Leia.

When he turned to face you, you realised that he was as intimidating from the front as he was from the back. His expression would have anyone wanting to retreat, ink making him more severe. Downturned mouth, furrowed brows, crimson eyes, and a clenched jaw as he glared at you down the line of his strong nose. While you were taken aback, your hackles rose and you were ready to forget this whole thing and leave when the hard line of his lips broke into a blinding smile. You found yourself smiling back.

He repeated your name, voice deep and velvet. It slid over your skin like the taste of good whiskey, smooth and warm. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Sukuna.”

Gaze dropping to your outstretched hands, he whistled as he pulled off his beanie, revealing fluffy coral hair. “Strawberry macarons? How'd you know my favorite flavor?” He arched a dark brown as he took the box from you.

Shrugging, you let your arms settle at your sides. “I'm psychic. You should let me read your palm some time.” That earned you a chuckle, after some uneventful small talk, you bid him goodbye and went into your apartment.

Living here just got even better. Everyone was welcoming and friendly and now you had eye candy next door. If only you could tell your past self that the dreamy honeymoon phase of moving here would only last a few weeks.

The scary looking man next door who just so happened to be nice wasn't the greatest neighbor. He wasn't the kind who would play handyman to fix a leak under your sink or change a particularly difficult lightbulb, let you borrow ingredients (not that you asked) or offer to help carry your groceries inside. Alright, maybe you were being too hard on him. He did the heavy lifting when you were bringing up your new bookshelf.

However, that did not cancel out his inconsiderate behaviour. When you reside in close proximity to someone else, you tend to unconsciously pick up their routine. He'd go for a run in the morning, sometimes to the office but he also worked from home, the evenings were for the gym or going out with his friends. You'd hear him come back to the apartment late some nights. Sometimes you'd see him in the mornings when you were going to your pilates class or when you were coming back from a hangout. Your workplace was a bit far from where you lived but you were allowed to work from home.

Nothing was wrong with any of that, of course. The problem arose when he would bring women over. When it first happened, you had been getting ready for bed. Just as you crawled under the covers, a groan stopped you. Frowning, you questioned if you left the TV on. But after checking, you realised it wasn't. As you were about to chalk it up to your imagination, a distorted murmur sounded which made you shriek and dive under your sheets. You were not a fan of horror movies but you sure as hell heard the noises ghosts made.

Your fear dissipated as the groans happened more frequently, sometimes there were sobs and muffled cries which made you clutch your phone in case you had a domestic violence case occurring right under your nose. But the pants, cusses, steady knocking, moans and whimpers that followed settled the turmoil coiling in your belly.

It was just Sukuna getting some. Good for him. That interruption was solved with music and your headphones.

Leniency was your mistake. You even joked with him about his sexual escapades when you saw him the next time. He shot you a wink. Now he had lady friends coming over every second night. And each time seemed to get louder than the fucking previous time. The women came in different shapes and sizes too so at least the guy was giving everyone a taste without discrimination. But fuck it was irritating. Some women sounded like they were being dragged away by a demon and you wondered if the man was an exorcist with the way you'd see the same conquest skipping out of his apartment and glowing the next morning.

Honestly, it made you question if you were really missing out. So one night while you were out on the town with your friends, you decided to take a handsome stranger home. Only to be disappointed and reminded that men in the market now were pathetic. You had half the mind to call Gojo, your friend and ex-lover. But you stopped that arrangement when it got too comfortable and you found yourself expecting boyfriend perks from a fuck buddy. He was bummed by it but accepted it.

As for Sukuna, you completely understand him—he's young and full of drive just like you are. This noise pollution though is excessive.

You're at your limit one night when you've had a hard week at work, difficult clients and clearing deadlines taking a toll on you. All you wanted to do was curl up on your couch and read a book. Then like clockwork, the “ohs” “ahs” “fucks” and “yesss” serenade started from the apartment next door. You ignored it at first, noise-cancelling earphones on. But the damn thumping that traveled through the walls might as well have been the fucking headboard knocking against your skull. To top it off, you were at the climax of your book and read the same paragraph fifteen times without a single word registering.

Tossing your book onto the couch so hard that it bounced, you slid on your slippers and went to your front door, swinging it open and marching to the next one. Fist clenched, you pounded on the door. There was some commotion but the noises stopped with a whine of complaint and an apology.

Moments later, the man of the hour was standing before you, looking frustrated. “Calm down. No need to bang on it so rough—Oh! Hey, neighbor.” His annoyance melted when he saw that it was you and he braced a hand on the door frame.

“Don't “hey, neighbor” me. And I could say the same thing to you. Do you know how loud you are? There are other people in the building,” you snapped.

He blinked like you spat at him, straightening up. “Come on now, do you think I'm a woman? ‘Cause those noises weren't me.”

Huffing at his attempt at a joke, you crossed your arms over your chest, uncaring that you were in just a tank top, shorts and a robe. It didn't matter any since he was shirtless, littered with hickies, sweat and who-knows-what-else that was glistening on him, pink hair in disarray like his backwards boxers.

“Are you trying to be funny or something?”

He scrunched one side of his face. “Or something.”

Further irritated by his lack of apology or remorse, you stepped up to him. Chin raised, nose cocked in the air, you glowered.

“Listen here, punk.” You could see the protest on his face at your name-calling but you didn't let him get a word in. “I've fucking had it with you running this place like it's a goddamn brothel. Some people have school or work tomorrow and they can't afford to be disturbed by an overgrown frat boy who can't conceptualize the fact that there are lives outside of his own.”

His brows creased, hand dropping from the frame to stand to his full height and speak up for himself. Despite him being a head or more taller than you, you still regarded him as if he were a mouse. Vitriol coated his tongue, ready to cut you down with his words.

Your nail poking him in the chest had his temper flaring but your gaze was so withering that his mind blanked. “Keep it fucking down before I call security or worse—an ambulance because my neighbor accidentally fell off his balcony.”

Did you just threaten him? His lips parted but you whirled around, long hair smacking him in the face and making him sputter as you stomped back into your apartment, slamming the door shut with finality.

You might as well have declared war because now he deliberately targets you albeit while ensuring his partners lower their voices. He parks in your spot, puts your mail in another person's box, takes your delivery boxes when you aren't home and apparently forgets to tell you until you're confused as to why your packages are delivered when they weren't.

Fighting fire with fire isn't wise but you were up against Sukuna so nothing was fair anyway. You clapped back by driving slow in front of him whenever you saw him pulling out of the parking lot, sending solicitors to his door to spread their religion or sell a product, doing the same with his calls by signing him up for different call center promotions and scattering bird seeds on his balcony so there were flocks of them there when he came out.

Safe to say that you were far from friendly now. Throwing scowls and sneers at each other in passing. He missed your stupid baking and you missed the eye candy but neither was worth being on civil terms. Occasionally, he'd let his lovers be loud just to irk you but didn't let it happen often enough for you to tear him a new one about it.

Then, as if all your meaningless curses came into fruition, the awful moans from his apartment were replaced with the wailing of a baby. You thought you were hearing things at first but the hiccuping cries were certainly from a baby and the hushing was from that asshole next door. A devious cackle left you at that, the gruelling paperwork you had to read through suddenly very appealing. Something about his irresponsible ways finally catching up with you fed your motivation as twisted as it sounded.

Fortunately for everyone, Sukuna manages to pacify the child for the most part. You hear the giggles and gurgles of the little one often enough to assume that he lives with the man full time. You never hear a woman's voice so he's either got custody or she left the baby with him. It's none of your business so you don't bother asking.

Shrieking shocks you out of your series-binging one lazy afternoon. You jolted up, heart pounding. Sukuna is trying and failing to calm the baby. The sounds are distressing, you even hear the residents downstairs murmur in concern. It's only been a week or two since the baby's appearance and now you're questioning if Sukuna's recklessness is affecting the kid's life.

And God, the infant has a strong set of lungs with how long and how loud he's screaming, inconsolable. You hear Sukuna try to sing to him, shitty attempt by the way, and that upsets the child some more.

Like deja vu, you stand up and head to the door, opening it to go next door and see what the hell is the issue. You're stopped in your tracks when you find the said man there, looking frazzled with the squirming, chunky baby cradled to his chest. The cries make you wince, ears ringing from how piercing they are.

“Ugh, did the excellent pull-out game you thought you had fail you?” You cringe, covering your ears, eyes on the red-faced baby who doesn't look older than six months with a light pink head of hair.

Sukuna rears back, voice raising to talk over the baby's noise. “What? You think this is my kid? I'm not careless, woman.”

With a scoff, you roll your eyes. “Look here, big guy. He may have been born yesterday but I wasn't. You expect me to believe that the child who's got the same hair colour as you isn't yours?”

His brows shoot up to his hairline. “You're serious? That's like accusing someone with brown hair of being related to their partner who has brown hair.”

That siblings or dating reasoning doesn't really make sense. “Well excuse me if pink hair isn't common.” You toss your hands up.

Overstimulated by arguing with you and the crying baby, Sukuna grunts in defeat.

“Okay, whatever you say, just—Can you help?” He moves closer and you step back in surprise.

Hands out, you pause. “Hold on, what makes you think I know my way around babies?”

Sukuna shrugs. “You're a woman, aren't you? Don't you have like—” He gestures to your being with his head.

“Huh? You think I have maternal instincts just because I was born a female?” You were outraged.

He grimaces. “Shit, that sounds really obnoxious when you say it like that. Just please, help me. He won't shut the fuck up.”

Your head snapped up at that. “Don't talk about a baby that way! He doesn't know any better!”

Sukuna gives an apologetic smile laced with desperation. “See? You're protective already. Kidding!” He adds the last part when you look like you'd hit him if not for the precious cargo in his hands.

That precious cargo is still hiccupping and sobbing but is just a smidge calmer after all the commotion between you and his in denial dad. Looking over his shoulder, big brown glassy eyes meet yours, surrounded by thick, long lashes that are coated with tears, little nose red and a fat bottom lip. When he reaches for you, you feel your aversion crumble with his wet babble.

“Gosh, hand him over,” you mutter, the annoyance in your voice softened as you scoop up the baby. “Maybe he's hungry?” You suggest, leaving your apartment and walking over to Sukuna's since all the baby supplies are there. He shuts your door and follows.

“You think I didn't check? He threw the damn bottle at my head,” Sukuna grumbles, rubbing his chest as if it still hurts.

“What about his diaper?” You ask, stepping into Sukuna's apartment for the first time, the baby's cries lessening but still worrying.

“Changed him just a few minutes ago,” Sukuna replies, shutting the door behind him as he watches you bounce the little one in hopes of soothing him. He's a bit miffed that the kid calmed down with you, even if it wasn't entirely. “No loyalty.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” he dismisses.

Just a glance around his apartment revealed that the baby was an unexpected addition. The sleek interior was simple and comfortable, charcoal grey walls and furnishings with brick accents giving the place a masculine feel. His expensive appliances were a stark contrast to the baby formula, bottles and food next to them on the counter. The leather couch had colourful rattles, stuffed toys and a blanket covered in dinosaurs on it. Boxes for a car seat, crib and stroller were in the hallway.

“So we've established that…” You trailed off, tilting your head.

“Yuji,” Sukuna provided before you could ask.

Finding the name cute, you beamed at the baby. “Yuji isn't hungry or wet. Maybe sleepy?”

“He woke up just before I changed his diaper,” his dad tells you.

Humming, you paced with the baby, trying to figure out what else may help. “Does your daddy suck? Is that why you're cranky?”

Flushing, Sukuna growls as he tidies up his space. “For the last time, I am not his dad. I'm his uncle, actually.”

“Yeah? Where's his parents then?” You challenge and he hesitates.

Clearing his throat, he focuses on clearing the couches of the toys, putting them in a box. “They're gone for a few weeks.”

You squint, skeptical. “Uh-huh.”

The baby's tantrum kick starts once again and you're back to trying to figure out what's wrong. With an inspection of his mouth, you find that he's teething.

“Oof, teething is a bitch. You got any teething toys for him?” You glance at Sukuna who looks as if you asked him to do rocket science.

Two hours later, you're sitting on the couch with the baby in his sofa seat, frozen teething toy in his chubby hands as he gums on it, content like he wasn't screaming his guts out earlier. While the toy helped, the real savior came in the form of a low resolution anime on YouTube.

“Dinosaur King? The fuck is this? Looks like a Pokémon knock-off,” Sukuna complains from the kitchen island, the open-planned space allowing him to watch from there and make his stupid comments.

“It's similar but it has its own premise,” you defend, adjusting Yuji's bib.

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah, right. Which idiot even watches this? Why are there 3D dinosaurs in a fucking 2D show—”

You turn to glare at him. “Stop swearing so much. And for the record, I quite enjoyed this as a kid.”

That shuts him up, his brows bouncing as he goes to the fridge as if he's got a lot to say. “That checks out.”

“Oh, really? Want me to turn it off and see what happens?” You hold the remote as if it's a bomb activator, which, given the baby's fragile mood, feels a lot like one.

His eyes narrow, never leaving you as he grabs you both a can of soda from the fridge and walks over, plopping down on the other side of his nephew.

“Geez, you're a cruel woman.” And for someone who had many complaints about the show, his eyes were glued to it, expression curious and mirroring the baby's.

That incident left you two on better terms. Not exactly friends but acquaintances who shared a fondness for Yuji. Try as you might, the little boy weaved his way into your heart with every bubbly giggle and gummy smile he shines your way. And when he'd grip your fingers in his little hand, you were a puddle of affection. While you did not see yourself having children ever given how costly and how much responsibilities they came with, you didn't mind taking care of this kid now and then.

Who knows what nonsense his bad influence uncle was putting into his growing brain? What if the jerk was snorting coke and drinking like a fish while watching the baby? It was better for the peace of mind of yourself and the well-being of the baby if you babysat him now and then. Sukuna was looking into getting a nanny since his life was busy but when you offered in exchange for a whole load of food because you had plenty of money already, he was more than grateful. That's how it started—you got his annoyingly good cooking and he got someone he reluctantly trusted with his nephew. You took the task seriously, reading up on babies, their playtime, mobility exercises and nurturing needs.

Most of the time, you would watch Yuji at his apartment because all the baby stuff was there. Your apartment wasn't exactly baby proof anyway. You'd sleep in the guest room if Sukuna was going to be out late for work, waking up to feed Yuji at three in the morning routinely just as his uncle got back home. Having to tend to a little baby was fun, you got to have your very own dress up doll. Sukuna had a whole range of rompers, animal onesies, beanies, shoes and matching sets for the kid. Combing his hair was a success for only a few days then he'd mess it up almost purposely so the wispy locks were sticking out which made him squeal in delight. You'd sit with Yuji in front of mirrors to flaunt his outfit and gushed about how handsome he looked which he'd coo at and reward you with cute grins, showing off his two new bottom teeth.

(Of course only a fool would accept staying at a complete stranger's home so often but that's why you carried a backpack filled with ammunition from pepper spray to an aluminum baseball bat in case you were granted with the opportunity of using them on his thug-looking “uncle.”)

Yuji spent most of his days taking naps, sitting on your lap while you spoke to him, crawling all over you like you were his very own playground while going “ba-ba-ba,” having tummy time, splashing around in the bath and drinking lots of milk. He wasn't a very moody baby, he enjoyed babbling and cooing with round eyes and expressive eyebrows as if he was telling you stories. He loved walks in the park across the street too, pointing out things for you to tell him about and basking in the compliments of strangers. As long as he was cuddled a lot and showered in attention, he was content. Though Sukuna thought you spoiled him which you ignored because how the hell could that count as overindulgence? He's a baby!

