayal stings.

“that’s mine,” he says, offended. his hair is damp from the shower, sticking to his forehead in adorable defiance of gravity.

“we’re married,” you reply, sipping obnoxiously. “congrats. you played yourself.”

he dies a little. again.

she’s small. and evil. and currently drowning in his hoodie like some kind of adorable demon. and he hates it. he hates how cute you are. how tiny. how you always stand on tiptoe to reach things and refuse to ask for help because you’d rather fall off the counter than give him the satisfaction. your brows furrow every time you climb something. your nose scrunches when you pretend you’re fine. you grunt when you jump down like a dramatic toddler.

he buys a second stool just so he can hide the first one every morning. he even installs a mini security cam to watch you suffer in 1080p.

you retaliate by labeling all his skincare with wrong steps. “cleanser” is now “serum.” “toner” is now “shampoo.” he puts eye cream on his elbows and screams into the void. his pores are crying. his dignity is gone.

one day, he finds the marriage license in the freezer.

“why is this next to the fish sticks?”

“because that’s where frozen mistakes go.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to strangle you or kiss you or both. probably both. he’s losing.

he’s losing the war. the bickering, the pettiness, the coordinated chaos—it’s becoming a rhythm. something domestic. something dangerous. he starts waking up early just to watch you frown at the crooked painting he moves an inch every day. he hides the remote. you hide his socks. he calls you a gremlin. you call him a manchild. and the weirdest part?

he starts to like it.

the apartment smells like incense and burnt toast and cheap citrus cleaner. your slippers are always one step behind his on the welcome mat. there’s a pile of throw pillows you both pretend you don’t use but secretly nest into like raccoons. his sunglasses are missing again. you’re hoarding them. he knows it.

one day, he watches you pick a fight with the rice cooker because it beeped at you too aggressively, and something in him just clicks. you stab the buttons with a butter knife and hiss at it like a possum. your hair is sticking up from static. your sleeve is falling into the rice bowl. you’re swearing under your breath in three different dialects.

he’s doomed.

he’s going to fall in love with you. hard. embarrassingly. and when he does, you’re going to laugh in his face and steal the last dumpling. and he’ll let you. he’ll even give you dipping sauce.

but not yet.

because tomorrow, he’s painting your shampoo bottle with disappearing ink. and you’re going to hide his blindfolds. and maybe—just maybe—he’ll look forward to waking up to the smell of toast on fire again.

“my apartment is not a hang out place for the three of you. do you have not practice or missions to do?” you asked while washing the dishes and the other three sat in the dining table.

shoko snickered. “asked these two idiots. i don't need to practice all the time.”

“we escaped but i don't think they'd notice.” suguru responded.

you heard a chair being pushed back. “t'was boring there all the time. studying, getting yelled at, exhausting your self.” satoru repeatedly tsked. “i'm barely surviving.”

“isn't that what students are supposed to do? studying?” you questioned.

you were a student too after all. and you could relate on how barely you were surving school lately.

“all while fighting monsters. so scary, you know?” when you looked back at them, you saw suguru shaking his head with a small smile on his face. “it's fine though.”

satoru nodded. “i agree wholeheartedly.”

you turn back to finally wash the soap off the plates and then you heard shoko's sigh.

“i'm betting that you two won't even last a day at an ordinary school.” shoko pointed as you nod in agreement.

“see, even y/n agrees.” she huffed in satisfaction.

“i mean, it's fun too and i genuinely think what you three are doing is very dangerous for a student but... the amount of time you'll be pouring just for school is just unbearable. the school's strict too, you know.”

you turned off the faucet then you grabbed a clean nearby towel to dry your hands.

“your hair will be asked to keep it short. not that long. even if you tied it up, the teachers will look at you as if you're part of a gang.” you told to suguru then turns to satoru, who was already looking at you. “and no sunglasses.” then to shoko. “and no smoking.”

shoko waves you off with a smirk. “nah, who said i'll smoke at school? i'll survive. satoru won't. and suguru would if...” she leans forward to suguru. “he would cut his hair.”

satoru lets out a snicker as he glances at suguru. “what would i do if i don't recognize him immediately? that'd be troublesome.” he teasingly shake his head while holding his hand in the air, head-level.

suguru elbowed him in response.

“i wouldn't recognize you either if you grow out your hair. you'd probably copy my look.” suguru smiles but a hint of annoyance in his voice can be heard.

