augustine #1 yuji itadori stan

જ⁀➴ ✉︎ 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮.. geto

જ⁀➴ ✉︎ 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮.. toji

જ⁀➴ ✉︎ 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮.. choso

જ⁀➴ ✉︎ 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮.. kashimo

જ⁀➴ ✉︎ 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮.. sukuna

and you are. but you don’t tell him that.

this is your ritual, your thing. it doesn’t matter whose party it is, which frat’s throwing it, or how many people are packed into the house, you and sukuna always end up on a couch with the same kind of banter. same rhythm that’s been beating between the two of you since freshman year.

you lean back, pulling your legs up to sit cross legged beside him. his thigh is warm where it brushes yours, and you try not to notice it.

“how many girls have you hit on tonight?” you ask, reaching for his drink and taking a sip without asking.

he hums thoughtfully. “define hit on.”

you raise a brow. “sukuna.”

“what?” he says with mock innocence dripping from his tone. “i’m just being friendly.”

you scoff. “you’re incapable of being 'just friendly'.”

“wow, you wound me.”

you shove his shoulder and he laughs, head tipping back, throat exposed and for a tick your brain stops thinking straight.

because sukuna’s hot. like, really hot. the kind of hot that should come with a big fat warning tag. he's got thick tattoos and a smile that pairs well with his sleepy bedroom eyes. he looks like every hot villan in those shitty old mtv cartoons.

and he’s your best friend.

your completely infuriating, manwhore of a best friend.

he’s the guy who once had a threesome during finals week and then showed up to study group with glitter in his hair. the one who keeps condoms in every coat pocket and probably knows the names of every bouncer on campus. the same guy who used to text you from girls’ beds, complaining about how their playlists sucked.

and somehow, despite all of that, you adore him.

maybe because he listens when you talk too much, because he knows all your dumb fixations and lets you rant about them for hours. because no matter how many people he flirts with, he always ends up back here, next to you.

“you thinking about me?” he says suddenly, smirking when you blink at him.

“i was thinking about how many diseases you’ve probably caught.” you deadpan.

he throws his head back again and laughs, loud and unbothered.

“god, you’re mean.”

“whatever, you like it.”

“unfortunately.”

you nudge his leg with yours again, more gentle this time. the party rages around you, but this little bubble, this spot on the couch where it’s just the two of you feels untouchable.

you’ve known sukuna for almost three years now. met him during your first week at university, at some wild frat party you barely remember. you were tipsy and rambling to someone about your favorite childhood tv show and he cut in just to mock your taste. and never left you alone after that.

he’s been a part of your life ever since. movie nights, drunk phone calls to your exe's. he’s there, always.

and somewhere along the way, you started telling him everything. even the stupid shit. especially the stupid shit. like how you spent two hours last night trying to get your cat to do a trick. or how you’re pretty sure your TA is in love with the guy who sits next to you.

you talk, and sukuna listens.

sometimes he teases. sometimes he gets this soft look like he doesn’t even realise he’s staring, but then it’s gone. back to smirks and really unfunny sarcasm.

you’ve tried not to think too hard about it.

you’re practically tangled up on the couch, like limbs and laughter and shared space all wrapped into one. sukuna’s arm is fallen over your shoulders and your head is tucked just beneath his chin, warm against his chest. his heartbeat is steady, slow, something grounding beneath your ear that feels like a secret only the two of you know.

it’s not flashy or dramatic. it’s the quiet kind of intimacy that’s grown over late nights and early mornings, over inside jokes and too many half remembered conversations. it’s the softness behind his usual rashness the way his hand casually rests on your arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you reach up and thread your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. he tenses for a moment, then relaxes, the tiniest smile tugging at his lips. “you’re such an annoying pest,” he mutters, voice low and rough, but you catch the warmth underneath like a whispered promise.

“you love it,” you say softly, you don’t want to break the moment.

the party moves around you, loud, messy, chaotic, but it all fades into white noise. out here, pressed close to him, none of that matters. no flashing lights, no drunken shouts, no prying eyes.

just you and sukuna.

even after all the teasing and the bickering and the ridiculous banter, this is where the real stuff lives. in the easy silence. in the way your fingers find his hand without thinking. in the quiet understanding that you’re both exactly where you want to be, even if you don’t say it out loud.

it’s the kind of closeness that’s almost too much and not enough all at once, like your hearts are so tangled up they might burst, but you don’t have to do anything about it. not yet.

because this is your truth. your safe place. the quiet love that’s been hiding behind all the noise from the very start.

“you see who maki came with?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“nah,” you say, glancing around. “who?”

“some guy named dan. total finance bro. talks like one of those alpha male podcasters.”

you snort. “holy fuck that's gross.”

“yeah tell me about it.”

you hum in agreement, stealing another sip of his drink.

“what about you?” you ask. “eyeing anyone tonight?”

it’s a casual question. one you’ve asked a hundred times. but this time, he pauses.

“nah,” he says finally. “not really feelin’ it.”

you frown. “you? not in the mood to fuck? is the world ending?”

he shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“maybe i’m growing up.”

you snort. “you literally mooned someone from a moving car last weekend.”

he grins. “growing up gradually.”

you laugh, and he looks at you again. and this time… he doesn’t look away.

“you know,” he says slowly, “you’re kind of the only reason i come to these things anymore.”

your heart skips.

you try to play it off. “because i’m the only one who tolerates you?”

“because you’re the only one who gets me,” he says, voice low. quieter than before. “like… actually gets me.”

you blink. your stomach flips.

but before you can respond, someone calls his name across the room.

he sighs and leans back, rubbing a hand over his face.

“hold that thought,” he says, standing. “gotta go break up whatever stupid shit gojo’s doing.”

you watch him disappear into the crowd, smiling as you watch his back muscles flex with each swing of his arms, you understood the appeal, he was a sexy man. in his own little fashion, he thought of you the exact same way, a drop dead gorgeous girl with a heart of gold, but you’d never even guessed he thought of you as such, after all, what would give you any sort of sign that he was into you when the latest rumour was that he was sleeping around with hot sorority chicks every weekend?