There were instances where he'd throw up on you and have a nuclear waste worthy dump in his diaper. Sukuna and you would play rock paper scissors on who had to do it and he always lost to you. On the occasion you lost, you'd just run to your apartment, cackling, leaving him to deal with the stinky baby.

After too many drinks with his friends, Sukuna stumbled back into his apartment, slumping beside you on the couch and spilling the beans on Yuji's absent parents. Apparently his twin brother, Jin and his wife, Kaori were battling with a gambling and drug addiction. The substance abuse had begun after Yuji's birth but the gambling addiction had been prevalent even before. So the couple would disappear for weeks on end, worrying Wasuke, Sukuna's father. Sukuna didn't want to stress his dad so he kept this a secret from him and decided to take care of Yuji himself for the time being.

The story has surprised you. All this time you thought Sukuna was playing guardian because he had no other choice when in reality, he could hand the kid over to his dad and let the nannies who helped raise him and his brother handle it. As much as he complained and acted like the baby was a nuisance, you knew he loved him, and saw how he'd soften when Yuji would ask for him or when he'd play with him.

Since that night, Sukuna was more present as if he had a lot of time on his hands. You would go out with your friends and have fun too but you always missed the little boy and checked on him whatever time you came back, the habit sunken into the marrow of your bones. And maybe it had a bit to do with him saying more vowels now, brows furrowing as if he was eager to start talking so you wanted to be there when it happened.

Yuji sat in his high chair, donning denim overalls with a yellow tee inside and red sneakers, mouth open for the next airplane of pureed sweet potatoes. He was an impatient kid, huffing and puffing and kicking his stubby little legs if the food didn't get in his mouth fast enough.

Phone buzzing, you picked it up without checking the caller ID and trapped it between your shoulder and ear as you fed the demanding baby. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweets! How are you? Haven't heard from you in a while,” the voice belonging to none other than Gojo Satoru sings from the other end of the line.

You bite back a sigh, smiling at Yuji who's got orange mush and drool smeared around his mouth even after you've wiped it many times.

“I'm good, Gojo. How are you?” You return politely, aware that he's calling to see if you're willing to hook up again. It was easy with him because he was so charismatic, confident and eccentric. It keeps you on your toes.

But now, you're older—well, not really since this was just months ago—and casual sex wasn't appealing anymore. You wanted stability and hell, you had it. Bringing a man into your life was throwing a wrench into the works.

“I'd be better if you let me come see you sometime. You haven't even shown me your new place.” You can hear his overexaggerated pout over the line.

Hip against the counter, you sigh. “You'll see it soon enough.” He was dramatic but you knew he wasn't celibate in all these months he hasn't seen you. Not that you cared, it was his life.

Groaning, he practically whined into the receiver. “Fine but you know who to call when you need to be taken care of or want anything really.” That brought a smile to your face because if anything, Gojo was a great friend.

“Alright, I will—” A fussy squeal cut you off and you startled, looking over at the very cranky baby that you had forgotten. Even with those plump cheeks, he still wanted more sweet potatoes.

Before you could end the call, Gojo gasped so hard, you're surprised he didn't choke.

“Oh my gosh, that's why you ended things! You secretly had my baby,” he accuses, half-joking.

Sputtering, you put another spoonful in Yuji's mouth. “Pardon? This is not your baby.”

“It adds up,” he muses. “We haven't seen each other in five months.”

His math sucked. “Don't you think I would've been showing if that were the case, genius?” You pointed out, putting your phone on speaker so you could tend to the baby.

He scoffs. “Cryptic pregnancies are a thing. Poor you! You should've told me. You had to go through all of that alone. I may be too young for fatherhood but I'd take responsibility.”

Sukuna walked in right then, brows scrunched. “Who's that?”

“Is that the step dad? Babe, you move on fast—” Gojo's embarrassing response is interrupted when you end the call.

“An idiot friend who thinks I had his baby,” you say with a wave. Picking up Yuji who finally decided he was full, you carry him over to the sink to wash his face and hands.

Sukuna eyes your phone then you. “A friend, huh?” He repeats, knowing that if your friend said that they were either joking or you've slept with them.

You catch it in his tone and nod. “Yeah, a friend.”

He stares at you for a second longer then snorts as he unpacks the groceries and puts them away.

“If you say so. Though I doubt your friend has pink hair so if anyone's the dad, it'd be me,” he tells you unexpectedly.

Huffing in surprise, you set Yuji on your hip, dabbing his face with a cloth. “Is that so? I thought pink hair didn't mean he's your son.”

The man tosses you a half-lidded, mildly amused glance. For some reason, it makes your stomach flip—a development you just discovered with abject horror.

“Come on, it's obvious that it'd be me. Anyone would think so with how much time we've been spending together,” he reminds you. And yes, you're a bit mortified by how many times people have thought Sukuna and you were parents to Yuji when you were out together.

“Please, with your track record, half the city is probably pregnant with your pink-haired babies,” you retort, handing Yuji over when he makes grabby hands for his uncle.

His uncle accepts him, nuzzling his nose against the little boy's cheek. A baby in his arms makes Sukuna look way less mean and unapproachable especially when his face is getting squished and tattoos poked at.

“Is that what you think?” He mumbles through puckered lips as Yuji's tiny hand smushes them together. He leans away to continue. “I'll have you know that I haven't brought anyone over since this little guy was left with me.”

His nephew moved onto messing up Sukuna's carefully styled hair while you stifled a laugh and tried to hold the conversation, wanting to have the last word as always.

“Right as if you weren't taking that business elsewhere,” you counter, taking the empty bowl and spoon and putting them in the sink.

Sukuna looks at you as if you're dumb. “What? Woman, I haven't been with anyone since Yuji's been in my care. Dealing with the firsthand consequences of the deed makes it way less appealing.”

(That and a certain neighbor who's ready to bite his head off at any moment. Cameras are installed all over his apartment so he's seen that as much as you're standoffish with him, you're not a stranger to having dance parties in his living room with Yuji kicking his legs and jutting out his arms to the music and other shenanigans he can't tease you about just yet. It made you endearing. Not that he'll admit it nor will you guess it.)

Rolling your eyes, you bring over a bottle of water to feed Yuji so he can digest his solids better, holding it up for him. The proximity gives Sukuna a direct view down your top but he's a gentleman and keeps his eyes on his nephew.

“Don't believe me? What, you don't wanna have cute babies with me?” He asks, amused by your unimpressed expression.

You take the bottle from Yuji, missing his discontent pout. “Ah wan’ more,” he babbles.

“You don't trust me after all of this time,” Sukuna lamented jokingly as if it wasn't just over two months of you two doing this makeshift coparenting.

As you're about to respond, something clicks for both of you, eyes widening as you look at the baby who's waiting expectantly.

“Did he just—”

“Was that an “I want more” or am I crazy?”

You and Sukuna ask at the same time before laughing and smothering Yuji in hugs, giving him another sip of water like he asked.

A month later, Yuji's steadily growing, his hair getting longer, sitting at his nape now and his liking for dinosaurs is at an all time high. Most of his wardrobe consists of the prehistoric creatures and his favorite plush is a brachiosaurus. He points to tyrannosauruses on screen and says, “‘Ku” which is what he calls Sukuna sometimes instead of “Dada.” Sukuna insists on it but you see the way he melts every time the boy slips up.

It's late one night when Yuji stirs, the mere sound of his whines waking you. Sukuna's out with his friends. You'd gone out last night with yours so you and Yuji spent most of the day napping as you were nursing your hangover so you anticipated that he'd wake up around this time past midnight.

Preparing his milk, you scoop him out of his crib, shushing him as you head back to the guest bedroom. Back against the headboard, you bring your knees up and hold him to your chest, his head resting in the crook of your arm as you put the bottle in his mouth. His eyes are wide open, inspecting all the lights on the ceiling and smiling around the teat as he bats his lashes at you.

You boop his nose, talking to him like he's a grown up as usual. It's for sure helped him understand better even if he isn't old enough to speak back or fully comprehend what you're saying.

The front door shutting alerts you of Sukuna's arrival. You hear his footsteps carry him to the nursery only for a confused “eh?” to sound from him when he finds it empty. His shadow falls across the guestroom doorway before he walks in.

“There's the chubby brat. Is he troubling you?” Sukuna asks, no signs of inebriation as he comes over and takes the other side of the bed.

“No but you are. Who said you could sleep here?” You raise a brow as if this isn't his place. Yuji squirms so you lift him a bit, his uncle in his view now.

“Relax, I'm here for my nephew. I'll be out of your hair soon.” He flicks his wrist at you.

Being the irritant he is, he rips the bottle out of Yuji's mouth with a wet pop, startling the baby. His face instantly scrunches, taking a deep inhale to let out the loudest cry but Sukuna gives him the bottle back and he forgets about it. This back and forth goes on for a few minutes, uncle chuckling meanly and mocking the whines and complaining babbles his nephew makes.

You find it funny but don't dare laugh as Yuji gets offended when you gang up on him. So you swat Sukuna's hand away and let the baby finish his milk in peace. You never get tired of watching him, especially when his eyes drooped, lids getting heavier with each blink until they flutter shut, bottle going slack in his mouth save for the one or two half-hearted suckles.

“He looks drunk on it,” you whisper, turning to Sukuna.

Only to find him asleep as well, using your thigh as a pillow. You just hadn't noticed with the baby's weight on you. Offended, you want to push him off but his grumpy face smoothened out into something innocent stopped you. The room was quiet, only the sounds of their even breaths filling your ears.

At that very moment, something warmed in your chest and the corner of your heart where Yuji was tucked away expanded to encompass his uncle too. The mushy thought had you making a face. You did not like Sukuna like that. Surely not. You just grew fond of him. Platonically. As a byproduct of spending time with his nephew.

Pushing away the troublesome thought, another mischievous one popped into your head. Angling Yuji's bottle as if it were in Sukuna's mouth, you grabbed your phone and took a picture.

There was no shutter or flash but as you snickered quietly and moved your phone away, you held back a gasp to find one of his eyes open, boring into you with that ruby red glint in his iris like a scene out of Jurassic Park.

“I saw that,” he mumbled into your thigh. Turning his head away, he didn't seem to notice or care that his lips brushed your bare skin as your face heated up in embarrassment.

Yuji was right—Sukuna really was a fucking tyrannosaur.

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 something 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.” 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 care about is you.” 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. “For all of it. The disappearing. The missed presentation. The lies. Being me, I guess.”

“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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© 2026 lolalied. all characters belong to gege akutami. do not plagiarise, feed my work into any AI systems, translate, or repost my work to any platforms

repost! thank you for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated <3 mwah ily

—

after a while, he got out again, leaned against the workshop's outer wall instead, boots planted in the gravel, staring at nothing. the lot was empty, brother already gone, tools put away, the bay doors pulled half-down. just him and the floodlights and the echo of your laugh still rattling around in his skull like it had taken up residence there.

what the hell was he doing?

he didn't do this. didn't do friends, didn't do walks, didn't do swings at parks like some kind of normal person who had sleepovers and shared secrets and whatever else normal people did. normal wasn't in his repertoire. normal got you burned, normal got you trusting people who'd turn on you the second things got hard, who'd look at his face and the reputation and the way he handled problems with his fists and decide you weren't worth the risk.

he'd learned that young— fists first, questions never, keep everyone at arm's length so they couldn't get close enough to hurt you. it worked, it had always worked.

so why had he said yes?

why was he standing here in the cooling dark, replaying the way your face lit up over a few words from him as if you were witnessing a miracle? why was he noticing the exact sound of your real laugh— not the ‘register smile’, the hollow one you gave customers, but the real one, the one that surprised you as much as him, bright and breathless and slightly unhinged? why did his chest do that stupid fucking thing when you'd said "thanks" like he'd given you something and he mattered, like your evening wouldn't have been exactly the same without him?

he ran a hand through his hair, feeling a bit of grease streaked through tufts of his hair. he could wash his hands five times and it'd still find its way back, embedded in the lines of his palms, under his nails, ground into skin like it belonged there. like he belonged here, in this lot, with these tools, this life.

you'd asked. that was it, wasn't it? no angle, no agenda, no careful distance because of his reputation, no whispered questions about whether the rumors were true. just straight up, with puffy-eyes and capri sun crushed in your hand, snot and tears and all, "will you be my friend?" like it was the simplest question in the world. ridiculous.

like he was not sukuna-who-fights, not the rumor or the reputation or the guy people crossed streets to avoid, the one teachers watched in hallways, the one parents pulled their kids away from at the grocery store.

and you'd smiled when he said yes as if he'd given you something huge, something precious, when all he'd done was show up and not immediately walk away. stand there while you cried and then say "sure" like it was nothing.

he pushed off the wall, walked two steps toward the workshop door, stopped. looked back at the store.

lights still on inside. your silhouette moving behind the counter along with another one— your mother?— probably chastising you work not closing up properly. he'd watched you do it before, sometimes, when he stayed late at the workshop, when he was the last one there and the store was the only other light on the block. you'd always moved the same way— efficient, automatic, like you were going through motions that required no thought. a ghost in your own life.

but you'd been different tonight. talking, laughing, kicking gravel at him on a swing set like you'd known him forever and weren't afraid of him. you didn't even know you were supposed to be.

he'd done that. just by being there. just by saying yes.

the weight of that sat strange in his chest, not bad, exactly, yet frighteningly unfamiliar. a tool he'd never used before, heavy in his hand, not sure what it was for but knowing it mattered.

he thought about you on the curb earlier. the way your shoulders shook, the way you'd tried to hide it, the way you'd looked up at him with those puffy eyes like you expected him to laugh or leave.

maybe that was how it worked—someone finally saw you, and then you weren't invisible anymore.

the floodlights hummed. a dog barked somewhere down the street. the cicadas hadn't shut up all night, wouldn't shut up all summer, would keep screaming until they died. he'd always hated that sound.

he looked at the store again.

were you replaying it like he was? the way your fingers had brushed when he took the food, when you handed him the soda, when you'd both grabbed for the same swing chain and laughed about it? the way he'd caught you looking at him and you'd snapped your head forward so fast your neck probably hurt? the way you'd smiled at the end, that huge ridiculous smile that made his chest do that thing he was still trying to ignore?

he didn't know, fuck, he couldn't read minds. he could read engines, could read people's intentions in the way they moved, could tell when someone was about to swing or run or lie. but he couldn't read you. you were open in a way that threw him off— everything right there on your face, in your voice, in the way you held yourself. no games and no masks, just you.

it was… he didn't really have a word for it. good? maybe. different, definitely. something he wasn’t opposed to feeling again.

he thought about tomorrow. he would show up—he knew that with a certainty that surprised him. he'd show up at eight or even earlier, and you'd be there, and you'd do something else, walk somewhere else, talk about something else, and he'd hear your real laugh again, and maybe his chest would do that thing again, and maybe he'd start to understand what the hell was happening to him.

he made it to the door.

the store lights went out.