“yeah, bet he'd look like an old man.” shoko joins to tease.

satoru eyes widened at them and dramtically placed a hand on his chest. “i will not!”

you blinked then think for a while, trying to vision satoru with longer hair. “i think he'd look cool.” you voice out.

satoru immediately looks at you, really looks at you, then exhale sharply with a spreading grin.

“right! guys, learn how to be kind from y/n. i'd definitely look more awesome with long hair! you two just don't see the vision of—”

satoru didn't shut his mouth for a long time. and he was also giving you puppy eyes with a large grin on his face for the whole week.

but after a few months, you noticed that satoru was actually growing out his hair.

satoru prolly actually grew his hair bcs he finds suguru's long hair cool so he copied him (pls first year!satoru was such a cutie pie) also might be ooc but i just want to write for the cutie pie (⁠＾⁠∇⁠＾⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♪

masterlist ♡

© written by @yoonlyhan. don't plagiarise my content. u will be blocked :x

“i play,” he hums, tilting his head down to watch himself pluck a few strings with his thumb and index, covering the strings of the neck and making it play a dull sound. “occasionally. i mean, i am good at everything, so this is like nothing.” gojo huffs and whips his head up, nose pointing to the ceiling and a smug grin plastering on his face. he opens an eye to meet you staring at him patiently, leaning back and weighing yourself down against your arms, a lazy grin resting on your pretty lips.

you’re waiting, gojo thinks. you’re waiting for him to play and he can tell with the way your eyes widen and the way you bounce your leg slightly. and when he does entice you with his perfect strumming and dripping voice, maybe then you’d fall in love with him.

“can we hear you play ?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. suguru snickers beside you, hiding his smirk with a hand as he looks at his best friend with a knowing look. “c’mon, you really think he can play ?”

“of course i can !” gojo barks back, leaning forward as the sunglasses slipping down his nose as he jumps in retaliation. he shifts his gaze back to you as you thin your lips to hide any evidence of laughter emerging, yet, the way your shoulders shake and your chest heaves proves the opposite of hiding.

“i can play,” he corrects, crossing his legs and resting his back on the wall. he looks down at the strings in front of him, placing his long fingers on the select position and angle, pressing down enough for the fingertips to leave an indent. he strums with his free hand, plucking with his fingers and humming a melody he’s sure doesn’t even exist, one that’s soft and gentle enough to be a stand alone, no voice required.

as he adjusts his fingers to play different notes, he glances up from his glasses to take a look at you, to make sure you were paying attention, to make sure you were impressed. hopefully beyond impressed. he butches a note, losing focus before he blinks a few times and regains his rhythm. he’s tapping his feet in the air to an invisible beat and metronome, stretching his fingers to reach for a string.

it’s quiet while he plays, and none of you realize that shoko is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and a knowing grin being shared between her and suguru.

“i just remembered,” suguru chirps suddenly, cutting off the strumming as gojo pauses his hands. he chirped. like a child excited to answer a question their teacher had to offer. “shoko and i have to deliver some papers to yaga sensei.” the brown haired girl nods along with the quick excuse, watching the boy get up from his seat on the bed and rush out with a tight expression, sliding the door closed yet not fully, enough to leave a small gap. they both leave before neither you nor satoru had the chance to say anything back, leaving both of you slightly speechless.

suguru, shoko, you dicks !!

satoru internally screams and bangs his head on his guitar and the walls, his heart racing faster than how adrenaline took over when he was playing. they did this on purpose, he realized and he scolds himself for not knowing earlier. what is he going to do now ..?! sit alone in his bedroom with a goddess like you as he plays on his stupid little guitar ? god, you don’t even look half impressed right now !! unless you are, gojo breaks down, i mean, who could resist me, right ?

“uhm,” your voice breaks through gojo’s racing thoughts, his head shifting towards you from the door. “what songs do you like to play ?” you smile and satoru feels his shoulders relax, the breath he was holding in seemingly exhaling and he acted like he had just received extra blessings from the gods themselves. to hold the powers of the six eyes and limitless is impressive, but to have someone charmed and smitten out of their minds, now that’s a real weapon.

gojo watches you tilt your head and he swallows a lump down his throat, readjusting his hands to fit the notes of whatever song he had thought of. “well,” he glances down at his hands, then back up at you, flashing you with a charming smile. “whatd’ya wanna listen to ?”

bonus:

“they’ve been at it for two hours,” shoko whispers her grimaces, peeking through the crack of the door they had left before as suguru watches from a top of her, their heads stacked as they stalk the white haired individual play whatever you had requested. “you think they know by now ?”

suguru winces at shokos suggestion, like he doesn’t believe that either of you know that you like each other. “those idiots ? nah, i doubt it.”