~

the party’s died down hours ago. the house is trashed, half-lit, and still pulsing faintly with leftover bass through the walls. the beer pong table’s been abandoned, someone’s hoodie is hanging from the ceiling fan, and there’s a questionable stain on the rug no one’s talking about.

geto’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with a half-empty bottle of tequila, choso’s sprawled on the loveseat looking like he’s already halfway to sleep, and gojo’s perched on the arm of the couch with a wine glass he definitely didn’t bring himself.

sukuna’s nursing a beer. slouched in a worn-out recliner with his head tilted back, eyes closed, shoulders loose in that i’m relaxed but still kind of pissed way he always gets when he’s overthinking.

he hasn’t said much since reader left.

“sukuna, man,” gojo starts, words slurring a little, “are you going fucking celibate? you haven’t fucked a chick in damn near two months.”

geto snorts, tilting his bottle toward sukuna. “what, you give it up for lent or something?”

“maybe he got neutered,” choso mumbles into a throw pillow.

gojo gasps. “don’t say that, that’s so sad. think of all the women out there missing out.”

sukuna doesn’t open his eyes. just raises his middle finger in their general direction and takes a slow pull from his drink.

“i’m serious,” gojo continues. “you used to be the first one out the door with some girl pressed up against the wall. now you’re… what, sitting on a couch all night with your weird little bestie and dodging blowjobs like they’re the plague.”

geto leans back, watching sukuna over the lip of his drink. “she’s not just some bestie though, huh?”

that gets sukuna’s attention. his eyes crack open, dark and unreadable. “don’t start.”

“not starting anything,” geto says, smirking. “just saying. you used to be all about the sorority chicks with fake lashes and daddy issues. now you’re glued to sunshine incarnate.”

gojo lets out a bark of laughter. “please. she’s too sweet for him. sukuna’d ruin her. he needs someone who can keep up with the slut energy.”

sukuna’s jaw ticks.

choso blinks at the ceiling. “she did bring cupcakes to the last pregame.”

“exactly,” gojo says, dramatic as ever. “she’s, like, wife-coded. sukuna doesn’t do wife-coded.”

“maybe he’s bored,” geto says. “maybe he’s finally fucked so many girls that his dick gave up and retired.”

that gets a laugh from the others, loud and easy.

sukuna doesn’t laugh.

he doesn’t say a word.

he just sits there, beer forgotten in his hand, staring into the dim space between the couch and the coffee table, jaw clenched, heart beating a little too loud in his chest.

because they don’t get it. they don’t know.

they don’t know how it feels to sit beside someone who trusts you with everything and have to pretend you don’t want to kiss them every time they smile.

they don’t know what it’s like to want something real for once. something soft. something that doesn’t taste like regret the morning after.

they don’t know how long it’s been since he’s touched anyone else. how the thought of it makes his stomach turn. how no one else even registers anymore. how she ruined him for all of it without even trying.

and he’s not gonna tell them.

because they wouldn’t believe him anyway.

so he just shifts in his chair, downs the rest of his drink, and says, flat and final, “maybe i’m just waiting for the right girl.”

it shuts them up for a second.

then gojo laughs again and geto raises his brows like he’s not sure whether he’s joking, and choso mutters something about being too high for this conversation.

but sukuna’s not joking.

not even a little.

the teasing eventually fades, replaced by the quiet clink of bottles and the hum of low music someone forgot to turn off. choso’s officially half-asleep, sprawled sideways across the loveseat with a blanket someone definitely didn’t offer him. geto’s back to nursing the tequila bottle like it personally wronged him, and gojo’s now laying upside down on the couch, legs dangling off the back like he’s trying to cause a scene with gravity.

“so,” choso mumbles, voice thick and lazy. “that mixer next weekend still on?”

“yeah,” gojo says without moving. “gamma’s throwing it with phi sig. should be decent. free drinks and better music than last time. they’re renting actual speakers this time, not just hijacking someone’s spotify on a jbl.”

“can i bring shiu?” choso asks, blinking slow like it takes effort.

“yeah,” gojo says, waving his hand. “he’s in delta nu, right?”

choso hums something that might be a yes or might be the sound of sleep taking him.

sukuna sits up slightly, beer bottle still hanging from his fingers. “can i bring y/n?”

gojo doesn’t even hesitate.

“nah.”

sukuna’s jaw clenches. “why not?”

“you know why not,” gojo says, finally flipping over to sit upright. “it’s a greek-only mixer. she’s not in a frat or a sorority.”

“she’s basically in this frat,” sukuna says, a little sharper than he means to. “she’s at every party. she knows everyone. she’s closer to you assholes than half the pledges.”

geto sighs, not looking up. “that’s not the point. the chapters are paying for the event. they want it to stay within the system. it’s political.”

“it’s bullshit,” sukuna mutters.

“you think i don’t agree?” gojo says, more gently now. “i love her. she’s our friend. but if one non-greek shows up, it opens the door for more, and then it’s a whole thing. alumni get pissy. mixers stop happening. and for what? a night where she already has better places to be?”

sukuna’s quiet for a second.

the air goes still.

because yeah, maybe you do have better places to be. you’re always buzzing around campus, always getting invited to every little thing. somehow you’ve charmed everyone without even trying. the girl who bakes cookies for your friends and brings tupperware to parties. the girl who’ll sit and talk with a drunk freshman for forty-five minutes just to make sure she gets home safe. the one everyone trusts, everyone likes.

but you’re not one of them.

not on paper.

not enough to be invited.

and it stings in a way sukuna can’t explain without sounding like he cares too much.

“she wouldn’t even care,” geto says after a beat. “she probably wouldn’t wanna go anyway.”

sukuna shakes his head slowly. “she would. not for the party. just to be around us.”