═══════

after that, it became routine, weaving into your days like it had always been there, like you'd just been waiting to notice the shape of it. you'd wake up, spend your mornings doing nothing and thinking about sukuna, in the afternoon you’d head to the store for your shift, then drift toward the workshop instead of slinking home alone to an apartment that felt too quiet.

at first, you lingered near the entrance, half-hidden by stacks of tires that smelled like rubber and highway, watching from a safe distance as engines were gutted and rebuilt like intricate, oily puzzles. it felt like trespassing, like at any moment someone would notice you and ask what the hell you thought you were doing there. and you’d say i dunno because you didn’t.

it was loud— shouts over revving motors, metal screeching on metal, radios playing static-y rock from dusty speakers bolted to the walls. messy too; tools scattered like forgotten toys across every surface, puddles of spilled fluids gleaming iridescent under fluorescent bays, rags that had once been white now permanently gray. it smelled sharp: motor oil thick in your nose, hot rubber from tires, faint metallic tang of exhaust that clung to the back of your throat. sweat and effort hung in the air, making shirts cling to backs, making skin gleam under the harsh lights.

sukuna looked like he belonged there more than anywhere else in the world— sleeves of his tight shirt rolled up to his elbows, forearms corded with muscle as he hefted parts twice the size of his head, hands moving with confident precision, barely pausing to think before snagging the right wrench or socket from the overflowing toolbox.

sweat beaded on his neck, tracing slow paths down to dampen his collar, catching the light when he leaned over an engine bay. he'd mutter curses under his breath when a bolt stuck, sharp jaw clenching, lips pulling back from teeth in a snarl that should have been scary but somehow wasn't.

you watched for a while, mesmerized by the rhythm of it. the way his body knew what to do without thinking, the way his hands seemed to speak a language you couldn't understand but wanted to learn.

so curiosity won, as it always did. you edged closer, shoes crunching on the messy floor, until you were near enough to see the sweat on his brow and the concentration in his eyes. "what's that part you're holding?"

he didn't look up, just kept twisting it in his grip, examining it. "alternator."

"what does it do?"

"makes electricity for the car. charges the battery, runs the lights and shit."

your eyes widened. "how does a hunk of metal make electricity?"

he paused then, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a fresh smear of grease across his skin. stared at you like you'd asked him to explain quantum physics while juggling. "…car magic."

you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. "that's not a real answer, sukuna. come on. you clearly know, just tell me."

"if you’re so interested then google it, genius." but there was no bite in it, just that flat tone he used when he was deciding if you were worth the effort.

you did not google it. instead, you kept asking, relishing in the annoyance that was crossing his features. day after day, poking at his focus like a kid with a stick, testing the edges of his patience to see where they were.

"why do those cars sound deeper? like a growl instead of a hum?"

"exhaust mods. bigger pipes. lets the engine breathe different."

"show me?"

he'd grunt, point to the undercarriage with his chin, not stopping his work. sometimes he'd ignore you completely, tossing a rag your way when oil splattered too close, wordlessly telling you to back up.

sometimes he’d grace you with short answers: "spark plugs." "transmission fluid." "that's a differential, don't touch it, dumbass." sometimes— on days when the shop wasn't slammed and his mood wasn't edged, when the heat hadn't made everyone irritable and the jobs were going smooth— he'd actually explain, voice slowing, patient in that gruff way of his that you'd come to recognize as affection.

"see this?" he'd point, finger hovering just above the mechanism. "timing belt. slips even a little, whole engine seizes up. gotta torque it just right or boom. no more car." he'd demonstrate, massive hand guiding the tool with impossible precision, letting you hold it once when you begged— your smaller fingers overlapping his, warm and steady, his breath catching almost imperceptibly when you pressed closer to see.

you graduated to sitting on an old overturned milk crate near his workspace, legs swinging, chin propped in hands, watching him work like he was the most interesting thing in the world. which to you, to be fair, he was.

the other mechanics— gruff older guys with oil-stained coveralls and tattoos of their own, men who'd been turning wrenches since before you were born— got used to you quick. one of them, a burly dude named toji with a perpetual scowl and a cigarette permanently tucked behind his ear, squinted at you over his coffee one morning. "you his girlfriend or something?"

you choked on your soda, spraying fizz across the concrete. "what? no! we're just… hanging out. we’re friends!"

sukuna didn't even look up from the engine block he was scraping clean, but you caught the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "she talks too much for me."

you gasped and chucked a rag at him, but he caught it one-handed without missing a beat, not even turning around, tossing it back lighter than you'd thrown it. smirked faintly, just enough to see. "missed."

from then on, they nodded at you like you belonged there. one even slipped you a cold water on hot days, winking. "don't tell the boss. he'd charge me for stealing inventory."

but he started invading the store more too, blurring the lines between your worlds like it was nothing special. for you, everything was.

at first, normal, regular stuff he’d done before: buying energy drinks that he'd crack open right there, bags of spicy chips that left orange dust on his fingers that he'd wipe on his jeans, once a ten-pound bag of ice that dripped a trail across the floor to the register. you'd ring him up, same as always, same transaction you'd done a hundred times before he knew your name.

and then on one sweltering afternoon, mid-shift, you were scanning a teenage boy’s haul—chips, strawberry milk, sodas— when he strolled in. he didn't head for the counter, instead he ducked under the hinged section like he owned the place and planted himself right beside you. elbows on the counter, broad frame blocking half the aisle, staring out the window, bored, like as if this was completely normal behavior.

you blinked up at him, scanner beeping forgotten in your hand, the boy waiting impatiently. "…what are you doing?"

"standing." and the sky is blue.

"you're not allowed back here. employees only. there's literally a sign."

he leaned heavier on the counter, tattoos shifting as he crossed his arms. "your family won’t say shit."

true; your father was peeking from the back room's bead curtain, bushy eyebrows climbing his forehead so high they nearly disappeared, frozen mid-step like he'd spotted a bear in the dairy aisle. your mother, who knew about your new friend, pretended to sort lotto tickets by the register, stealing glances over her reading glasses, not saying a word.

the boy at the register took one look at sukuna—towering, arms crossed, face set in that permanent scowl that made him look like he'd murder someone for looking at him wrong, pink hair wild from the heat— and paled dramatically. "uh, just these two then." dumped half his stuff back on a shelf without meeting anyone's eyes. paid in exact change, snatched his bag, and bolted without a goodbye, the bell jangling frantically behind him.

you shot him a glare. "you're scaring my customers."

"good." he snagged a candy bar from the rack beside him, unwrapping it with his teeth. "less work for you. more time to talk my ear off about whatever random thing you've been researching ."

"that is not how business works! we need sales to, you know, exist as a store!"

next guy in— a twitchy salaryman in a wrinkled shirt, probably grabbing dinner on his way home from the train— saw sukuna through the glass, hesitated in the doorway like a deer calculating escape routes, then noped out empty-handed, speed-walking down the street.

you shoved sukuna's solid shoulder; he didn't budge an inch, solid as the wall behind him. "go stand somewhere else! shoo! over there!"

he didn't. just crunched his candy, smirking around it as your father finally shuffled out, eyed the scene, muttered "kids these days" in broken english, and vanished again without intervening.

after that, sukuna popped up during shifts like a grumpy shadow you couldn't shake. leaning on the counter, sipping pilfered sodas that you'd hiss "on the house, i guess" about, silently intimidating the neighborhood busybodies who liked to linger and gossip. sales dipped a little those days— fewer loiterers, quicker transactions, less chat about the weather. you never told him you noticed, because secretly loved how the store felt less empty with him there, even if he was objectively bad for business.

one time, a rowdy group of teens came in giggling, raiding the snack aisle like locusts, being loud and obnoxious the way teens do. one of them— a guy with too much confidence and a bad haircut— bumped sukuna's arm on purpose, testing, looking for a reaction. sukuna turned slow, eyes narrowing to slits that caught the fluorescent light. they scattered like pigeons from a cat, dropping chips in their haste, the door barely catching them as they fled.

you stifled a laugh behind your hand. "my hero."

"shut up." but his ears were slightly pink. you bit down a smile, shaking your head.

he was cute, in his own way.

—

some days were louder, filled with your chatter spilling out like you'd bottled it too long and the cork finally blew. you'd ramble about family drama, about how weird it felt, summer yawning empty ahead like a void, no college acceptance letter yet, just this limbo of waiting and working and wondering.

"what if i end up here forever?" you'd ask, staring at the workshop ceiling as you laid on the worn couch, at the stained tiles and flickering lights. "stocking ramen and wiping counters till i'm old and gray and my hands smell like bleach permanently?"

he'd grunt from under a hood, not looking up, wrench turning with steady clicks. he’d say something vague or amusing to take your mind away, but you knew he was scared of the same thing. of wasting his life, stuck at the same spot.

you'd pry about him too, using specific hooks to reel answers from his reluctant mouth. turns out he'd been wrenching at the shop since middle school, summers turning into after-school gigs that paid better than any kid job. he didn't hate school exactly— "just pointless. learn more here in a week than a year of textbooks.". he liked fixing things because machines didn't lie, didn't ghost you, didn't complicate things with feelings and expectations. "people do that a lot," he'd add, wiping a bolt clean, and you wondered if that jab included you, if you were complicated yet, if he'd decided yet whether you were worth it.

but then he'd toss you a rag to hold, distracting you, keeping you close. you wondered what could have happened to teach him these things when he was just a couple of years older than you.

you tried "helping" once, grabbing a spark plug set he'd asked for. fumbled it immediately—slippery in your inexperienced hands, dropped it right into an oil puddle with a sad little plop. "shit!"

he snorted, fished it out without complaint, cleaned it on his own shirt like it was nothing. "stick to questions, klutz." pushing your hand away gently, thumb brushing your knuckle in a way that made your stomach flip embarrassingly.

other days were quiet. those became your absolute favorite, soft edges to the chaos of everything else.

you'd wrap your shift, snag two capri suns from the fridge, slip outside as the sky bruised into purple and orange, the heat finally breaking. he'd be waiting or show a minute later, hands scrubbed pink-raw from whatever cleaner they used, rag still tucked in his back pocket. you'd claim the curb, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching, warmth bridging the gap anyway without contact.

no talking was needed on those nights. the only sounds were traffic whooshing past on the main road, workshop winding down to occasional clanks and goodnights yelled across the lot, evening air cooling slow against your skin, crickets joining the cicadas in their endless chorus.

you'd sip yours slow, feet moving back and forth on gravel, watching the stars appear one by one. he'd crush his in seconds, pouch popping loud in the quiet, then poke the straw through the bottom experimentally— watching foil tear, juice dribbling out in a sticky mess down his fingers. "dumb design."

giggling at his pout, you flicked a drop at him. it splatted his arm, beading on his skin. he raised a brow, wiped it slow and deliberate… then flicked a bigger one back, cold and precise on your cheek. "hey!" a play fight ensued— pouches mangled and forgotten, pavement getting sticky, both of you laughing breathless till your mother yelled from the door to stop wasting stock and get inside.

after a while, since you were a curious person and it was easy to ask him the things you had on your mind, you asked, "why do you always drink these now?"

he glanced sideways, sunset gilding his sharp features, turning his pink hair almost gold at the edges. "figured it was our thing now."

our. your heart squeezed painfully as you tried not to combust. "…so?"

"important, then." he shrugged like it was no big deal.

you didn't know what to say to that. so you just scooted a hair closer, shoulders brushing now, fabric against fabric. he didn't pull away.

and somewhere along the way, amid the oil and banter and stolen snacks, you realized something strange and warm that crept up on you when you weren't looking.

you were looking forward to your days. not dreading the end-of-school silence anymore, not counting hours till closing just to escape, not thinking about college as much and about the summer ending.

you loved your place in the workshop, pretending to be a mechanic-in-training, stealing his tools to "fix" a soda can that wasn't broken.

loved arguing about stupid shit— like best gas station snack (chips forever, obviously) or the fizziest soda(cold coke, duh)— him rolling his eyes but replying anyway, every single time.

even loved being at the store, lying to customers ("sorry, he's just standing there, doesn't bite… much") while he loomed behind you, smirking at your flustered answers, watching you ring people up with that assessing gaze.

home didn't echo with loneliness now. you had texts lighting up your phone at weird hours.

you: saw a car that growls like the one you fixed

sukuna: what do you know about cars. pic?

you: [blurry photo taken from too far away]

sukuna: shitty angle. the car ok tho

you: ugh you never like anything

sukuna: yes also stop bringing weird snacks that wasabi peas shit tasted like regret

you liked texting him meaningless shit, liked that he responded so quickly even though you’ve never seen him take his phone out. you liked that he was genuinely interested in whatever you were saying, even the most boring stuff. and even it wasn’t interest, it was still cute. all of it. him.

—

one evening, with sun dipping low and fat on the horizon, pavement still radiating heat like a promise, you both on the curb again— sodas and chips half-gone, empty wrappers and cans crumpled between you like evidence.

you poked yours absentmindedly, foil clancking under your thumb. "…hey."

"what."

you hesitated, voice softer than you meant it to be. "i'm really glad you said yes that day."

he didn't answer right away. sipped his drink slow, marble clinking soft inside the glass bottle he'd switched to. you thought he'd brush it off, change subject, grunt and move on.

"yeah." he murmured instead, but he also shifted— shoulder pressing firmer against yours, solid and warm, anchoring you to the wall, to this moment, to him. he stayed like that till stars pricked the darkening sky, till your drink was empty and your legs were numb, till the workshop lights clicked off one by one behind you.

and all the time, you felt seen.

[ an. the stuff about cars… look the choice of an auto workshop was deliberate bc i know some stuff about carss i had flex the basic knowledge aight??? also i decided to make sukuna 2 y older bc i just wanted to thats all ]

You didn’t cry. Not that he would wait around to see that either. You just held onto the empty stem in your hands, it was left as a reminder of what you meant to Satoru Gojo. The message was received as clear as he’d carved into your skin with little care. What you think is beautiful, I find worthless. What you give me, I will destroy.

It was a lesson he would spend the next decade enforcing.

Satoru was around almost every weekend, and every time he made it his life’s mission to make your life miserable. It was always Suguru and Satoru, Satoru and Suguru. They’d spend entire days building a fortress of boyhood you were never quite allowed to enter. And it was fine, you knew your brother loved you. Fighting with Satoru as a rival for Suguru’s attention was okay. It would’ve been okay if Satoru wasn’t always intent on making his presence painfully annoying and loud.

Years and years went on with the same rhythm, you may have built a tolerance to Satoru but not quite a liking. He was always the “ugly extension” of your Suguru who jabbed at your insecurities and took your things and snacks without asking and always wanted to be better at everything.

When Suguru moved away for college, he would room with Satoru. And now you were completely out of the picture.

That was okay too, in a decade you had built your own passion for art and skills that Satoru could never better even if he tried.

In your first year of college and Suguru’s last, your parents wanted to move back to the countryside, and Suguru came back to live with you. It’s been peaceful and steady. You don’t see Satoru much. They still hang out— Instagram stories and posts, gaming sessions and calls. But you’re just not bothered to keep tabs on it.

And yet, you ought to think you didn’t deserve this surprise.

The sound of the doorbell was an inconvenience. The sight of Satoru Gojo on your doorstep, all in his untouched glory— a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, that same old “better than you” grin on his face, and his parents’ sprawling estate presumably too empty for his taste.

He was taller, of course. Not just taller, now having to slightly duck his head under your doorframe, but broader. The world had stretched him out. The lanky, sharp elbowed frame you remember has filled out with a solid, confident build of a man who still believed the universe rearranged itself for his convenience. His white hair was a deliberately messy masterpiece, and his sunglasses were perched on his head, leaving those piercing, knowing blue eyes utterly unobstructed.