“yeah, you’re right.” she snickers quietly, peering through more before she accidentally makes eye contact with bright blue eyes. “shit.” ieiri backs away and widens her eyes, stopping mid tracks as if caught red handed.

“y/n...baby, i'm sorry. you know i didn't mean to do that.”

...you had your back at satoru but how could you ignore him if his chin is on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist, and your heart is beating crazy? it was utterly impossible.

you gave out a hum so satoru can stop whining in your ears.

“baby!” he shouted dramatically as if i died.

you tried to shrug him off. “don't shout in my ears, satoru. and can you please move? i'm tryin' to peel an orange here.”

you felt him shake his head and buried his face on your neck. “i'll stay here.” he mumbles.

biting your inner cheeks, you continued to peel an orange. all while satoru kept mumbling on your ears. he even tightens his hold onto you. “y/n... i love you.” you heard him whisper.

you shrug satoru off but he still hasn't lift his face from your neck. you tried again.

“don't push me away, baby!” he shouts awfully loud in your ear.

you blinked at his whining voice. ”christ...” satoru still hasn't moved a bit so you stepped on his foot.

satoru lets out a huff. “hurt me. hurt me all you want! hurt my heart and—”

“satoru, my shoulders are getting stiff. move your head away.”

he stayed still. then quietly lift his head from my shoulder. you finally looked at him and saw a little pout displayed on his face that almost made you forgot who should be pouting right now.

“that's not even cute, satoru.” you held out a smile.

he had his bright blue eyes looking down. satoru still has his arms wrapped around you tightly.

“...i'm sorry. I won't do it again?”

you raised a brow, doubting him. “really?”

“pinky promise. i swear on my future.” satoru slowly looks at you, unsure if you were still mad at him or avoiding looking at him. then he blinks when he saw your small smile on your face.

“alright, i trust you.” you tilt your head a little.

of course you trust him. you have always been.

satoru beams at you. “hell yea—”

his words were cut off when you shoved a piece of orange in his mouth. satoru almost wore a disgusted expression by the sudden action but immediately ate the orange when he realize what you gave him.

“so sweet, heh.” satoru grins then leaned back down to kiss your neck.

you shake your head with a sigh before patting his head twice. “alright, alright. you owe me a book or two.”

“gotcha. i'll give you thousands of them.”

you snickered then you slowly lean back on satoru with a smile. “i'll be waiting then.”

masterlist ♡

© written by @yoonlyhan . don't plagiarise my content. u will be blocked :x

you nod, chin tilted up in that exact, infuriatingly cute way you do when you’re being stubborn and earnest and objectively wrong. your arms cross, sleeves puffed around your hands like you’re shielding yourself with plush.

“way more.”

“that’s not even mathematically possible,” he says, appalled. the back of his neck is flushed. he hopes you can’t tell. “i love you so much it’s, like, terminal. you’d get heartburn just standing too close.”

“i gave you my tempura earlier!!” you declare, stepping forward like you’ve just played your ultimate card in a courtroom drama.

satoru physically recoils. the tempura. from your lunch set earlier. the tempura you guard with your life. he remembers the look of pure delight when he accepted it. he posted about it on his secret blog. he added glitter gifs.

“that doesn’t count! you don’t even like tempura!”

“but i ordered it. and i gave it to you. that’s sacrifice. that’s love.”

“you weaponized your picky eating habits to prove a point. that’s emotional blackmail!”

“still counts.”

“i carried your bag the whole day and didn’t complain once when you dragged me to that character cafe,” he fires back. “the one with the pink walls and sparkly wallpaper and drinks named after magical girls.”

“you literally took thirty selfies with the mascot and tried to buy the limited-edition plushie!” you say, poking his chest. “you had fun!”

“irrelevant!” he says, puffing up. “it was your idea! i was just... being supportive.”

you roll your eyes, shoulders lifting in a subtle pouty shrug. satoru watches the way your nose scrunches just slightly when you’re trying not to smile. it drives him insane.

“just admit it. i love you more.”

he mirrors your posture, except taller and sulkier. his brows furrow. his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching out and squishing your cheeks. “nope. not happening.” his voice drops, softens, eyes locked on yours. “i wish you did. but i love you more. i always will. forever and ever, end of story.”