“then invite her to the after,” gojo says, too casually. “she can come once the official stuff’s over. like always.”

and that’s what gets under his skin.

like always.

like you’re some shadow they keep waiting in the wings. welcome, but not official. close, but not close enough. always there, always giving, and never asking for anything back.

but sukuna knows you.

knows you’d never say it hurts. never ask for an invite. never press your nose against the glass and say you want in. because you’re sweet. because you don’t want to make a scene. because you think you’re lucky just to be included at all.

and maybe that’s what kills him most.

sukuna doesn’t respond right away. just rolls the bottle between his hands and nods once, like it doesn’t bother him. like it’s fine.

but it does bother him.

because you've been at every party, every hangout, every busted-up couch gathering like this one. you're as much a part of this group as any of them, maybe more. you're the glue, the heart. the one person who always shows up and always makes it better just by being there.

and suddenly you're not allowed?

he gets it. he does. house rules. dumb frat politics. whatever. but still.

he’s never wanted to bring someone to one of these before. never even thought about it. but the second it came up, your name was already halfway out of his mouth.

and now it’s stuck there, burning.

gojo reaches over, clinks his glass against sukuna’s bottle. “next time, yeah?”

sukuna forces a tight smile and tips his drink back.

“yeah,” he lies. “next time.”

~

the next night.

it’s late when you hear the knock.

past eleven. campus is quiet outside your window, the kind of stillness that only happens after a long day of classes and too much caffeine. your desk light’s still on, laptop humming, a playlist playing low as you scribble in the margins of your notes with a pink pen you definitely didn’t borrow from sukuna and never give back.

you blink up at the sound, confused, and push back from your chair just as the front door swings open without waiting for you.

sukuna steps in, keys jingling between his fingers, sweat clinging to the collar of his black t-shirt.

“jesus,” you say, raising your brows. “you ever heard of knocking?”

he shrugs, already kicking off his sneakers. “you gave me a key.”

“for emergencies. or bringing me food. this is trespassing.”

“it’s not trespassing if i live here part-time.”

“you don’t.”

“i do, emotionally.”

you narrow your eyes, watching as he kicks the door shut behind him and rakes a hand through his sweat-damp hair. he looks irritated. flushed. like he’s been fighting someone or about to.

“you coming from a girl’s place or something?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but the words slip out a little more bitter than you mean.

he pauses, one foot halfway out of his sock.

“something like that,” he mutters.

it wasn't something like that. he'd been running, something he'd been doing a lot lately instead of his nightly rendezvous with his copious amounts of side chicks. after he went non intentionally celibate, he'd started putting the excess energy he wasn't using in basketball to do laps around campus. 

but he couldn't tell you that. couldn't just say, 'yeah, i've been running marathons lately because my dick goes limp at the thought of even touching another women.' so he just chalked it up to whatever your mind was thinking.

you blink, surprised he didn’t throw a joke at you or roll his eyes. didn’t make a crack about what kind of position she had him in or if he should shower before sitting on your bed.

instead he just pulls off his shirt and flops down face-first into your comforter like he’s lived here forever.

you stare for a second at the smooth line of his back, the tribal tattoos, the way he exhales like your room is the first place he’s been able to breathe all day.

“…you okay?” you ask, stepping toward the bed.

he grunts.

“great conversation,” you mutter, crawling up onto the mattress and poking him between the shoulder blades. “what’s with the dramatics, need to talk?”

he rolls onto his side, arm flung over his eyes, voice muffled. “i’m not allowed to bring you to the mixer.”

you blink. “hm?”

you knew of the mixer and you knew you weren't going, you weren't in a sorority.

“they said no,” he says, finally lowering his arm just enough to squint at you. “strictly greek. no exceptions. even though choso’s dragging that freak shiu and he’s barely greek. and even though you’ve been at more of our events than half the guys actually in the frat.”

you go try not to giggle at his display.

“i see,” you say. “it’s fine ryo. i didn’t expect to go anyway.”

“yeah, well, i wanted you to,” he snaps, sharper than he means to. he cleared his throat abit embarrassed before continuing. “was kind of the only reason i was looking forward to it.”

you stare at him, taken aback.

he groans and throws an arm over his face again. “god. it’s so fucking stupid. i don’t even wanna go if you’re not gonna be there.”

you sit beside him, folding your legs under yourself. "hey don't say that, i'm sure you'll get your entertainments worth with what're dumb thing gojos bound to do there." 

he rolls his eyes but a smirk pulls at his lips.

“you have to though, right?” you ask quietly. “frat rules?”

he grunts again, bitter. “mandatory attendance. gotta show face, shake hands, do shots with people i fucking hate. can’t just hang out with you like a normal person. it’s bullshit.”

you watch him for a second, hes clearly very upset on your behalf and it tugs at your heart to see him so sad for you.

the frustration in his shoulders. the tension still in his jaw. how tired he looks even though he won’t admit it. and how different he’s been lately, even if he tries to hide it.

it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him leave a party with someone. months since you’ve gotten a dumb flirty text from him at two in the morning about some girl with lip gloss and a sorority pin. instead it’s been this, late nights of cooking and movies at your place, quiet mornings where he'd crash on the couch, showing up sweaty and worn out without explaining why.

you don’t know what’s going on with him.

and you don’t ask.

because he’s still your best friend, he’s still sukuna, you never know what's going on with men like him. not really.

even if you wish sometimes he’d let you see past all the noise and into whatever he’s keeping buried under his skin.

“you could skip,” you offer after a long pause. “say you’re sick.”

he lifts his arm just enough to peek at you. “and miss out on disappointing every alumni watching the insta stories? unthinkable.”

you laugh.

and he smiles, barely.

then closes his eyes again, and says, quieter this time, “just wish it wasn’t like this.”

you don’t ask what he means.

you don’t have to.

you watch him stew for another minute, sprawled on your bed like a kicked dog, jaw tense and brows furrowed. you can tell he’s stuck in his head again, spiraling over something he can’t fix, so you do what you always do when sukuna gets like this.

you get up and go to the fridge.

“what are you doing?” he calls after you, but there’s already the tiniest lilt of curiosity in his voice.

you peek back over your shoulder, smiling shyly. “making you un-grumpy.”

you return with a container of the cookies you baked the night before, still soft from the fridge, the chocolate chips slightly hardened but perfect for biting into. you plop back down beside him and wiggle the container in front of his face.

“i come bearing peace offerings.”

he raises a brow. “what are they laced with?”

“love and all things happy and awesome,” you say sweetly. “now shut up and open.”

you settle onto his knee, the position so familiar it doesn’t even register as odd anymore. you’re perched sideways, comfortably pressed against him as you hold up a cookie to his mouth like you’ve done a thousand times before with different snacks, different moods, different nights.

he sighs like he’s being tortured, but opens his mouth and lets you push a bite past his lips.

and then he goes still.

you try to hide your smirk. “good, right?”

he chews slowly, then nods once, eyes flicking down to the cookie still in your hand. “fuck,” he mutters. “why are these better than the last ones?”