Satoru Gojo is at your doorstep with a duffel bag you know doesn’t belong to Suguru, there is no way he’s here to—

“Hey Dots, well, roomie, look at you,” he said, his voice a deeper, richer version of the one that had haunted your childhood, “all grown up and still frowning at me. Some things never change, huh”

He winks at you.

Dots. Yeah, he hasn’t forgotten the damn nickname. Of course he hasn’t.

Like a very Satoru Gojo thing to do, he didn’t wait for an invitation, stepped past you into the hallway, his shoulder bumping yours on purpose. He smelled like expensive cologne and arrogance.

“You’ve grown into a proper slenderman yourself,” you really can’t be bothered to hide your very annoyed smile, all the more emphasized in a mocking attempt to look welcoming.

“Ah, feisty,” he grins, throwing the bag on the couch as if he owns the place, before throwing himself too, legs sprawled out like a cat with a Cheshire grin to match. You wish he tripped, “I like it. You can finally say something without stuttering with me”

He’s asking to be punched.

“Sugu around?” He asks, looking around the place to scan, probably looking for things he can jab about.

“He’s your best friend, you tell me.”

He turns to you, and for a three seconds that his gaze falls on your mouth, you think out mouthing an insult, “Right, forgot,” he taps his glasses, “you’ve always been the prickly one, my favourite.”

The drag of syllables on the favourite has you rolling your eyes. “Can’t say the same, seriously, what are you doing here? Sugu won’t be home till night.”

“I’m your new roommate. For a few weeks.” his eyes did that scanning thing again, and you felt a ridiculous urge to cross your arms over your chest. “My place is being de-germed or something. Sugu offered sanctuary. Don’t worry, I’ll try not to track too much privilege on the carpets.”

Oh. Absolutely. Just what you were missing in your life. Can’t wait for Suguru to come home and poison his coffee.

The boy who had been nothing but a spoiled dandelion-blowing, pudding-stealing, name-calling jerk your entire childhood, is now a man still, if not more, annoying, standing in your foyer and staring at you like you’re the interesting one. You had this stinking, terrifying feeling that he was going to tear apart your life again. He’s no longer just trouble. He’s chaos wrapped in the figure of a now well built man with a pretty face and sly tongue, a thunderstorm daring to be acknowledged.

“Oh please, are your other mansions not big enough? Are all the 5 star hotels books with no place left for you? Ask them nicely and they might let you crash for free. There’s really no reason—”

You protest, because he doesn’t need to live here. He’s got every privilege one could possibly have in the palm of his hands, he doesn’t need to be here.

But of course he cuts you off, old habits die hard, “—but where’s the fun in that? Something tells me you really missed me Dots.”

He’s reminding you that he’s been keeping score, “I have a name, you jerk.” you’d rather be in any other room except with him.

Yeah. The war was on.

“Yeah, but Dots really holds the memories, doesn’t it?” His grin was all innocence, a weapon he’s mastered, “I was nine, you were six. I remember you were barely taller than my knee.” One quick shift of his gaze from your feet to your eyes again was his way of saying “you’re not anymore.”

“Yeah, I remember you had the emotional intelligence of a rock. Some things really don’t change.”

You scoff, turning away in a retreat you think was strategic. The kitchen won’t have any of his obnoxiousness. You really need some strong caffeine to accept the reality of having to share your space with him.

Satoru’s footsteps followed, a lazy confident rhythm against floorboards. He leaned in on the counter, eyeing your movements. To him, your annoyance was probably just background music.

“So,” he begins, “what does grown up Dots do for fun nowadays? Still drawing those monsters?”

Your hand stills on the mug. So he remembers them too, the “little monsters” were your first foray into character designs and he has mercilessly compared them to “blobs with emotional problems.”

“I’m an art student,” you announce, keeping your back to him, “not that you could know the difference.”

“Ouch, a direct hit”, a soft laugh follows the sound of fridge door opening, “still like your coffee tasting like depression?”

“You’re the one who puts enough sugar to put a horse to sleep, you don’t get to say anything.”

“You know how I like my coffee?” You can practically hear his grin, “Then you can make me one.”

You finally turn to him, in utter disbelief at the audacity of this tall hunk of arrogance. Satoru is holding a milk cartoon, looking pleased with himself. “I’m not making you your fucking coffee. And you don’t have to worry about mine either, how do you know that anyway”

“Suguru mention things”

The idea of Suguru casually mentioning your coffee preferences to you Satoru felt like an utter betrayal, “its none of your business.”

Satoru takes this chance to step closer, and you want to instinctively step back. But that would mean allowing him to take more space than he should be, to allow him to cower you into a corner in your house, and to hell with that.

“Not if I’m making it,” he simply takes the mug from your hands, “you’re welcome.”

He lets his fingers finger brush your knuckles, the warmth lingering treacherously on your skin.

“No thanks, I don’t wanna be poisoned.”

“You wound me.” He says with a disgustingly dramatic pout that doesn’t look ugly on him.

But you let him— watch him, stunned into silence, as he moves around your kitchen with an infuriating familiarity, scooping the grounds, pouring the water. He did it all wrong, of course— clumsy and rushed, a rich boy who’d never had to do a thing for himself. But he was trying, or he was performing the act of trying, which for Satoru was probably the same thing, you reckon.

It was an outrageous display of casual intimacy which you don’t ever remember sharing with him.

He handed you the mug, a smirk to proud to pair. It was too light.

“Uh, I think there’s a bit of coffee in your sugar.” you say flatly, taking one sip.

“It’s called flavor, Dots,” he blinked, the picture of a self proclaimed superiority, “you can thank me for introducing you to the good things in life. Sugar, for example.”

It was the dandelion all over again. He’d taken something you wanted, performed the act of giving it, but delivered a hollowed out version, stripped of what made it yours. He was re-establishing the old rules on new terrain.

You don’t throw it in his face. You don’t even sigh. For what it’s worth, at least he didn’t compromise on the caffeine.

“Good things are simple,” you take deliberate sips of the overly sweet coffee, “unadorned and unassuming, unlike your personality.”

For a fraction of a second, his smirk faltered. It was there and gone so fast that you might have imagined it, replaced by a new, more interested glint in his eyes. You hadn’t cried at six, and you wouldn’t sputter now.

Satoru leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. “You’ve gotten better at this,” he murmured, voice a low, approving hum, “I’m really liking it.”

“I didn’t do it for you” you ducked under his arm, taking the coffee with you as you walk away.

To you, he’s a ghost from your most awkward memories, but he’s wearing the face of a man who makes your heart do stupid, frantic things in your chest. And you hate every second of it. The whirlwind of confusing emotions Satoru Gojo is capable of inciting in you hasn’t changed, but you’ll make sure you won’t be the only one suffering. This isn’t a reunion, it’s an ambush. And you have the sinking, terrifying feeling that you are completely, utterly unprepared for it.

Even so, the war was on, and you drew first blood.

The next morning dawned with Suguru’s apology hanging in the air. He’d truly thought Satoru’s arrival would be a surprise. A surprise.

The word echoed in your head, a stark reminder that your brother had long forgotten your deep seated dislike for Satoru’s presence. And frankly, you’d thought you’d forgotten it, too. Out of sight, out of mind. But now he was here, a walking, talking reminder. Your new plan was simple: avoid him. Don’t engage. If he tries to push your buttons, remember Suguru’s blessing: You can hurt him in any way.

You claimed the living room as your studio, spreading your art supplies across the coffee table in a deliberate act of territorial dominance. You were working on a series of concept sketches— dark, twisted tree roots— qand needed to focus.

The focus lasted approximately seven minutes.

Satoru emerged from the guest room, his hair a spectacular mess, and beelined for the couch. He didn’t ask, just flopped down, taking up three—quarters of the space, and flipped on the TV with a blare of morning news.

You gripped your charcoal pencil tighter, “do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, not looking away from the screen, “make yourself at home.”

You sighed, already tired. “I am home. And working.”

“Then work.” he gestured magnanimously at the sliver of table in front of you, “Don’t let my awesome presence stifle your creativity, maybe it’ll inspire you.”

He offered his best smile, something the poets would call charming and artists like you would kill to make a muse of.

“I’m drawing roots. Dark, gnarled, parasitic things. Remind you of anyone?”

“You could be drawing me, you know,” he said, leaning back with his elbow lazily resting on the couch. “Art majors in our college pay me all the time to be their muse.” and he winks at you.

Of course they do. “You wish. I don’t have time for you right now, I’ve to finish my assignment.”

Said assignment— a series of studies on structural roots, gnarled and grounding—was failing spectacularly. Satoru was a disruptive presence, the constant rustle of his movements, the background noise of the TV, all low grade irritants.

Yet, his presence was the very thing fueling the betrayal of your own hand. The charcoal had a mind of its own, and that mind was obsessed with the loose limbed catastrophe sprawled beside you. The root on your page was beginning to curve in a dangerously familiar way, starting to look less like bark and more like the line of a collarbone. You gripped the charcoal pencil tighter, your knuckles white.

“You’re breathing too loud,” you muttered, not turning around.

The rustling stopped. The scent of his expensive cologne— a scent you could now connect to wet earth after rain and a musky softness— shifted with the air. Like everything about Satoru, it was determined to be acknowledged. You could feel his attention shift, a physical weight settling between your shoulder blades.

“I’m breathing loud?” His voice was a low, amused rumble. “You’re the one grinding your teeth. It’s like listening to gravel fight.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder, a sharp retort on your lips, and it died there.

The late sun caught him in profile, gilding the sharp line of his nose and the defiant sweep of his white hair. He had one arm draped over the back of the couch, and the position stretched his tshirt tight across a chest that was no longer that of a lanky boy, but of a man.

He was bathed in a warm luminescence. Your artist’s eye, against your will, traced the sharp cut of his shoulder blades down to the ridges of hard muscle roping the length of his biceps.

Suddenly, a memory hit you with the force of a physical blow: you, at nine, perched on the garden wall with a similar sketchbook, a crayon instead of charcoal in your hand, filled with the same, desperate desire to burn the image of a twelve year old Satoru glowing in the setting sun after a day of collecting bugs with Suguru. The familiar, aching loneliness of being the perpetual observer tightened the same, old strings of your heart.

He tilted his head, and his eyes— a shocking, crystalline blue even in the warm light— met yours. The smirk you loved to hate had melted away, replaced by a warm, unguarded smile under the sun’s magic. His gaze wasn’t teasing. It was cataloguing. It traveled from the determined set of your shoulders, down the line of your arm to your charcoal smudged fingers, then back to your face, lingering on your mouth for a heartbeat too long before finding your eyes again.

He’s looking at you the same way you just caught yourself looking at him.

The realization was a bucket of cold water. You’re not nine anymore. You’re not moved by fickle sceneries or childhood ghosts.

“You’ve changed,” he said, his voice quieter now, the lazy tease gone.

The words felt dangerously honest. “So have you,” you managed, your own voice softer than you intended. “You’re… bigger. You take up even more space now.”

A slow, real smile touched his lips. “And you’re not a little kid hiding behind Suguru’s legs anymore.” He let his head tilt back against the couch. “Confidence looks good on you, you know.”

Is that a compliment? A real one? Is Satoru Gojo even capable of that? You would have questioned him, pulled apart his words to find the hidden barb, if not for the violent buzzing of your phone on the table, shattering the moment.

Wait— what moment? There was no moment.

You flinched, grabbing it. It was your project partner. “Do not make moaning sounds, I’ll seriously end you,” you mumbled the threat, standing up too quickly and retreating to the kitchen, your heart hammering a frantic, confused rhythm against your ribs.

Satoru only threw up his hands in mock surrender, a laugh on his pretty lips, “promises, promises.”

You silently thanked your project partner for calling at the right time, the weird, unwelcome tension in your stomach from just moments before already starting to diffuse. It wasn’t worth the attention, you told yourself firmly. He’s not worth the attention.

.

.

.

Satoru waited until he heard the low murmur of your voice from the kitchen. Then he moved.

He was at your spot in three silent slides, his eyes falling to the open sketchbook. He expected the roots, or the same original character designs. Something abstract, or just the structural anatomy of a dandelion. He knew whatever you’d draw, it was your way of holding onto it.

He did not expect to see his own jawline emerging from the tangle of one, or the unmistakable curve of his shoulder blended into the trunk of another. He absolutely did not expect to see a series of questionable angles of his mouth and lips twisting, the moment before a smirk, the subtle bump on his lower lip from a fall as a child. #Catalogue of Annoyances.

It wasn’t a typical collection of handsome portraits. It was a dissection.

He did not expect himself, even as the last thing he’d ever see in your sketchbook.

But the most damning thing was the hand— his hand, the one with the scar— a series of movements rendered with such painstaking, intimate detail that it felt less like a drawing and more like a caress.

The scar over his knuckle from a fight with an older boy he’d won at the cost of a bruised lip. From the precise length of his thumb next to his index finger, to the subtlety of his other hand caressing the ring on his thumb— a habit he remembers in rare moments of caffeinated anxiety. The way his pinky finger bends from when he broke it playing basketball.

Then the next page, a full page drawing.

You had captured the precise way his white hair fell over his collar, the subtle, vulnerable dip of his head, the faint, almost invisible sunburn from a day spent outside a week ago. The detail was so intimate it felt like a violation. This wasn’t a drawing done from a few feet away; this was the view of someone who had spent a lifetime walking behind him.

Scrawled in the corner was a caption: “Figure 11: The Unseen Atlas.”

This was the view you’d had for over a decade. Him, walking ahead with Suguru, always turned away, always moving forward while you trailed behind. You hadn’t been drawing his face because you’d rarely seen it directed at you with any real, unguarded attention. You had been drawing his retreating form, the symbol of his constant, careless exclusion.

And you could’ve drawn anything in the world. But it’s him. It’s really him. In a way he would’ve

never expected to be mesmerized by anyone.

Satoru is used to being observed and admired and desired. He’s been a muse many times before.

What he’s not used to is feeling so seen. So mercilessly stripped of every defense and exposed like a hand drawn moment caught in time.

He was so absorbed in the violation, in the feeling on pressed old pages filled with him, he didn’t hear you return.

“What are you doing?!”

Your voice was sharp with panic. He jerked upright, spinning to face you. And for the first time in his life, Satoru was caught completely off guard. There was no smirk, no smooth recovery. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. A faint, unmistakable flush crept up his neck, staining his pale cheeks a soft, rosy pink.

You surged forward and snatched the sketchbook from the table, clutching it to your chest like a shield. The panic on your face mirrored the shock on his.

The two of you stood there, frozen in a silent standoff. The air was thick with the unsaid again. He just stared at you, his blush deepening, the usual arsenal of wit and arrogance completely failing him. He looked… young. Awkward. And for the first time ever, you held all the power in a room with him, and it was terrifying.

“I—” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. “you— you see that?”

“See what?” you deflected a little too fast, your voice tight.

“The scar. The way my finger bends.” He gestured vaguely, still flustered.

You hugged the sketchbook tighter, your own face heating. “It’s an artist’s job to see things.”

He was quiet for a long moment, just looking at you, the blush slowly receding but the soft, stunned expression remaining. The dynamic had fractured. The teasing god had been rendered human, and he was looking at you like you were the deity.

Finally, he let out a slow breath, and a small, genuine smile touched his lips— nothing like his usual razor edged grins. This was softer, much warmer.

“Been that obsessed with me?”

Curse that wretched mouth of his.