“i’d give up my favorite keychain for you,” you mumble.

“i bought you that keychain.”

“i named my phone wallpaper after you.”

“you call it ‘hot guy energy’.”

“...still counts.”

“you cried when i said i was gonna shave my head for basketball!”

“because i would’ve had to dump you on principle!”

“see, that’s not love, that’s cruelty!”

the bickering spirals. you’re toe to toe now, the air crackling like static. the porchlight flickers again like it’s had enough. down the street, the faint ding of the approaching train cuts through the cold night air.

satoru stiffens. he’s gonna miss it. he knows he is. he should go. but you’re standing there, lips hidden behind your hands, cheeks puffed out in triumph. you’re not gonna kiss him. not unless he caves.

he steps in, taller frame looming, hoodie rustling as he slouches slightly to meet your height. his voice dips low, sugar and plea.

“baby. please. i need that kiss. at least one. maybe... ten. twelve. twenty?”

you dodge him again.

he gasps so loud a dog barks from the neighbor’s yard. he clutches his chest, reeling, spinning half a turn like he’s been physically hit. “you’re gonna let me DIE with a pout on your face? you enjoy this. you’re sick.”

you shrug, all too pleased. your fingers press harder over your mouth like you’re physically holding back a giggle. your brows lift just a little. you don’t say it, but he can read it in your eyes: surrender, peasant.

“okay, okay, fine!” he wails, collapsing dramatically to his knees on the sidewalk. “you win! you love me more! you’re love’s final boss! i’m just a silly side character caught in your love web! just kiss me before i perish!”

you laugh—finally—and he rockets back up like a jack-in-the-box, cupping your cheeks with cold hands, beaming like the sun.

he peppers your face in kisses. forehead. cheeks. nose. jaw. eyelids. temples. rapid-fire affection. you squeak when he nips your chin. then, he finally presses six long, sweet kisses to your lips—each one with increasing smugness—because he’s dramatic and greedy and you’re giggling between them.

when he pulls back, his hair’s tousled from your fingers, and he looks like he’s just walked out of a sparkly shoujo panel. his grin’s crooked. his ears are glowing red.

he backs away with three backward steps, then sprints off down the block, scarf trailing behind him like a hero’s cape. just before the corner, he spins.

“I LOVE YOU THE MOOOOST!!”

you gape. seething. betrayed. your fists shake. your cheeks? crimson.

the porchlight sputters in protest. a crow caws from a rooftop. a neighbor’s blinds snap shut.

he vanishes.

he’ll bring pudding tomorrow. maybe the melon pan. he’ll pretend to be sorry. but he’s not. he’s already dreaming up sticker bribes and keychains and new tactics.

but you’re wrong.

because satoru is in love.

and you might love him more.

he loves you the most.

end of discussion.

(probably.)

You freeze.

He hums, nuzzling his face into your cheek, his warm breathe giving you goosebumps. “Don’t pout. You get all cute and tragic before every attempt”.

“So you knew?”

“Course I knew”. He laughs boyishly like he’s tired of it but loving it anyway. “Why do you think I’ve been letting you get close? I wanted to see how long it’d take you to catch feelings”.

Your face burns. “I haven’t—!”

“Oh no?” His hand drops low, palm spreading over the curve of your ass, squeezing just hard enough to make you twitch. “Then what was that little speech last night? About how I’m the only one who makes you feel safe?”

“I was drunk”.

“No no, you said it while sober”.

You scowl. “Oh my gosh, you’re so insufferable”.

“And you’re a very bad assassin, angel”.

“Stop calling me that”.

“No,” he says, sweet and final. Then he leans up, brushing his mouth over yours like you’re not seconds from killing him—like you couldn’t, even if you tried. “Do it, then. C’mon”.

You blink. “What?”

He nudges his nose along your jaw. “Go on. Try again. Right now”.

Your fingers tremble where they curl around the handle under your dress. And he knows—he wants you to do it. But not because he’s challenging you.

Because he wants to see what you’ll choose.

And you hate it—hate that your heart clenches instead of your grip. Hate that your thighs press tighter around his hips instead of shoving off him. Hate that it’s already decided, and it’s not him dying tonight.

“…You’re a bastard,” you whisper as the dagger slips from your grip and lands on the floor with a loud, dramatic clatter.

He grins as his lips brushes your ear.