“because i added cinnamon this time,” you say proudly. “i’m a genius. a visionary. a baker ahead of my time. no need to lay it all on me at once.”

“you’re a menace,” he says, reaching for the container and grabbing one for himself. he takes another bite, then leans his head back with a groan. “jesus christ.”

you beam, satisfied. “mood improved?”

he glances down at you, his arm sliding a little more securely around your waist, holding you in place like it’s just instinct. “a little.”

you twist to face him more fully, still sitting across one of his legs, knees bent and shoulder pressing into his chest. “well, i accept your gratitude. payment accepted in the form of continued affection and possibly letting me pick the movie tonight.”

“you say that like you weren’t going to pick it anyway,” he says, but his voice has gone soft.

you don’t move, just rest your cheek lightly against his shoulder. it’s quiet again, in that comfortable, lived-in way. his fingers drift absentmindedly along the hem of your shirt, not even thinking about it, and you feel the shift before it happens.

he sets the cookie down and wraps both arms around you, pulling you fully into his chest.

you blink in surprise as your face smushes into his neck, but your arms slip around his waist anyway, your cheek settling against his skin with a tiny, surprised smile.

this… isn’t unheard of.

but it’s not common either.

not like this.

not this long, not this full-bodied, not this quiet. not this careful.

he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. just breathe in sync, slow and even, held together in the kind of closeness that feels like it means something more than either of you are ready to admit. it doesn’t feel playful. it doesn’t feel casual.

it feels like everything unsaid is pressing in between the space of your bodies.

and still, you don’t pull away.

you stay wrapped around each other, soft and steady in the glow of your little kitchen light. the rest of the world fades out. no frat politics, no mixers, no rules. just your warmth against his chest, the scent of cookies on the air, and his heartbeat pressed right against your cheek.

you smile against him, a little giddy, a little shy, and squeeze your arms around him just a little tighter.

he squeezes back.

"such a softie."

"shut up."

~

friday night, gamma. 

the music’s already shaking the walls by the time sukuna and gojo pull up to the house.

the lights are low, the windows are glowing purple, and there’s a line of girls on the front lawn taking pictures against the greek letters like they’re on the fucking red carpet. half of them are laughing too loud, the other half are posing like they’re about to sell flat tummy tea. it’s a mess.

gojo whistles low under his breath. “god damn. they went all out tonight.”

sukuna says nothing, just shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and follows gojo toward the front door, already wishing he’d stayed in.

inside, it’s worse.

the house smells like weed, body spray, and some kind of mango-flavored vodka someone definitely spilled on the carpet. the bass is pounding. the lights are cycling through seizure-inducing colors. and the living room is filled wall to wall with girls in the tiniest outfits he’s ever seen.

crop tops so small they’re practically bras, skirts that could pass for belts, dresses that ride up with every step. legs, boobs, glitter, perfume. like a scene out of a movie, only louder and stickier.

gojo grins, elbowing him in the side. “this is what i’m talking about, man these chicks are drooling.”

“mhm,” sukuna mutters, eyes skimming the crowd without interest.

gojo keeps going, clearly amped. “look at her, jesus. i could write a poem about that ass. might get it tattooed.”

sukuna hums, tuning him out. lets the words wash over him without meaning. he’s good at that now. nodding, smirking, pretending to be the guy they all think he is.

“oh my god,” gojo says again, eyes glued to another girl passing by in a see-through mesh top. “this one’s not even wearing a bra. she’s doing the lord’s work.”

“praise be,” sukuna deadpans.

gojo laughs, already drifting toward the drinks table like a moth to flame, eyes darting everywhere.

sukuna doesn’t follow.

he stands near the door, shoulder against the wall, letting the party swirl around him. girls brush past him on the way to the kitchen, one of them flashing a smile he doesn’t return. he watches two of them grind against each other like they’re auditioning for attention, and someone tugs on his hoodie in passing, trying to get his attention.

he doesn’t even blink.

because all he can think about is how quiet your apartment was last night.

how your laugh sounded when he tried to talk with his mouth full of cookie. how you looked sitting on his knee, eyes crinkling, fingers brushing crumbs from his shirt.

how easy it was.

how real.

and this? this feels like a joke.

he used to love this shit. the noise, the chaos, the attention. he used to thrive in it. let it fill him up, drown out all the parts of himself that didn’t make sense.

but now it just feels loud.

pointless.

empty.

he pulls his phone from his pocket and checks it without thinking.

no texts.

you’re probably curled up on your couch right now with a mug of tea and some documentary about weird animals. maybe wearing one of your oversized sweaters. maybe thinking about him. maybe not.

he sighs, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes for a second.

wishing, more than anything, that he was with you instead.

meanwhile...

your dorm was quiet tonight.

just the low hum of your mini fridge, the soft whir of the fan you’ve wedged into the corner by the window, and the occasional clatter of your own movements as you putter around your tiny kitchen.

you’re barefoot on the tile, hoodie sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your hair pulled back haphazardly. the playlist you always turn on while baking is playing softly, the comfort stuff, the songs you don’t have to think about. your body moves automatically, reaching for ingredients, measuring out flour and sugar like muscle memory.

but your mind’s somewhere else entirely.

you keep thinking about last night. about the way sukuna looked when he walked through your door, sweaty and annoyed and tired, like the world was grating against him. and how he softened when you sat on his lap and fed him cookies. how he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

that long hug.

you can still feel it.

his arms wrapped around you, your cheek against his chest, the quiet warmth of his body pressed fully into yours like he didn’t want to let go. it wasn’t playful. it wasn’t some joke. it felt like something else. something deeper. something you’re too scared to name.

you missed him the second he left.

you always do.

but tonight, it aches a little more. hell, it aches a hell of a lot.

because you know where he is right now. or, at least, where he’s supposed to be — at that mixer with gojo and the rest of the guys. shoulder to shoulder with every sorority girl on campus. probably surrounded by glitter and perfume and girls in backless dresses.