“Please, this was time pass. Just a way to fill up the empty pages. As an artist, you have to be able to draw the ugly too, if you wanna get better at drawing the good.”

You lay your defenses. Satoru Gojo will not get a rise out of you from now on. Not over your own passion. Your own art.

“Hehe,” a painfully childish laugh, “you know,” he said, his voice soft, almost wondering, “when you were fourteen, you used to bite the end of your paintbrush when you were thinking. You had this tiny little gap between your front teeth back then. It’s gone now.” He gestured to his own teeth. “I noticed when it closed up.”

“So what,” you said that faster than you intended. Satoru shakes his head.

The admission was so quiet, so unexpected, it stole the air from your lungs. He hadn’t just been teasing you all those years. He’d been watching, noting and remembering.

You didn’t know how to deal with this version of him. The one who blushed. The one who admitted to paying attention.

He seemed to gather himself then, the moment of raw vulnerability passing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step back, giving you space. The tease returned to his eyes, but it was different now. Softer. Acknowledging the new ground between you.

“Guess we’ve both been paying a little too much attention, Dots.”

Then he does the only decent thing he’s ever done for you.

He leaves you alone to give you space.

Satoru has struck back in this war.

Suguru, in his eternal, misguided role as peacemaker, declared a “family trip” to the bulk mart. “It’ll be fun!” he said, a man living in delusions. But he truly meant no harm and all peace.

The embarrassment hasn’t left the air for you. It wasn’t the sharp, defensive kind you felt with the sketchbook. This was a slow, creeping warmth, a feeling of being utterly and painfully seen.

And as you walked the aisles, the reality of your sketches hit you with a new, terrifying force. For years, drawing him had been your outlet. A safe, silent way to process the confusing storm of feelings he stirred in you— the resentment for how he made you feel small, the desperate, aching want for him to really see you, not as Suguru’s little sister, but as you. The crayon, then the charcoal, and the paper— all were a barrier, a way to hold the unattainable Satoru Gojo at a safe distance while secretly pulling him closer.

Now, that barrier was gone.

Every time he reached for a high shelf, your mind supplied the memory of sketching the exact line of his arm. When he laughed at something Suguru said, you remembered the careful study you’d done of the way his eyes crinkled. He was no longer an abstract subject. He was a living, breathing man, and your secret, clinical observations now felt like an intimate invasion.

You had documented him, and in doing so, you had confessed everything.

“You’re quiet,” Satoru noted, falling into step beside you as Suguru debated paper towel brands ahead. His voice was low, for your ears only.

“Just thinking,” you mumbled, focusing intently on a pallet of canned beans.

“About the structural integrity of kidney beans?” he teased, “or about how you know the exact number of freckles on the back of my neck?”

You stumbled, your shoulder bumping into a tower of soup cans. He caught your elbow with a grip, firm and steadying. The contact was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core. You yanked your arm back.

“I don’t,” you lied, your voice tight, eyes absolutely refusing to meet his.

“You do,” he said softly, a tone you’d previously call mocking if you couldn’t distinguish the fondness behind it. “Page fourteen, bottom right corner. A study of the nape of my neck, titled ’Figure 19: Sun Exposure.’ You even counted them. It was seventeen.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you say through gritted teeth, hoping the edge in your voice will keep his attention away from the red heat crawling on your cheeks now, “you’re wasting oxygen. Some miserable tree out there is making up for it with its life.”

Satoru chuckled, running his pinched finger and thumb over his lips in a gesture of zipping up, would’ve been cute if you didn’t feel so murderous.

You weren’t just embarrassed that he’d seen the sketches. You were exposed because he understood what they meant. They weren’t just drawings. They were a diary of your obsession, and he was reading it aloud.

Suguru came back then, holding two different giant packs of toilet paper. “Okay, which one is the better deal? Satoru, you’re the math genius.”

Satoru didn’t look away from you. A slow, soft smile, one that held no mockery, spread across his face. Ugh, painfully dashing.

“You know what, Sugu,” he said, his eyes still locked on yours, “I think I’m all out of genius today. Let’s just get both.”

He finally broke his gaze, turning to your brother, but the moment lingered. You stood there, surrounded by the mundane reality of a grocery store, feeling more seen and vulnerable than you ever had in your life. The outlet was gone. The barrier was broken. And you had no idea what to do now that the boy you’d always drawn from a distance was standing right in front of you, seeing right through you.

Suguru, noticing your complete silence and the deep blush that had been burning on your cheeks this whole time, finally looked properly concerned. “Hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “Are you feeling okay? You look… really embarrassed. Did he say something to you?”

Before you could even open your mouth to deny it, Satoru leaned in closer. His expression shifted from that soft understanding back to pure, unadulterated cockiness, his eyes glinting with the thrill of the chase.

“Yeah, Dots,” he repeated, his voice a low, challenging tease that was meant for you and you alone. “You embarrassed?”

The white haired freak was gonna torture you for the rest of his days.

.

.

.

The car ride home from the mart was silent. Suguru, sensing the strange new energy but misinterpreting it as a successful truce, hummed along to the radio. Must be nice living in a world of rainbows.

You stared out the window, the ghost of Satoru’s words— “you even counted them. It was seventeen”— echoing in your mind.

He didn’t try to engage you. He just sat in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing at you in the rearview mirror. Each time your eyes would meet for a fractured second before you both looked away, the air in the car growing heavier and electrified.

Back at the apartment, the dynamic had irrevocably shifted. The war was over, the scales tipped unfavourably to one side. But no peace treaty had been signed. You existed in a state of tense, hyper aware coexistence.

Later that night, you found yourself drifting back to the kitchen, pulled by a primal need for a glass of water— or maybe just a moment of quiet in the dark, a few square feet of space that didn’t feel charged with his new, overwhelming presence.

And of course, by some divine, cruel joke, your plan to avoid him shattered instantly. Because he was there. Of course he was.

Leaning against the counter as if he’d been waiting, a half empty glass of water in his hand. And he was shirtless. The sight was so absurdly Satoru that you froze in the doorway, your tired brain shortcircuiting. The pale expanse of his torso was a stark landmark in the dark, and you hated the way your eyes, against your will, traced the line of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his sweatpants sat low on his hips.

In the faint glow of the fluorescent light from the refrigerator which, Satoru, of course, had not closed, you could make out the inked patterns just below the curve of his collarbones. You could get a better look and see what it really is if you stepped a few paces closer to him, but you absolutely do not want to do that.

You could try narrowing your eyes in hopes of a better vision, but then again, why would you want to do that and give him something to poke you with again?

A sound of pure exasperation escaped you, “Ugh”

He turned, the movement fluid. A flicker of genuine surprise lit his features before it was smoothed over by that familiar, infuriating amusement. You forced your gaze to remain fixed on a point just past his shoulder, refusing to let it wander.

“Jumpscare,” you said, your voice flat.

His signature grin was a little slower in the quiet dark, a little less sharp. “Enjoying the view?”

You just wanted your water. It was too late for witty comebacks or sharp tongued defenses. He wouldn’t take you seriously anyway, he’d just twist it, turning your annoyance into a game you didn’t know how to play. The thought of it sent a confusing, unwelcome thrill through you that you were too tired to confront.

“Yeah, sure,” you sighed, the word laced with a resignation you felt deep in your bones

“Miss me?” he joked, voice stripped of its performative edge. Just something to fill the silence.

“Uh huh, couldn’t sleep,” you rolled your eyes— took more effort than it used to, your own voice soft.

He was looking at you, shrugging, but with a quiet, unnerving focus. “I could always sing you a lullaby, try asking nicely,” Satoru chuckled, a vibrato of sound spilling against the air, smoothening into a sweet baritone, almost singsong.

“Just stick to photography, yeah? Don’t find more things to terrorise us with.” you sigh, “and put on a shirt, you weirdo.”

“Ahah,” he says, eyes sparkling with a glint of a child ready to talk about his favourite topic, before his hands picks up the tshirt lying on the couch, “you know, started photography because I was terrible at drawing.”

The admission surprised you. You stayed silent, not quite asking him to continue, but a gesture that gave him space to talk.

“I could never get the lines right. Not like you,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of your room, where your sketchbook was hidden. “A camera, it captures the truth, but it’s a liar, too. You can crop out the messy parts. You can choose the angle. You can control the narrative,” he met your eyes, “what you do? It’s the opposite. You don’t crop. You don’t hide the messy parts. You seek them out. You find the story in the scar tissue.”

Your breath caught. He understood. He truly understood what your art was about.

“You were right, I guess, ” he continued, his voice dropping, “about the two-in-one shampoo. About the pudding cups. About all of it” he let out a short, self deprecating laugh, “It’s kinda insulting, how right you’ve always been.”

Oh.

This was the side of Satoru always hidden from you. Not the arrogant asshole, but the boy who was terrible at drawing, who noticed when a gap in your teeth closed, who felt exposed not by a camera, but by a charcoal pencil.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you whispered, “for a photographer.”

A real, gentle smile touched his lips, one that unknowingly mirrors your own. He’d been doing that a lot, or you were just seeing him differently— it was becoming your favorite thing.

He pushed off the counter, but not towards the door. He took a few steps that closed the distance between you, stopping when he was far too close, the heat from his body a palpable force. The sincere smile you wore seconds ago was contorting into a nervous one. You should’ve put your hands against his chest to keep the distance, you shouldn’t have taken a step back to give him more space to cover. Now, your back was against the counter, with nowhere to retreat.

“Got a good look at it?” he asked, gaze intense and a slurry smile to pair, dropping pointedly to his own chest where the dark shape of the tattoo was now obscured by the thin cotton of his shirt.

“At what?” you deflected, crossing your arms over your chest.

His grin widened. “My ink. You were staring hard enough to burn a hole through me earlier. Couldn’t make it out, could you?”

“I wasn’t trying to, you were in my way. I was just looking at the fridge,” you lied, voice steadier than you felt.

“Uh huh,” he hummed, “it’s a secret,” he breathed, leaning in just a little closer, “but you’re an artist. You appreciate fine line work, don’t you?” his eyes scanned your face, then drifted down your body in a leisurely, appraising sweep that made your skin prickle. “You could try some as well. I think you’d suit it.”

His hand came up, and for whatever reason you’d make sense of later— you let him. He didn’t grab you, didn’t make a sudden move. He simply let his fingertips come to rest on the bare skin of your thigh, just above the hem of your shorts. The contact was a jolt of pure lightning, his skin treacherously warm against yours.

“You’re not my stylist,” you said, a sharp inhale betraying your calm tone.

“Just thinking out loud,” he murmured, his voice a low, contemplative rumble. His fingers began a slow, idle journey upwards, tracing a path along your skin. The touch was feather light, a maddening graze that sent shivers in its wake, his palm was a brand of heat as it slid higher and up the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. “A small one. Right here,” he tapped his finger, “maybe something delicate. A trail of ivy.”

His fingers paused, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate circle.

“Or,” he continued, aquamarine eyes darkening as they locked with yours. Then his head dipped, and you felt the soft exhalation of his breath, then the near silent brush of his lips against the hollow of your throat down to the curve of your collarbone. Your head fell back against the cabinet with a soft thud, an even softer sigh threatening to spill from your lips. “A piercing. Right here— a simple silver barbell.” His words were a vibration against your skin. “I’d feel it every time I kissed you there.”

Then he moved his head up, angling it perfectly into the crook of your neck, lips just a breath away from the sensitive akin. You fought back the urge to close your eyes shut, or to swallow. “I’ve never seen collarbone piercings before,” was all you could blurt to distract yourself from the feverish onslaught.

Satoru hummed against your skin, you can practically feel his smirk, “I could show you so much more.” he says, and the soft exhale of his breath on your neck has your body reacting in a way you didn’t think was possible, “i could give you so much more.” he continues, and you let him— daring to see how far he’d go if you let him.

A full body shudder wracked you. “You’re getting awfully ahead of yourself,” you breathed, hands gripping the edge of the counter behind you for support, and knuckles white.

“Am I?” he asked, his fingers flexing high on your thigh, pressing just a bit harder, a promise and a threat both. “I’m just appreciating . An artist considers their canvas, don’t they?” His other hand came up, not touching you, but bracing on the counter beside your hip, caging you in completely.

His gaze swept over your face, lingering on the bridge of your nose, your cheeks. “What about right here? A tattoo, a little constellation of stars,” His thumb stroked your thigh again— a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “I could connect them for you.”

“You’re insane,” you managed, voice barely a whisper now. The warmth of his palm was branding you through the thin cotton of your shorts, his proximity an intoxicating mix of expensive cologne and pure, unadulterated Satoru.

“Maybe,” he murmured, his face so close you could feel his breath ghost over your lips. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there until yours parted involuntarily, “but you’re still here. You’re not running.”

He was right. You were pinned, not just by his body, but by the raw, magnetic pull of him, by the scent of his skin and the searing heat of his touch mapping your thigh.

“So,” he said, voice just a low vibration that went straight to your core, “what do you think? Feeling adventurous?”

Your mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by the sensation of his skin on yours, the phantom feel of his lips on your throat. All you could do was look up at him, your wide eyes meeting his burning blue ones, and give a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head. Not in denial, but in sheer, overwhelmed surrender.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. “That’s what I thought.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, his hand a brand on your thigh, his gaze holding yours captive. The air crackled with everything unsaid, every unfulfilled promise his touch had made. You could feel the frantic beat of your own pulse under his palm.

Then, with a final, deliberate stroke of his thumb that made you shiver, he pulled his hand away. The cool kitchen air hit the spot he’d been warming, a sudden loss that felt like a physical ache.

He took a single step back, giving you just enough space to breathe but not enough to break the spell. His eyes, still dark with intent, crinkled at the corners.

“Think about it, Dots, maybe you could design me something new. ” he’d winked at you with a boyish charm, voice nothing but a low, intimate rumble. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving you leaning against the counter, your skin still buzzing from his touch, your mind racing with the phantom sensation of his hands and the imagined weight of silver against your throat.

The war was far from over, but the battlefield had just become infinitely more dangerous.

The name— Dots, the one you’ve wanted to rid yourself— didn’t feel like a jab this time. It was a key turning in a lock you’d kept sealed for over a decade.

The kitchen around you blurred, and for a dizzying second, you were eight years old again.

It was the first day of summer vacation, and the sun had already begun to paint its tiny, brown freckles across your nose and cheeks. You’d noticed them in the mirror that morning, a new sprinkling you weren’t sure you liked.

Satoru, eleven and already a giant in your eyes, had cornered you in the kitchen. He’d leaned in, his head tilted, his blue eyes sharp and dissecting.

“Whoa,” he’d gasped, voice full of a clinical, unkind curiosity. “Your face is all… dotted. Like someone flicked a paintbrush, did you?”

He’d poked your nose, hard. “You’re like a little connect-the-dots puzzle. Hey— Dots. That’s you.”

The name had stuck. For years, “Dots” was his primary weapon. “Move it, Dots.” “Hey, Dots, you’re blushing. Can’t even tell with all the… you know.”

It was a constant, cruel reminder that your face was not your own, it was a public canvas for his commentary. You’d spent years trying to scrub them away, hating the sun, mastering the art of the downward glance.

The memory shifted, sharpening into another specific agony. The Friday afternoon pudding cup ritual. Your mother bought the four packs: one for each of you. And every Friday, without fail, Satoru would steal yours.

He wouldn’t just take it. He’d perform a whole production. He’d snatch it from your hands, hold it high above his head as you jumped for it, and then eat it in three large, deliberate bites, never breaking eye contact. The final act was always the same: he’d place the empty, hollow cup back on the counter directly in front of you with a soft, definitive clink.

Suguru would always have a cup saved for you, so itt was never about the pudding. It was about the principle. It was a weekly lesson in powerlessness. A reminder that what was yours could be taken by him, consumed, and the evidence left for you to clean up.

You blinked, the memory releasing its grip. You were back in the present, your knuckles white around the glass of water. Setting the water glass down, you crossed the room and pulled the fridge door open. The bright, sterile light spilled out, illuminating the shelves.

And there they were.

Not just one or two. A full, unopened four pack of the chocolate pudding cups. Your chocolate pudding cups. They were placed neatly on the middle shelf, right at eye level, impossible to miss.

You just stared.

Was it Suguru? It had to be. It was the kind of mundane, thoughtful thing he’d do, noticing you were out of a snack and quietly replacing it. A simple, brotherly gesture.

But then your eyes traced the presentation again. They weren’t tucked away. They were centered, desplayed. It felt less like a grocery restock and more like a… presentation.

And that’s when the real conflict hit you, a dizzying car crash of past and present. Because your mind, still raw from the memory of Satoru’s smug grin as he ate your pudding, should be rebelling. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was replaying the heat of his palm on your thigh, the possessive stroke of his thumb, the low rumble of his voice suggesting constellations he could trace with his mouth.

The boy who had stolen from you was now offering. And the truly terrifying part wasn’t the audacity— it was the way your body responded. The same resentment you’d worn as armor for over a decade was melting under the memory of his searing touch. You could still feel the ghost of it, a brand that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with a shocking, undeniable pull.

He wasn’t just blurring the lines. He was systematically dismantling the entire mapping of your childhood resentment, and he wasn’t using force. He was using the memory of his proximity, the phantom sensation of his fingers and presence slithering past your defenses like smoke and leaving you unalarmed. All it left was the searing possibility that this was his way of saying: I see you differently now.

And the most frightening thought of all whispered through you: So do I.

If this was his peace offering, it was working. Because looking at those pudding cups, all you could think about was the man who put them there, and the traitorous, thrilling hope that he was as undone by this new tension as you were.

Getting a wink of sleep wasn’t possible that night.

.

.

.

Suguru’s idea of “a fun outing” was, as always, questionably sane. But a retrospective on perceptual art at the city’s modern museum was, you had to admit, a tempting distraction from the tectonic shifts happening within your own apartment.

After 30 minutes of trotting around, the trio moved through the white walled galleries, a study in contrasts. Suguru was the thoughtful observer, hands in pockets, genuinely engaging with each piece. You were the analyst, your artist’s eye dissecting technique and composition.

And Satoru… he was a critic unleashed, his commentary a lazy, brilliant torrent that was equal parts insufferable and illuminating.

You all stop before a large canvas, an optical illusion depicting a large, endless staircase. ‘ Ascension without Summit. ’

“It’s a clever trick,” Suguru muses, “but there’s no real depth.”

Satoru snorted, not even bothering to look properly. “It’s forced perspective. A cheap parlor trick. Like using a wide angle lens to make a room look bigger. Isn’t it just a flat lie?” He glanced at you, a glint in his eye. “Your brain knows it’s a dead end, but your eyes keep trying to find the focal point. It’s pathetic, really.”

“Okay, geniuses” you rolled your eyes, but a smile threatened your lips. He wasn’t wrong. “Move on to the next.”

The next piece: a vast, pristine white canvas with a single, small, red dot in the center. ‘ Cardinal. ’

Suguru sighed. “Now this is just lazy.”

“Lazy?” Satoru shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “It’s a crop. The artist just framed out everything else.” He turned his head toward you. “It’s what you do when your subject is so strong, anything else in the frame is noise. That dot? That’s the only thing in focus. The rest is just… not important. It’s like saying “I can make you stare at a red dot for 5 minutes and you’ll feel something deep.”” His eyes held yours for a moment too long. “And Sugu’s staring at the dot. So I guess it’s working.”

Your heart did a stupid, little flip. He was talking about photography, but he was talking about you. About your sketchbook, where he was the only subject in focus.

The centerpiece was next, surprisingly not crowded at all.

It stood in the middle of the room, commanding the space: a massive, perfectly polished sphere of obsidian. It was dark, profound, and reflected the entire gallery in a warped, dreamlike panorama.

‘ Narcissus’ Echo. ’

Suguru nodded, impressed. “Now this is something.”

Satoru circled it slowly, his own reflection elongating and compressing. “It’s a 360—degree fisheye lens. The worst kind. Distorts everything at the edges, makes a mess of the proportions.” He stopped, his warped image staring at your warped image. “It’s the most honest shot in the place. No retouching, no good angles. Just a raw, bad, panoramic shot of how twisted things really are.”

Suguru hummed, background noise to you. To you, moments seemed to stretch endlessly. Under normal circumstances, up until 3 days ago, you would’ve been incredibly annoyed at Satoru’s lazy dissection of art, in the way he effortlessly interprets it— arrogant genius just spilling out because there really isn’t anything he’s bad at. And he has to make an outrageous declaration of it.

But now, under these circumstances, it has simply left you awestruck.

Suguru’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and sighed. “It’s mom. I have to take this. Don’t… touch anything.” He gave Satoru a specific, warning look before stepping away.

The moment Suguru was out of earshot, the energy shifted. The buffer was gone.

Satoru didn’t move, just kept looking at your reflection in the sphere. “See? We look like aliens. Or melted candles.” A lazy grin spread across his face in the warped stone. “Kinda suits us, don’t you think?”

“Speak for yourself,” you narrowed your eyes, though it didn’t hold its usual bite. “It’s just a warped reflection.”

“Nah,” his voice dropped, losing its teasing edge, becoming simple and direct, like weighed down by an unseen and unexplainable weight in the air that becomes evident every time you two are left alone, “it’s the shot before you fix it. This is the raw file. Everything else is just, good editing,” his eyes, in the reflection, locked onto yours. “This is what’s left when you leave it untouched.”

The air grew thicker, charged. The hushed murmurs of other patrons faded into a distant hum. There was only the sphere, and the two figures within it.

Satoru took a slow, deliberate step closer, his reflection swelling, his warped hand coming up to trace the outline of your warped cheek in the stone. You followed his movements silently,

“What would happen,” he whispered, his voice so low it was almost a vibration in the air between you, “if I touched this version of you? The one that only exists here, with me?”

You couldn’t breathe.

A direct challenge. He was asking permission without asking.

“You’re breaking the rules,” you breathed, hoping he heard the subtext you intended, “it clearly says to not touch and to keep your distance.”

A tender but dangerous, beautiful smile spread across his face in the reflection. No amount of obsidian warp could ever tarnish it,

“Hmm,” he hummed, the endearment a shock to your system, silently whispered like a scandalous secret, “think I don’t wanna care anymore.”

And then he did it.

He leaned in. Not to you, but to the sphere. With a shocking, quiet certainty, he pressed his lips to the cold, hard surface of the obsidian. He kissed the exact spot where your warped, impossible mouth was reflected.

It wasn’t a peck. It was a statement. A claim, a promise sealed not on your skin, but on a distorted image of it— a testament to his desire for the raw, unedited truth of you.

He held it for a heartbeat, then pulled back, leaving a faint cloud of his breath on the stone that briefly obscured your image.

A security guard shifted his weight by the door, his eyes narrowing.

Satoru didn’t flinch. He simply turned, shoulder brushing yours as he walked past, heading toward a bland landscape painting as if he’d already forgotten the universe shattering thing he just did.

He left you standing there, your real lips burning as if they’d been touched, the ghost of his kiss cooling on the black mirror in front of you. The challenge had been issued. And he’d left you with the silent, screaming question: what are you going to do about it?

The living room was a cathedral of quiet concentration. The golden hour light streamed in, thick and honeyed, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like forgotten prayers. Your final project— a series of root studies exploring foundation and hidden strength— was nearly complete.

You were adding the last, microscopic textures to a gnarled oak root, your entire being poured into the tip of your charcoal pencil. This was your sanctuary, a space where you had control.

The sanctity was breached not with a sound, but with a shift in the atmosphere.

You felt him before you saw him— a change in the air pressure, a subtle warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. Satoru drifted into the room and sank onto the far end of the couch without a word, a photography book in hand. He was pretending to read, but you could feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch on the back of your neck. The silence between you was no longer empty; it was full, charged with everything left unspoken since the museum, since the pudding cups, since the shattering of your sketchbook’s privacy.

You tried to ignore him, to lose yourself in the intricate lines of your drawing. But your hand, which had always been so sure, betrayed you. The root began to curve with a familiar, arrogant sweep, its end starting to look suspiciously like the line of a jaw you knew too well.

Nah— not happening again.

“You’re sighing,” he stated, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s the little frustrated huff. You’ve done it since you were twelve and couldn’t figure out your algebra homework, “ he turned a page in his book, not looking at you, “the problem can’t be that hard.”

“The problem is the distraction,” you retorted, finally glancing at him.

He met your gaze over the top of his book, and the connection was a live wire. The easy tease in his eyes was a veneer; beneath it was something warmer, more curious. “Maybe the distraction is the point.”

He dog-eared his page— a habit you knew infuriated Suguru— and set the book aside. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and just watched you work. It wasn’t an invasion, it was an immersion. He was studying you with the same intensity you had once reserved for him.

After a long, quiet moment, he reached out and plucked a stray sheet of high quality drawing paper and a fresh charcoal pencil from your toolkit.

“Hey—”

“Relaaaaax, I’m not defacing your masterpiece.”

His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Just… making one of my own.”

Satoru began to draw, gaze flicking between you and the paper. But he wasn’t looking at your face, not exactly. He was looking at the space around you. The silence stretched, becoming a tangible thing, woven with the sound of two sets of breathing and the twin scratches of charcoal on paper. It was the most intimate sound you had ever heard.

After what felt like an eternity, he held up his sheet.

And your breath caught.

It was a study of negative space. He had captured the perfect, empty shape framed by the curve of your shoulder and the fall of your hair. The elegant void between your arm and your waist. The air your silhouette displaced in the world. It was your presence defined not by your form, but by the emptiness you left behind. It was a confession— an acknowledgment that your absence would now be a palpable thing to him.

“See?” he said, voice hushed and reverent. “You have a shape, Dots. A specific, important shape. You’re not just there. Hard to ignore I’d say.”

The kindness, the sheer seeing in that gesture, the fragile softness of his voice and haze alike— it all undid you. It was more intimate than any touch could have been. You looked from the drawing— a testament to his perception— back to his face, and found him watching you with an expression so open it was almost painful.

You’re caught speechless. Back and forth between deciding to spur a series of snarky remarks, or say something outrageously grateful.

“I thought you said you couldn’t draw.” You settle on changing the topic.

Satoru raised his eyebrows, “Couldn’t yeah, you think I was gonna live with that?”

The smirk resurfaces. You try to hate it, but it’s just not possible anymore.

“Show me,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the closed cover of your main sketchbook. The one that held your soul, “…please? Please.”

The “please” was his undoing, and yours. It was so un-Satoru-like in the most mundane way possible, so vulnerably sincere.

Your throat tightened. You had to say no, no matter how much he pleaded. You shook your head, a barely perceptible movement, “Not happening.”

He didn’t push, didn’t get angry. He simply accepted it, albeit with a dramatically enforced pout, a faint shadow of disappointment crossing his features before it was replaced by a new, determined softness.

“Then draw me again,” he said, voice regaining a sliver of its old playful charm, “draw me like one of your French girls.”

Satoru fucking giggled, striking an absurd, dramatic pose on the couch, eyes never losing their intense focus on you, just weighed down with a performed intensity for the pose.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, and he laughed along with you. A shared, tender joke.

But it died quickly under the weight of his gaze that still pressed. The tease was a gateway to something more.

He relaxed the pose, expression turning serious, his voice barely a whisper, “No, seriously. Draw what you’re scared of.”

You knew. Of course, you knew. You had drawn every part of him you could safely observe— his hands, his mouth, the vulnerable nape of his neck, the frustratingly perfect line of his back as he walked away.

But you had never, ever drawn his eyes. To do that was to admit you were drowning in them. To acknowledge that this was no longer a study, but a surrender.

Satoru saw the panic and the understanding warring in your face. He held himself perfectly still, an offering. Piercing blue eyes, usually so full of mockery and mischief— were now deep, clear pools of unwavering patience and intent.

“Go on,” he breathed, the words nothing but a soft caress in the space between you, “draw my eyes.”

He didn’t look away. He gave you everything, holding your gaze with a terrifying honesty.

“I’ll follow,” he promised.

And to you, the tension broke. I’ll follow. Two words that rewrote fifteen years of history. He was no longer the boy walking ahead; he was the man asking to be led, to be seen, to be captured by you.

With a hand that trembled, you slowly, deliberately, closed your finished project folder. You opened your sketchbook to a pristine white page. When you looked up, and his gaze was right there, waiting— deep, endless, and full of a quiet storm.

You put your charcoal to the paper. And as you began the terrifying, beautiful work of mapping the universe in his eyes, he kept his promise. His gaze remained locked on yours, following every breath, every flicker of your lashes, every subtle shift in your expression. It was the most profound silence of your life, a silent conversation more intimate than any kiss, a confession etched not in words, but in the quiet, shared act of finally, truly, seeing each other.

When the final line was drawn, you lowered your charcoal, hand trembling not from effort, but from the sheer emotional toll of the act. You had done it. You had captured his eyes— not just their shape and color, but the startling intensity within them, the focused softness he had reserved only for you in that moment.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The connection held, a taut, silent thread between your gaze and his. The world outside the living room had ceased to exist.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile touched his lips. It wasn’t triumphant or teasing. It was awed.

“Can I see?” he asked, voice hushed.

Your instinct was to snap the book shut, but the raw honesty in his eyes forbade it. You gave a single, shaky nod.

Satoru moved with a deliberate slowness, shifting from the couch to kneel on the floor beside you. His proximity was a wave of warmth, shoulder just a hair’s breadth from yours.

You held the sketchbook out between you.

He didn’t say a word. He just looked. His eyes scanned the page, tracing every line you had drawn of his own gaze. You saw his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“Wow,” he breathed, the word full of reverence. He finally tore his eyes from the page to look at you. “You… you see this? When you look at me, you see this?”

You could only nod, your throat too tight for words, “Surely it’s not the first time someone drew your eyes.”

His gaze was a physical weight, he shook his head as if you said a really dumb thing, “It’s the first time you drew them, that’s what matters to me. No one else,” he whispered, “not even close.”

Satoru reached out, his movement infinitely slow. His fingers came to hover just beside the sketchbook, his pinky finger gently brushing against the hand that held it. The contact was a jolt of pure lightning.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice low and thick.

“So are you,” you whispered back, noticing the faint tremor in his own outstretched hand.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I am.”

The air was so thick with unsaid things it was hard to breathe. His eyes dropped to your lips, and your to him. The pull in the air was only growing stronger, and the moment you felt the air shift with the imperceptible movement of his shoulder dipping forward, your lips parting in resigned welcome— the sharp sound of a key turning in the front door lock shattered the silence like gunfire.

You both flinched apart as if scalded. You snapped the sketchbook shut, your heart hammering. Satoru pushed himself back onto the couch, grabbing his book, the picture of nonchalance. But the faint flush on his neck betrayed him.