you try not to picture it.

you try not to imagine him pressed up against someone in a dark corner, hands on her hips, whispering something smooth into her ear. it’s what he used to do, after all. it’s what everyone still thinks he does.

you’ve never asked.

but it’s easier to believe he’s still out there being sukuna, your charming, cocky, slightly feral best friend who fucks around and never gets attached. it’s easier than hoping for something more.

you sigh and lean your hands on the edge of the sink, staring out the window for a moment before pushing off again and turning back to the counter.

if he is out there right now, tangled up with some girl, then so be it. it’s not your business. he’s your friend. he’s always been your friend. and that’s enough.

you shake away the little ache curling up in your chest and reach for the eggs.

he likes custard tarts.

you remember him mentioning it months ago, offhanded, when you were watching some cooking show together and he snorted at a pastry challenge. 'that shit’s easy,' he’d said, and then casually added, 'my grandma used to make those all the time. i could eat like five in one sitting.'

so you’re going to make him some.

you don’t know if he’ll even come by tomorrow, but if he does, it’ll be waiting for him. warm, golden, sweet. something quiet to show him you were thinking about him, even if you won’t say it out loud.

you dust your hands with flour and start rolling out the pastry crust, humming under your breath, praying this suffocating guilt in your chest will soon subside.

back with the man of the hour.

the kitchen is hotter than hell.

bodies packed in tight, music thudding through the walls, the floor sticky with spilled drinks and god-knows-what. it smells like tequila, sweat, and cologne, like every mixer always does. sukuna’s perched at the corner of the counter with a half-empty shot glass in his hand, the burn of whatever cheap liquor they’re using tonight still clinging to his throat.

he’s a few drinks in, not drunk, but warm. loose. not enough to forget, just enough to blur the edges.

“yo,” someone says, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “you still out here slaying or what?

it’s ino, one of the phi sig guys. bleach-blond, grinning like a golden retriever, drunk enough that his words are dragging a little.

sukuna doesn’t answer right away.

he can feel the pause stretching. can feel the weight of it. because he knows exactly where this is going.

“what?” ino says, laughing. “don’t tell me the infamous sukuna went soft on us.”

he’s joking. mostly.

but nearby, sukuna catches gojo’s eyes.

he’s leaning against the wall with a drink in one hand, watching the conversation like a hawk. and when their gazes meet, gojo raises one brow, just slightly. the look is clear.

'just lie to them.'

gojo doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t need to.

because sukuna’s got a reputation. one the frat’s leaned on for years, their golden weapon. their sexed-up, reckless, untouchable president’s right-hand menace. the one who sets the tone at parties, the one who doesn’t hesitate to bang anyone, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t change.

and if word gets out that ryomen sukuna hasn’t laid a hand on anyone in months, that he’s been skipping hookups to hang out with you in your tiny dorm room, baking cookies and trading sleepy smiles? well.

it wouldn’t look good.

not for him. not for the frat. not for the image.

so he swallows the sick twist in his gut and flashes a grin that feels so disgustingly wrong on his face.

“you know how it is,” he says smoothly, rolling his neck like he’s already bored of the conversation. “been busy. but yeah. still getting mine.”

ino laughs and passes him another shot, already leaning in. “anyone good?”

“couple girls from chi o,” sukuna says, shrugging one shoulder. “blonde one — i forget her name. maybe claire? she was loud. pretty sure half the floor heard us.”

ino hollers and claps him on the back, and someone nearby chimes in with a “my fucking guy.”

sukuna downs the shot.

he keeps going.

“hooked up with that junior from zeta last week too. the one with the snake tattoo.”

“mia?” ino gasps.

“yeah,” sukuna half lies, licking his teeth. “she’s got this thing where she likes being choked. like, full hand, no hesitation. freaky as fuck, but she took it like a champ.”

there’s laughter. back slaps. someone throws him another beer.

and sukuna plays along.

he leans into the scumbag act. tells them about how he made her beg. how he didn’t even bother texting her after. throws in some bullshit about how she kept whining for round three and he just left.

and it’s easy, this was how he used to be after all.

his voice is smooth, confident, practiced. he says the words like he’s proud of them. like they don’t taste like ash and piss in his mouth. like they aren’t killing him from the inside out.

because the truth is, he hasn’t touched anyone since he realized he was in love with you.

sure he's fucked those girl before, just not as of late. 

no blonde named claire. no snake tattoo. no begging, no choking, no careless sex with strangers who mean nothing. 

just you.

just the way you looked at him the other night, eyes wide and sweet while you perched on his knee. just the way you made him feel full with nothing but a bite of cookie and a laugh. just the way your arms wrapped around him without hesitation. like he was someone worth holding onto.

but he can’t say that here.

he can’t be that guy.

so he keeps lying. keeps playing the role. keeps smiling through the noise and the heat and the taste of someone else’s expectations on his tongue.

and all the while, in the back of his mind, he’s wondering what you’re doing right now. if your oven’s still on. if your hands are covered in flour. if you’re thinking about him too.

god, he hopes you are. safe away from this performative monster he's so carefully curated.

later.

things have gone off the rails.

the house is sweltering now, bodies packed in so tight you can barely breathe. music’s still blasting, bass heavy enough to make your ribs shake, lights flickering red and blue and green over swaying heads. sweat slicks the walls, the floors are sticky with god-knows-what, and the air smells like beer, weed, and perfume way too sweet to be expensive.

sukuna’s sunk low into the couch in the middle of the living room, a drink sweating in his hand, head tilted back. his shirt sticks to his skin, his legs are spread, and his eyes are half-lidded, glazed over. he’s a few drinks deep, but not enough to be drunk, just enough to dull the headache that’s been building since he walked in.

choso’s next to him, nursing a blunt, and shiu’s perched on the armrest, scrolling through his phone with dead eyes.

“this party fucking blows,” shiu mutters, not looking up.

“wasn’t it your idea to come?” choso says.

“yeah, and i was wrong. fuck me.”

“everyone’s just trying to fuck each other,” choso says flatly. “like aggressively. it’s like a brothel in here.”