Suguru walked in, dropping his keys in the bowl. “Uh, what’s up? You two are quiet.”

“Just reading,” Satoru said, his voice impressively steady.

“Finishing my project,” you added at the same time, your voice embarrassingly breathy.

Suguru looked between the two of you, his brow slightly furrowed. “Uh huh, well, I’m ordering pizza. The usual?”

“Yeah,” you both chorused.

Suguru’s frown deepened slightly before he shrugged and headed for the kitchen.

The moment he was gone, your eyes met Satoru’s across the room. The intensity was still there, but now it was laced with a shared, frantic secret. He didn’t smile. He just held your gaze, and in his eyes, you saw a promise and an apology.

The moment was gone, but the shift was permanent. The slow burn was no longer a smolder, it was a flame, carefully guarded, waiting for the next gust of wind to set everything ablaze.

.

.

.

The front door clicked shut behind Suguru, leaving the apartment in a sudden, heavy silence. He had muttered something along the lines of forgetting his thesis in the library along with a string of curses before leaving. And Satoru had vanished into his room the moment the pizza boxes were empty, a retreat that felt charged, not casual. You were left alone in the living room, the ghost of his near kiss still humming on your skin.

Then you remembered— your art history paper. It was due by midnight, and you needed to print it. Suguru’s printer was out of ink. A knot of dread and something else, something thrilling, tightened in your stomach. There was only one other option.

You padded softly to his door, the hallway floor cool under your feet. You knocked, a quick, nervous rap.

“It’s open”, his voice was muffled.

You pushed the door open just enough to see him. He was sitting at his desk, back to you, scrolling through his phone. The room was surprisingly neat, dominated by the large monitor on his desk.

“Hey,” you started, your voice sounding small. “Suguru’s printer is dead. Can I…?”

Satoru swiveled in his chair, face unreadable for a second before he nodded. “Yeah. Sure. It’s all set up”, he gestured to the laptop on his desk, “password’s the same as before”

He stood, stretching, and you caught the faint, now familiar scent of his cologne. “Gonna grab a drink, knock yourself out.”

He brushed past you in the doorway, a brief, electric contact, and disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen.

The room felt different without him in it. It felt like his space, and you were an intruder. You sat in his still— warm chair, the leather sighing under your weight. Opening his laptop, typed in the ridiculous password — ‘iamthehonoured101’ — and found the printer queue. You sent your file, the soft whirring of the printer in the corner a comforting, normal sound.

As you went to close the browser, a folder icon on his desktop caught your eye. It was labeled simply, almost clinically: portfolio_new.

Curiosity, that fatal, clawing thing, got the better of you. He did it to your sketchbook, it’s fair enough.

It wasn’t cityscapes. It wasn’t wilderness. It wasn’t random memories captured with Suguru or his family.

Alright. Guess what.

It was you.

Ooookay…. Dozens, maybe hundreds of images filled the screen. Your breath is quite literally knocked out of your lungs.

This wasn’t a random collection. It was a study, a catalogue. Just like your sketchbook.

There was a series of you laughing, your head thrown back, caught in a moment of unguarded joy you didn’t even remember. Another of you focused on your sketchbook, the tip of your tongue caught between your teeth, the light from the window haloing your hair. A close-up, almost abstract shot of the freckles across your nose.

But the one that made your heart stop was the one taken from the living room couch. You were asleep, curled into a ball, your face soft and peaceful. The composition was perfect, the lighting tender. It was the photographic equivalent of your drawing of him sleeping. It was just as intimate, just as stolen.

He saw you. Not as Suguru’s little sister, or an annoyance, or a challenge. He saw the quiet moments. The peaceful ones. The beautiful ones.

The door creaked.

You slammed the laptop shut, spinning the chair around so fast you got dizzy.

Satoru stood in the doorway, holding a glass of water, his eyes flicking from your horrified face to the closed laptop and back. The casual ease from the kitchen was gone, replaced by a frozen stillness. The air was sucked from the room.

He knew. He knew exactly what you’d seen.

The parallel was perfect, devastating. You had seen his soul in your charcoal lines. He had seen yours through his lens.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t blush or look away. He just stood there, completely exposed, his secret laid bare between you. The hunter, caught in his own trap.

Slowly, he walked forward and set the glass of water down on the desk next to the laptop. His knuckles were white.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked, voice low and rough, stripped bare of all its usual armor.

You couldn’t answer. You just stared up at him, the world tilting on its axis once more.

This time, you were both the artist and the muse. Both the thief and the treasure. And in the silent, charged space between you, the only thing that was clear was that the game was over.

Something real had begun.

The silence in his room was a physical thing, heavy and suffocating and determined to be acknowledged. You could hear the frantic beat of your own heart, a wild drum against your ribs. The images from his laptop were burned onto the back of your eyelids. Him, standing frozen in the doorway, knew it.

“Why?” the word tore out of you, sharp and broken. All the confusion of the past few weeks, the whiplash from his teasing to his tenderness, boiled over. “Why are you doing this? All those years… you were a jerk. A complete and total jerk. You called me names, you stole my puddings and ate it in front of me just to watch me get mad. You touched all my insecurities and made a joke out of them, and now… now you have a folder of pictures of me like some… some precious thing? Am I a plaything to you? Is this just a new game?”

Your voice cracked, betraying the hurt you’d carried for over a decade.

Satoru didn’t flinch, he just watched you, blue eyes dark with an emotion you couldn’t name.

Then, he took a step forward. And another. Until he was standing right in front of you, so close you could feel the heat coming off his body.

“No,” he said, his voice low and rough. “It’s not a game. It was never…”

Slowly, so slowly it made your breath catch, he raised his hand. His fingers, trembling just slightly, came up to your face. They didn’t grab, they didn’t poke. They brushed, with a shocking tenderness, across the bridge of your nose, tracing the path of your freckles.

You flinched, the old insecurity surging up. “Don’t— I know,” you whispered, turning your face away, your cheeks burning, “they’re just dots to you”

His hand stilled, then gently cupped your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his. Maybe because he couldn’t find it in him to look you in the eyes, Satoru let his head drop on your shoulder, yet the intensity there was overwhelming.

“They’re not dots,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, a flitter against your neck laced with a painful sincerity, “I was a stupid kid. A stupid, fucking kid who didn’t know the word for “constellation”, I’ve been trying to map it my entire life.”

The air left your lungs in a rush. Constellation.

You were blushing furiously now, the heat spreading down your neck. You had to fight back, to cling to the familiar ground of your resentment,

“You stole my pudding cups, my favourites,” you accused, your voice weaker now, losing its fight.

A sad, almost ashamed smile touched his lips, you felt it against your skin, the movement of his lips burning soft pecks, white tuff of hair tickling, “it was the only way I knew how to get your attention without breaking the rulesm”

Satoru raised his head up and leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching yours. His confession hung in the space between you, pathetic and profound.

“It’s really that stupid,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips, “a kid, being mean to the one thing he couldn’t have. Because if I was nice… if I let myself be nice to you— I would have ruined everything. Suguru— I…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The truth was finally out, naked and raw. All the years of cruelty, a desperate, clumsy armor for a crush he thought was forbidden.

When he lifted his gaze to finally meet yours, his other hand came up, framing your face, with a touch impossibly gentle. You were surrounded by him, by his heat, his scent, his devastating honesty. The last of your defenses crumbled mercilessly.

“You’re just an idiot,” you breathed, but there was no venom left, only a shaky, disbelieving wonder.

A real, genuine smile broke through his pained expression. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice thick with emotion, “I know.”

And then, finally, he closed the last inch of space between you, and his lips met yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t supposed to be.

His lips were soft, yet insistent, moving against yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. His lips were everywhere, surrounding your mouth with a wet warmth. It was a kiss that tasted of fifteen years of unsaid words, of stolen glances, and the bittersweet relief of a truth finally set free. A low, ragged sound vibrated in his throat, a mix of desperation and triumph.

His hands, which had been so tenderly framing your face, began to move. One slid back, his fingers tangling deep in your hair, tilting your head to a better angle, claiming you completely.

The other hand drifted down, his palm a hot brand through the fabric of your shirt, sliding from the curve of your waist to the small of your back. He pulled you flush against him, and you felt the hard, solid line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart echoing your own.

You were drowning in him. The scent of his cologne, the taste of him, the feel of his hands— it was an overload that shortcircuited every thought except one— more.

Your own hands, which had been frozen at your sides, came to life. They crept up, fists clenching in the soft cotton of his tshirt, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. A soft, helpless whimper escaped you, swallowed by his mouth.

He took the sound as an invitation. His tongue swept against the seam of your lips— a bold, asking stroke. You opened for him without hesitation, a final surrender.

When he broke the kiss, both of you panting, foreheads resting together. His blue eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with a sincerity that clashed starkly with his lips now swollen with sin and desire.

“See?”, Satoru breathed, voice a raw, wrecked thing. His thumb stroked over your kiss-swollen bottom lip, “Not a game. Never was, and never, ever will be.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He leaned in again, but this time his mouth left a trail of searing, open mouthed kisses along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat. Hands growing bolder, the one in your hair tightened its grip, a gentle, possessive anchor. The other slid from your backside, around your hip. His fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of your lower stomach, just under the hem of your shirt. The touch was electric, a promise of things to come, and you shuddered against him, your body following his lead— yielding, wanting, finally allowing itself to feel everything it had been denied for so, so long.

Your lips are swollen from the kiss when he pulls back, breathing hard, eyes blown wide and hungry. Sweat beads at his temples, strands of his white hair sticking to his skin, but he doesn’t notice— he’s staring at you like you’re something holy. His thumb drags across your cheekbone, rough pad catching faintly on your skin, before he ducks back down and kisses you there. Then lower, along your temple, then the bridge of your nose.

His mouth lingers on every freckle like he’s making tally marks with his lips. His voice is rough when it breaks through between kisses.

“God, I used to make fun of these ’cause I didn’t know what else to do with myself,” he admits, the sound almost a growl against your skin, “couldn’t tell you I wanted to kiss them. All of them.”

The confession burns hotter than his mouth, and you whimper, hands twisting in the cotton of his shirt. The sound makes him grin— crooked, unrestrained— and he tips his forehead against yours once again, your breaths tangling into a hot mess between your lips. Then he sits back just enough to yank his shirt off, fabric sliding over his shoulders in one swift motion.

Your breath catches hard.

His chest is lean, all smooth lines of muscle, skin flushed faint pink. But your eyes are pulled elsewhere, caught fast: ink, etched across his collarbone. The tattoo you couldn’t properly see that day— a dandelion, its delicate head blowing apart like caught in a phantom wind.

Your throat tightens. The memory slams into you— summer air, your hands shoving a dandelion under his nose, an offering your innocent self made to bridge gaps, his laughter as he called it a weed and blew the seeds away. You’d never forgotten his dismissal.

But now— “You… got that?” your voice cracks.

His grin falters into something softer, almost shy. “Guess it stuck with me. I wanted to keep it, wanted to keep you.” His hand finds yours, warm and steady, guiding your palm to the tattoo. His skin is hot under your touch. He presses your hand flat against it. “Go on. Make a wish now.”

Your chest aches, but the words tangle and vanish before you can say them. He doesn’t wait— his mouth finds yours again, hungrier, urgent. This kiss tastes different: less hesitation, more claim.

You barely notice when he shifts, pushing you back against the mattress. The sheets bunch under your shoulder blades as his weight settles over you heavy and grounding.

His hands skim your sides, tentative but desperate, until they catch at the hem of your shirt. His eyes flick up, searching, dark and asking, “Tell me to stop, I will.”

Instead, you nod, heart in your throat, and lift your arms, “don’t want you to.”

Satoru drags your shirt off slowly, gaze catching like a flame on bare skin. His lips part when your bra comes into view, and his breath stutters audibly. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick, and almost reverent, “been dreaming about this.”

He doesn’t rush. His mouth is everywhere, covering you like worship. He maps constellations out of freckles with the drag of his lips, your collarbones, your sternum, your stomach. Every kiss sears, every brush of his mouth feels like a tentative stroke of an artist mapping his heart’s desire on his favorite canvas— and it leaves you trembling. “Gonna kiss every one,” he promises, voice muffled against your skin, “make sure you never forget how perfect you are.”

By the time he strips you fully, your nerves are frayed and your body is thrumming. Goosebumps trail in the wake of his touch. When he spreads your thighs, settling between them, the coarse hair of his legs brushes your softer skin, making you shiver. His tattoo brushes the inside of your knee as he shifts lower, lips hovering.

“Nervous?” he asks, thumb stroking your trembling hipbone.

“A little,” you admit, voice small and throat dry.

“Good.” His smirk cuts sharp, but his eyes stay soft. “Means you care. I’ll take care of you, y/n, just trust me.”

And then he lowers his head.

The first flick of his tongue has you jerking, back arching off the mattress. The sensation is molten, wetter and hotter than you’d imagined. He hums low, pleased, the vibration traveling through your cunt. His tongue works slow at first, tasting, teasing— then hungrier, lapping like he’s been waiting years.

“Fuck, you taste so sweet,” he groans into you, words hot against your skin, tongue flicking kittenish licks at your clit, “Gonna make you come on my tongue before I even fuck you baby, you want that?”

Your hands fly into his hair, gripping tight, dragging desperate sounds out of your throat. He groans when you tug, burying deeper, alternating between sucking your clit and sliding one slender finger inside. He stretches you carefully, curling them just right until your thighs spasm around his head.

He pulls back briefly, lips and chin slick with you. “Look at you,” he rasps, eyes flashing. “Never let anyone touch you before? Saving it all for me like a good girl.”

“G-Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he corrects through a mouthful of cunt, “Say it baby, say Satoru.”

“Satoru—!” you cry out when he inserts another finger in, a sweet kisses presses into your inner thigh. Satoru relishes in the sweet mess he’s making out of you.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” He thrusts his fingers deeper, curling hard until you cry out, “say my name, only mine.”

It’s too much— it’s so much more than anything you could’ve ever imagined, and not enough at the same time. You break on his mouth with a sob and a violent shudder, climax tearing through you. Your thighs tremble around his head, nails scratching his scalp, but he doesn’t let up. Satoru only groans into you, drinking everything you give until you collapse, gasping.

He doesn’t leave you a moment’s reprieve. He kisses back up your body, mouth hot and messy, tongue tangling with yours so you taste yourself on his lips. Freckles get pecked in passing, neck, jaw, cheeks, until he reaches your mouth again.

“Ready?” he murmurs, breathless, making quick work of his pants and boxers, rutting his cock against your thigh. He has your thigh thrown over his shoulder, with a tenderness that has your body resigning to him. The heat of it makes your stomach clench. He’s flushed, precum slicking the head, smearing against your skin.

You nod, but nerves flutter sharp through you. He notices instantly. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking soft as he guides himself down. “We’ll go slow. Promise i’ll be gentle, just sit with me, yeah? let me in.”

The push is slow, agonizing. The blunt head nudges into you, stretching untested walls. Your gasp breaks sharp, nails clawing his back. Pain burns, spreading, and you cling harder.

“Breathe,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, then softer, dotting along your cheek, kissing every freckle he can reach, “I’ve got you baby, fuck— you’re so tight, my perfect girl.”

Your nails are digging deep into his back, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should apologize, but then Satoru grins with the flex of his back muscles under your touch.

He bottoms out, hips flushing to yours. He’s shaking, every muscle strung taut, but he doesn’t move. His forehead drops to yours, panting. “Tell me when, sweetheart.”