“with worse lighting,” shiu adds.

sukuna doesn’t say anything. just watches the way two girls are sloppily grinding against each other on the floor, their drinks spilling down their arms, mascara already halfway down their cheeks. somewhere across the room, someone’s moaning against the wall like they’re getting railed in public, which, honestly, they probably are.

he’s halfway through zoning out again when it happens.

a blonde drops into his lap like a stone.

he barely registers her until she’s already straddling him, arms looped around his neck, tits pushed up and glittering under the party lights.

“found you,” she purrs, loud in his ear. her voice is syrupy sweet, her lips glossed thick and shiny. she presses a wet kiss to his cheek without waiting for permission, then trails her mouth down to his neck.

his body locks up. 'ew.'

she smells like candy and sweat. her lashes are so fake they look heavy. her nails scrape his shoulder through his shirt like she’s trying to get a grip.

“you’re sukuna, right?” she asks, already moving her hips in his lap. “heard you’re fun.”

he wants to shove her off.

wants to grab her wrists and tell her to get the fuck off him, now. because nothing about this feels good. nothing about this feels right. she’s too close, too loud, too much. and all he can think is 'this isn’t you.'

but then he glances up.

and he sees them.

those same frat guys he took shots with earlier, ino and the rest. watching him from across the room with wide eyes and cocky grins. waiting. expecting. this was what they wanted, wasn’t it? the infamous sukuna he had bragged about not even an hour earlier. the legend. the sex god. they’re watching like they’re about to take notes.

and across the room, posted near the kitchen with a drink in hand, gojo is watching too.

his eyes lock with sukuna’s. one raised brow. jaw tight. a warning in his expression.

'don’t fuck this up. just pretend.' he mouths.

this is his job, after all. the frat’s bad boy, their wild card, the one who never slows down. his reputation isn’t just his anymore — it’s tied to the frat’s image, to the hierarchy, to the ego of every guy in this house who needs him to be that guy.

so sukuna doesn’t shove her off.

he lets her kiss his jaw. lets her whisper something slutty in his ear, lets her press her tits into his chest and grind against him like they’re already alone.

he lets her act like she owns him.

his hands rest loose on her waist. one slides down to her thigh, just for show. not tight. not real. just enough to make it look like he’s into it.

his skin crawls.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t speak. he just sits there, dead behind the eyes, playing the part.

choso side-eyes him, a brow lifting. shiu’s halfway through another drink, watching the scene with a quiet kind of judgment.

sukuna doesn’t flinch.

but inside, he’s somewhere else entirely.

he’s thinking about you.

your dorm. your stupid cozy couch. your face lighting up when he told you your cookies were perfect. your hands brushing against his. your warmth.

the way you held him like you knew.

and now he’s here.

pretending.

surrounded by noise and bodies and fake gold glitter. kissing strangers in front of an audience, playing the role of someone he hasn’t been in a long time.

and all he wants is to be home.

with you.

the girl’s hands are everywhere.

on his chest, sliding under his shirt. in his hair, tugging hard like it’s supposed to be sexy. her mouth is hot and wet on his neck, and she keeps saying shit in his ear he can’t even hear over the bass rumbling through the floor.

he doesn’t want this.

hasn’t wanted this from the second she crawled into his lap.

but now she’s pulling him up off the couch, dragging him by the hand through the throng of sweaty bodies. she’s laughing, shrieking something about going upstairs, or maybe back to her place, either way, her grip is iron and her intentions are clear. and people are watching.

he can feel the eyes on him.

guys slapping him on the back as he passes, grinning, nodding, giving him looks that say that’s our guy.the same ones who were cheering earlier when she straddled him like a chair in the middle of the party. girls whispering, side-eyes thrown like confetti.

and gojo.

gojo’s standing near the bottom of the stairs now, cup in hand, watching sukuna get dragged toward the front door like some kind of prize.

they lock eyes.

sukuna hesitates for a beat.

gojo steps forward and claps a hand on his arm, grip tight for a second. he leans in, expression unusually serious beneath the usual shine of his grin.

“sorry, man,” he murmurs under the music. “i shouldn’t have made you do all that shit.”

sukuna doesn’t say anything. just nods once, jaw clenched.

“you’re a good soldier,” gojo adds, half-joking, half-sincere. “but you don’t gotta burn yourself out for the frat.”

sukuna’s too tired to respond. the girl’s tugging on his arm again, fingers clawed around his wrist like she thinks he’ll vanish if she lets go.

they step out the front door into the night.

the air outside is colder than it should be, sharp against his sweaty skin. it hits his lungs too fast. makes him dizzy.

she turns to him immediately, mouth already open. “so i live, like, five minutes away. unless you wanna go to yours? my roommate’s out, so—”

her hands are on his chest again. fumbling with the hem of his shirt, nails dragging over his stomach like she’s mapping him out with zero permission. she presses herself into him, mouth seeking his again, clumsy and insistent.

and that’s when it hits.

the disgust.

the wrongness.

the way it makes his skin crawl, makes his stomach twist. not because she’s unattractive, not because she’s done anything “wrong” by frat party standards — but because she’s not you.

and this? this isn’t him.

he jerks away from her touch as she snakes her hand over the bulge in his jeans.

“stop.”

she blinks, confused. tries to laugh it off, like maybe he’s teasing. “what?”

“i said stop,” he snaps, stepping back. “jesus fucking christ.”

her face falls.

“you can’t just—” she starts, but he’s already shaking his head.