The ache melts into heat slowly, your walls clenching around him to accommodate him, and when you nod, he exhales ragged, like he’s been drowning.

The first thrust is shallow, measured. Then another, deeper. Pleasure strikes bright like stats in daylight, your moans spilling unchecked.

Satoru loses composure quickly. His voice cracks, rough with restraint and hunger. “Fuck— been waiting to ruin you for years. My girl. My sweet little virgin. No one else gets this.”

Your walls flutter, and his smirk sharpens. He grabs your wrist suddenly, pressing your palm flat against the inked dandelion over his heart. “Hold onto me, right here, don’t let go.”

He builds a rhythm— slow at first, then harder, rougher, deeper— dragging filthy words out of himself between kisses. A string of saliva connects your lips when satoru pulls back to let you breathe, “needy little thing. So fucking good for me, g’na make you cry on my cock baby”

Tears collect on your eyelashes, and Satoru feels the overwhelming urge to wipe them should they ever spill.

Your head tips back, overwhelmed, but his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze on him.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart. Wanna see who’s fucking you.”

You break, sobbing his name, climax snapping through you. Your body clamps around him, and he groans ragged, hips jerking. “Fuck—” he gasps, spilling himself inside you, rutting deeper and deeper as the orgasm settles.

Satoru mutters a string of curses, sighing deeply into the crook of your neck. He hasn’t even pulled out completely, too busy with peppering your skin with as many marks as he can. As if making up for the time lost in trying to restrain himself before.

After, he stays inside you, trembling, forehead resting to yours. “You okay?” he whispers, thumb brushing away a stray tear.

You nod weakly, not being able to form words in your haze.

He grins faint, smug but tender, pressing one more kiss to your nose. “Freckle count went up by twenty,” he murmurs. “Pretty sure I added them myself.”

You roll your eyes, but melt anyway when he kisses you again, the nectar of the universe tasting sweet on his lips, his snow-coloured hair becoming a beautiful disheveled mess tangled in your fingers.

You stay like that for a long time, minds taking vacation in the warmth of your bodies melding together and ghosting over you bodies like a second blanket.

It began with the small, seismic shifts in the apartment’s atmosphere.

Suguru, a man who prized peace and order, felt it first— a new frequency humming in the air, a secret language spoken in glances and accidental touches.

It started subtly. A new, unspoken game of cat and mouse began in the apartment, with Suguru as the increasingly perplexed cat.

The plan was simple: act normal. For two people whose entire relationship was built on a foundation of chaotic banter, it should have been easy.

It was not.

It started at the convenience store. The three of you were at the slurpee machine.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting that radioactive red cherry again,” Satoru said, his voice dripping with mock disdain as he positioned himself at the blue raspberry spigot.

“Rich coming from someone who likes the flavour that tastes like a cleaning product,” you shot back, your hand hovering over the cherry lever, “it’s literally the color of a sad swimming pool.”

“It’s the color of awesome,” he corrected, filling his cup with the electric blue liquid, “This has personality. Yours is just… red, basic.”

“It’s a classic! You’re basic. ”

Suguru finished paying for his black coffee and watched the two of you from near the hot dog roller, his expression unreadable, “Are you two finished? Or do you need to file formal complaints about each other’s life choices?”

You both fell silent, shooting each other one last, heated glare before turning to pay— a silent agreement to continue this cold war elsewhere.

The truce held until you were all in the car. Suguru drove, you were in the back, and Satoru, who had always been the one riding shotgun when Suguru driver, had suddenly slid into the backseat next to you, claiming the passenger seat was “getting too much sun”

It was 6pm, twilight breaking through.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the aggressive slurping of Slurpees.

Then, Suguru’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. He frowned.

“Okay,” he said, his tone casual. “Why are your tongues purple?”

The question landed in the quiet car with the subtlety of a grenade.

You and Satoru froze, straws still in your mouths. Your brains, which had been blissfully occupied with sugar and secret thigh brushing, screeched to a halt.

Satoru yanked his straw out, “Why wouldn’t it be?” he blurted out, a little too defensively.

“Yeah,” you chimed in, your voice tight, “it’s a slurpee, that’s… what they do.”

Suguru’s skeptical gaze in the mirror was sharper than a razor. “You,” he said, nodding at you, “Cherry. Red.” He then nodded at Satoru, “You. Blue Raspberry. Blue. You didn’t get a purple one. You hate each other’s flavors”

The air was sucked from the car. The truth— that you’d ducked behind a tall shelf of motor oil, grabbed the front of Satoru’s shirt, and kissed him with a desperate, sugary intensity until your individual flavors had swirled into one incriminating shade— was a physical force pressing on your chest.

“ ...so what are you suggesting…” you coughed and laughed awkwardly, completely missing the point of his deduction.

“YEAH WHAT ARE YOU SUGGESTING? IT’S NOT LIKE WE MADE OUT OR ANYTHING!!!”, Satoru added because it was obviously the right thing to say.

You turned to him with the horrified face of a person in utter disbelief.

Suguru’s eyes narrowed. He let the silence hang, thick and uncomfortable, “I wasn’t gonna suggest anything,” he said, his voice dangerously slow and deliberate.

Silence. And the synchronised sound of gulping.

Suguru’s eyebrow inched higher, “I was going to ask if you, I don’t know, finally acted like normal people and tried a sip of each other’s drinks ”, he sighed, “but you know what, I don’t really wanna know anymore”

The second incident followed shortly after. Movie night.

The dinner table feels like a battlefield. Suguru, your unwitting general, has taken his seat next to you, a bastion of obliviousness. Satoru is in the chair in front of you. The opening credits of some action movie are rolling, but you’re not seeing any of it. Your entire world has shrunk to the space under the coffee table.

Then you feel it. A nudge against your bare foot. It’s not an accident. It’s a question.

Don’t you dare, you think, curling your toes. He’s right there. Suguru is right there.

Another nudge, more insistent this time. Satoru’s big toe presses against your arch. It’s warm. A shiver runs straight up your spine. This is so stupid. This is so juvenile. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Against your better judgment, you uncurl your toes and press back.

A silent, secret war begins. A gentle press of his sole against your ankle. A retaliatory poke from your toe. He traces a lazy circle on your instep, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop a completely inappropriate sound from escaping. This is insane. You are losing your mind over toes. You’re so focused on the game, on the electric current running between your foot and his, that you don’t notice the movie has hit a quiet, dialogue heavy scene.

Suguru clears his throat. The sound is like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“Satoru.”

“Yeah?” Satoru’s voice is a little too casual.

“If you’re trying to give me a foot massage,” Suguru says, his eyes still glued to the screen, “you’re doing a terrible job, please fucking stop."

Oh my god. The toe that was drawing patterns on your foot freezes, then retracts so fast you feel the air move. You yank your own foot back, tucking it safely under you. The spell is shattered, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated mortification. He thought it was him. Satoru was massaging Suguru’s foot.

“Your feet looked… tense,” Satoru mumbles. It’s the weakest, most pathetic excuse you have ever heard in your life.

“My feet are fine,” Suguru replies, not even bothering to grant him a glance. He picks up the remote and turns the volume up, “Let me watch the movie in peace.”

You just sit there, burning up with a mixture of humiliation and a strange, giddy relief that you weren’t the one caught.

On the third day, the tension had become a physical ache. It’s a low grade hum under your skin, a constant awareness of where Satoru is in the apartment. You decide to do laundry, a suitably mundane and solitary task. You’re in the small laundry room, sorting whites from colors, the rhythmic thumping of the washer a comforting sound.

The door clicks open behind you. You don’t have to turn to know it’s him. The air changes.

“Hiding?” Satoru’s voice is soft, close.

“Working,” you correct, not turning around, focusing very hard on a sock. “It’s a novel concept. You should try it.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, his hands settle on your hips, his touch gentle but firm. He spins you around slowly until you’re facing him, backed against the vibrating dryer. The room is small, cramped. He’s everywhere.

“Satoru,” you whisper, a warning. “Suguru is—”

“—in his room, with his noise canceling headphones on, probably listening to a podcast about the migratory patterns of arctic terns,” he finishes, his hands sliding from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, “We’re safe.”

This is a terrible idea. This is how people get caught. But his chest is solid against yours, and his eyes, in the dim laundry room light, are so, so blue. He dips his head, his nose brushing against yours. “Missed you,” he murmurs, and the words are so simple, so devastatingly honest, that all your resolve melts.

“You saw me at breakfast,” you breathe, your hands finding their way to his shoulders.

“A lifetime ago.” His lips are inches from yours.

The laundry room door swings open.

Suguru stands there, a single, lonely dress sock in his hand. He looks from Satoru’s hands on your back, to your faces, which are undoubtedly flushed and guilty, to the pile of sorted laundry.

Your pointed elbow hits hard into Satoru's ribs, with more force than intended due to the urgency of the scene. A pained yelp leaves his mouth which you ignore all too easy, "M-My shoulders are fine! I told you I didn't need any massage."

Suguru stands poker faced, pointing to the sock in his hand. He is much too tired for this, "If you find the other one, let me know."

The door clicks shut. Satoru is still coughing from pain.

By day four, Suguru was panifully exhausted.

The air in the living room was thick enough to chew, and the strategy had devolved from “subtle indifference” to “performative hostility.”

This, it turned out, was a catastrophic miscalculation.

Suguru was ensconced in his favorite armchair, a book open in his lap. He hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. His attention was fixed on the scene unfolding on the floor around the coffee table, where you and Satoru were engaged in a fiercely competitive game of Scrabble. Or, more accurately, a fiercely competitive performance of one.

“Taking your time, I see,” you snipped, tapping your nails on the floor. You aimed for a tone of bored impatience, but it came out shrill and overly invested.

“Genius can’t be rushed,” Satoru retorted without looking up from his letter rack. He was trying to sound aloof, but the set of his shoulders was rigid with tension.

Suguru’s eyes traveled from your strained face to Satoru’s clenched jaw, and then returned to his page. He said nothing.

Satoru, finally seeing his opening, moved and laid down his tiles: H—A—T—E. He placed the ’E’ directly on a double word score square.

“Sixteen points,” he announced, a smug, brittle smile plastered on his face. He leaned back, crossing his arms, “Let’s see you top that.” The subtext— Look how little I care about you!— was practically screaming through the room.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was your chance to prove your own feigned indifference. You studied your letters: S, L, O, V, E, and a blank.

A brilliant, idiotic idea bloomed in your mind. It was so clever, so perfectly a secret message hidden in plain sight.

You reached out, your fingers deliberately steady. First, you placed the S at the end of his word, turning HATE into HATES.

“Plural,” you said, your voice a low, faux saccharine purr, “multiplied effect.”

Satoru’s smug smile tightened.

Then, you began building down. Using the very same ’E’ from HATES as your starting point, you laid down L, then O, then V, and finally another E.

LOVE

The board now presented its undeniable, poetic truth. HATES, horizontally, on a double word score, directly adjacent to LOVE, vertically, the two words locked together.

You looked up, meeting Satoru’s gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “Fifteen points for ’LOVE’. Plus the eight for ’HATES’. Twenty three total.” You let a slow, cold smile spread across your lips. “You’re done, Gojo.”

For a single, suspended second, the room was silent. Satoru’s face went on a journey. The forced smugness evaporated, replaced by confusion as his brain processed the board. Your hopes of having delivered the final hook to establish animosity was crushed as you looked at the furious shade of crimson blooming on Satoru's pale cheeks, and his lips pressed to a thin, trembling line.

Seriously? He was blushing from the word LOVE on a scrabble game?

Click. The soft, precise sound of a book closing was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Suguru didn’t sigh. He didn’t ask or say anything.

He simply placed his novel on the side table and stood up. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he walked the three paces to the coffee table.

He pointed first at HATES. Then down the vertical line of LOVE.

His eyes moved from your face, now pale with dread, to Satoru’s, which was a mask of guilty panic.

He looked at the two of you, and sucked in an exaggeratingly deep breath. You gulped and braced yourself.

“Get a room,” he said finally, voice flat and utterly drained, “I’m going for a walk. A long one.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Simply turned and grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, muttering a simple, “And hide your hickeys properly by then, for fuck's sake”, and left.

You and Satoru sat frozen, gaping at each other like idiots. The two of you were alone, surrounded by the wreckage of your charade, the words HATES and LOVE staring up from the board as the most obvious, hilarious, and catastrophic love letter ever written.

It’s over. You both know it. The charade is too exhausting to maintain.

A giggle bubbles up in your chest, then another, and soon you’re both laughing, really laughing, the sound free and unfettered for the first time in days. Your foreheads fall together, and between the lingering warm kisses that Satoru plants on your lips, he whispers, “So I can finally sleep over in your room tonight right?

©2025 LUMIEROS — the quality of my writing was trashed towards the end ngl. the smut wasn’t really the main focus so I kept it pretty vanilla, this fic was more character driven for me.

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

“I’m not,” he lies. (He absolutely is.)

“You are,” you whine, breath catching in your throat as another contraction ripples through your body. “Satoru, I swear to– fuck! You’re not even the one pushing something the size of a watermelon out of your–”

“Okay, okay!” he blurts out, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand like it might soothe you. “I know, baby, I’m not leaving your side. Not for food, not for water, not even if Shoko threatens to kill me. Again.”

You blink up at him through bleary eyes, sweaty, furious, and glowing in a way that makes his chest ache. “I literally told you to get me ice chips five minutes ago.”

“Ignore past you,” he says solemnly. “Present you needs me more.”

You roll your eyes, the little curve in the corner of your lip sending a warm tingle spiraling from his heart to his fingertips.

He doesn’t know why someone like you could love someone like him. Much less want children with him. But you do, somehow.

The midwife says it’s time.

And when she tells you to push, you stare directly into your husband’s eyes like this is his fault – like your withering glare is some sort of karmic retribution for him cumming in you nine months ago (which is maybe not entirely untrue).

“Don’t look at me like that!” he squeaks, panicked, as you scream bloody murder and clutch at him like you want to take him with you. “You look so pretty all the time, especially when you're ovulating, I didn’t know it’d come to this–!”

But the words catch in his throat as a cry cuts through the room.

Small and sharp and alive.

The nurse is saying something, handing you something, but all Satoru can hear is the way the baby is crying. Loud and trembling and needy and pissed off. Exactly the way you cry and hide in his arms when you’re frustrated.

You let out a shaky sigh, settling down as you rock the little bundle in your arms.

There’s something in the shape of the face, the tilt of the nose, the set of the lips, that is all you. Undeniably, irrevocably, painfully you–

Oh.

It opens its eyes.

And for a second, he forgets how to breathe.

They’re bright blue. Too bright. His. The kind that twist the light around them into something gleaming. But there’s something different, too, something soft. Something gentle.

They shimmer like starbursts on water. Like they were made to reflect everything good in the world back at him.

And suddenly, he’s not afraid anymore. Because they aren’t just his eyes. They’re yours, too, in shape and in spirit and in the way they seem to say I’m here, I’m real, I’m yours.

Everything about this is unfamiliar and impossibly small and he’s terrified he’s going to fuck it all up somehow. But those eyes?

They’re beautiful.

You’re holding your baby like it’s made of starlight and miracles, and your lips are trembling like you’re about to cry but you’re too tired, and when you look up at him, it all clicks into place.

God.

You’re beautiful.

You, and your baby, and he loves you so, so much, it’s insane.

Yeah.

Maybe having kids isn’t so bad after all.