“go." he almost yells. "go home,” he says sharply. “alone.”

her jaw drops like she’s about to protest again, but he’s not listening. he turns, already walking, the cold air slicing through his clothes, his breath fogging up in the dark.

he doesn’t look back.

the sounds of the party are muffled now, swallowed up by the night. but they still echo in his head. the music, the laughter, the voices cheering him on like he’s some kind of fucking mascot. the fake moans and the fake smiles and the way it felt to be watched like he owed everyone a show.

he lights a cigarette with shaking hands.

his stomach still feels sick.

and all he can think about, as the taste of cherry lip gloss lingers like poison, is how right it felt to be on your couch. how warm your kitchen was. how soft your hands were when you brushed his hair back from his forehead like he was something worth caring for.

he walks faster.

because if he doesn’t get away from all this now, he’s not sure he ever will.

his footsteps echo off the pavement, sharp in the emptiness, and his lungs burn with every breath. the cigarette is still between his fingers, barely smoked, the ember flickering weakly in the dark.

he can’t stop shaking.

his skin feels wrong. like something’s still crawling on it. like her hands are still there. he rubs his neck with the heel of his palm, hard, like he can wipe it off. the gloss, the heat, the fakeness of it all.

his stomach lurches.

he stops walking and bends forward instinctively, one hand on his knee, the other bracing against the cold brick wall of the nearest building. he spits once onto the sidewalk, tastes bile and tequila and something rotten.

he breathes through his nose.

in, out, in, out.

think of something else.

think of anything else.

but all he can think about is you.

the way you'd light up when you'd spot him on campus, how you'd always gravitate towards him at parties and hang outs. your stupid soft hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hands covered in flour, smiling like he was your favorite part of your day.

and god, all he wanted to was erase his entire past to start a clean, virgin slate with you.

he almost let some stranger girl touch him in a way he wishes only you would. he let her sit on him, kiss him, grab at him, and he didn’t stop it. didn’t stop it until it was nearly too late.

and for what?

some frat reputation?

gojo’s approval?

a bunch of guys who only know his name because of the stories he used to make up?

he could fucking vomit.

he dry heaves once, hard, and his whole body folds in. he grips the edge of a trash bin like it’ll keep him upright, knuckles going white. but nothing comes up. just air and guilt and the way your name sits on his tongue like a bruise.

'you’re not even mine.'

he reminds himself of that again and again. you’re not his. you’ve never kissed. never fucked. never even admitted how you feel.

you’re just friends. best friends, maybe. roommates in a different life. partners in crime when things are light.

but he knows what this is. knows what’s happening to him.

you’ve ruined him.

your gentleness. your kindness. the way you hold his face when you’re teasing him and don’t even realize it. the way you hug him like he’s worth something. like you see him, all of him, and still choose to stay.

and now he’s here. shaking and fucked-up in the street, gagging over the ghost of a girl who doesn’t matter, while you're sitting at home in your dorm when you could of been here with him, that way, he'd never of let another girl get close, he's speaks the night sitting on the porch, with you.

he sinks down onto the curb, elbows braced on his knees, cigarette hanging limp from his fingers. his vision swims, hot and sharp, his head tipping back to stare at the stars he can’t even see through the city haze.

he should’ve stayed with you.

he should’ve just stayed home, with you.

his hands are trembling when he reaches into his pocket. he fishes blindly past his lighter, crumpled receipts, a folded-up flyer someone handed him earlier, until his fingers close around metal.

your dorm keys.

he pulls them out slowly.

they sit in his palm, warm from his body heat. a pink little charm you’d added dangles from the ring, a squishy cartoon animal he never bothered to learn the name of, even though you told him three times. it jiggles as he stares down at it, breath catching in his throat.

he clenches his fist around them.

tight.

like it’ll keep him grounded. like it’ll make you real again.

the night presses in around him. too quiet, too still. but that ache in his chest, the sour twist in his gut, it all starts to blur the second he stands up and starts walking.

~

your apartment smells like vanilla and nutmeg.

you pull the tray from the oven with slow, tired movements, fingers twitching slightly through the worn edges of your oven mitts. you place it carefully on the cooling rack, your shoulders drooping.

they turned out perfect.

golden brown, smooth custard centers with just the right shimmer. they look like something out of a recipe book. the kind of thing you’d proudly serve someone you care about.

someone who promised he’d come over this weekend.

someone who’s probably in a stranger’s bed right now.

you press your lips together and exhale through your nose, eyes fluttering shut.

that ache in your chest still hasn’t gone away. it’s not sharp anymore, not like earlier, when you imagined his hands on someone else, but it’s still there. dull. tight. like a bruise that refuses to fade.

you try to distract yourself. start wiping down the counter. humming softly. pretending.

and then—

bang.

a clatter at the door. a commotion, keys fumbling against the lock. your head snaps up, heart slamming into your ribs.

before you can move, the door bursts open.

a heaving sukuna stumbles inside.

he’s wild-eyed, flushed, sweaty, like he’s run the whole way here. his shirt’s wrinkled, his jacket half-zipped, one sleeve rolled up and the other down. his hair’s a mess. his knuckles are scraped.

he looks terrible.

and he looks right at you.

for one beat, just one, everything stops.

your eyes meet, and it’s like all the oxygen rushes back into the room. the ache in your chest disappears, the weight behind his eyes fades, the tension that was tearing both of you apart evaporates the second you’re locked into each other’s gaze.

you smile first. a smile he so dearly loved to see.

small. instinctive. like it slips out before you can stop it.

and that’s all it takes.

sukuna moves fast, like something in him finally gives out, and suddenly he’s in front of you, arms wrapping around your body like he needs you to breathe. his chest crashes into yours, hard, and his arms hook tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

your hands flutter up, half-startled, and you steady yourself against his shoulders.

he’s holding you like he’s drowning.

“jesus,” you laugh softly, trying to ease the weight, “what, some girl give you blue balls or something—”

you don’t finish the sentence.

because his grip tightens.

his arms squeeze harder, fingers fisting into the back of your hoodie like he’s trying to climb inside of you. 

his face buries into your neck. and then you hear it.

a sniffle.

not a dramatic one, not obvious, not loud, but small and choked off, like he’s trying not to let it out at all.

your breath catches.

his body trembles once, a subtle shiver that passes through him like a quake, and suddenly your joke feels cruel, your smile falters, and your heart lodges somewhere in your throat.

your voice drops, softer than you’ve ever used with him.

“ryo…”

you pull back just enough to see his face.

his eyes are glassy. rimmed red. lashes damp like he’s been holding it in for a while. and when he blinks, slow and heavy, a single tear finally falls, trailing down the sharp angle of his cheek.

your heart cracks clean in two.

like your body just knows, like it feels his pain before you can even register it, your own eyes burn immediately. you try to hold it in, but it stings anyway. wells up fast, like your chest doesn’t know how to hold all the ache that’s suddenly there.

he sees it.

his lips twitch, and he forces out a quiet, watery chuckle. “of course you're that kinda person” he murmurs, voice thick. “the type to cry when someone else cries. like it’s a reflex or something.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “i've only done it for you.”

that makes him go still.

your hand lifts to his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye, and your voice trembles with the weight of it all. “because i care about you, ryo. so much. more than i can even explain.”

his breath stutters.

and for a second, he doesn’t say anything.

he just looks at you, like you’re something he’s been waiting for his whole life. and then he smiles, soft and small and cracked open, and leans forward until his forehead is pressed to yours again.

you close your eyes.

you fall into each other like instinct.

your arms wrap around his neck again, and his circle your waist. tighter this time. not desperate. just sure.

you still don’t know why he’s crying.

he hasn’t told you anything. hasn’t explained the bloodshot eyes or the tremble in his hands or the way he stumbled through your door like you were home.

but none of that matters.

because he’s sad.

and that makes you sad.

so you hold him. and he holds you back.

"y/n. i love you."

you freeze.

like your whole body forgets how to move.

his voice is quiet, broken at the edges, low and raw like it got scraped out of his chest just for you. you feel it before you even fully process it. like the words ripple through your bloodstream faster than they hit your ears.

you pull back just slightly, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere in your throat.

“h-huh…?”

his gaze is already on you. steady. not flinching. his brows are pinched like he’s terrified, like he’s bracing for the worst, but his hands never leave you. they stay right where they’ve been, one at the small of your back, the other cradling your side like he’s holding something fragile.

“i love you,” he says again, firmer this time. “i think i’ve loved you since the first time you told me about some weird show you liked and forgot to breathe because you were talking too fast. i didn’t know it then, but—fuck, y/n. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

your eyes sting.

you’re not sure if you’re breathing.

his thumb rubs absent circles at your hip. his voice is shaking.

“i haven’t touched anyone since i figured it out. haven’t even looked at anyone like that. i tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. i told myself i could just be around you like normal and it’d pass. but it didn’t. it just got worse. everything felt worse without you.”

you press your lips together, hard.

your chest is aching so sweetly it almost feels like pain.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly, eyes flicking over your face. “i know this is a lot. i just—i couldn’t keep lying. not after tonight.”

you open your mouth, then close it again.

you’re not even sure what expression’s on your face, shock? relief? some impossible mixture of everything you’ve ever felt for him suddenly rising to the surface all at once.

but eventually, finally, your voice comes out.

quiet.

“say it again.”

his brows lift.

you lean in closer, eyes shining. “please. just say it one more time.”

he swallows.

and then he breathes it like a vow.

“i love you.”

you surge forward, arms around his neck, and kiss him like it’s the only thing you’ve been trying not to do for months.

and this time, he doesn’t tremble.

he melts.

like he’s been waiting his whole life just for this.

your lips part from his just enough to breathe.

his eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way your fingers feel curled into the back of his neck. and you watch him for a second — the way his lashes tremble, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s never been kissed before.

and then you say it.

soft.

barely more than a whisper.

“i love you too.”

his eyes open slow.

like he needs to see your face to make sure it’s real.

and when he does, when he sees the truth of it in your eyes, your smile, the way your hand lingers over his heart like it belongs there, he laughs.

it’s small at first. breathless. disbelieving.

then you start laughing too.

and it bubbles out of both of you, giddy and bright, like it’s been waiting there under the surface all this time, the kind of laughter that spills into kisses, that makes your foreheads knock together, that leaves you smiling so wide your cheeks ache.

you’re both a little teary still. a little overwhelmed.

but it doesn’t matter.

because when he kisses you again, deeper this time, fuller, with both hands cupping your face like he’s never going to let you go, it’s not heavy. it’s not hard. it’s not desperate.

it’s just good.

it’s just right.

like the floodgates have finally opened, and everything you’ve both been holding back comes pouring out in warmth and wonder and wonder and wonder.

you’re still holding the edges of each other when he pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.

“you’re it for me.”

and you smile.

because he’s it for you too.

you’re both still smiling, flushed and warm and tangled up in each other, when he suddenly sniffs the air.

his nose scrunches. he blinks. then his head slowly turns toward the counter behind you.

“…wait.”

you already know what’s coming.

he sniffs again, exaggerated and dramatic, eyebrows lifting higher with every inhale. “is that—?” he gasps, stepping around you to look.

“your favourite?” you finish, barely holding back your grin.

his eyes go wide. cartoonishly wide.

“you made them?”

you nod, biting your bottom lip, and gesture toward the cooling tray like you’re unveiling the secret ingredient in a baking show. “fresh from the oven. made them for you, actually. figured you might come by after—”

you don’t even finish the sentence before he lets out the softest noise, like a choked gasp of joy, (very uncharacteristically cute for him.) and practically tackles you in a hug. 

“you’re so cute,” he says, spinning you around like it’s instinct, like you’re weightless. you squeal, laughing into his shoulder, clinging to him as he twirls you once in a giddy circle. “you made me custard tarts? i could eat you up right here, i swear to god.”

“ahh i see, so you're gonna eat me and the tarts? someone's getting greedy.”

“absolutely.”

you laugh breathlessly, hands braced against his chest as he sets you back down. “god you perv, did you have to ruin it?”

“sorry, sorry,” he mutters, grinning like an idiot.

he leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet, then cups your cheeks like you’re something precious and kisses you again, deeper, like he can’t help it, like you’re his favorite dessert.

“always wanted to thank you like this,” he murmurs against your lips. “for all the stuff you do for me. the baking, the hugs, the late-night pep talks. all of it. i just never had the guts.”

you giggle, your hands sliding up his arms as you melt into him again.

and as he dips you backward like he’s about to marry you right there in your tiny kitchen, you decide the tarts can wait just a little longer.

my 2k special i hope you liked it 😎

Gunshots echoed, bullets ricocheting, and in the midst of this circus of a firework show, there Yuji was—dodging clattering cans, cartons, and cereal boxes he was trying to save.

“Okay, think, think—don’t die, don’t die.”

The robber, in his ridiculous ski mask, barreled through the aisles in his frantic craze with his crowbar. 

“Out of my way!” he shouted, knocking over another pyramid of canned chickpeas.

Yuji smirked.

Suddenly, a web shot out from his wrist, and the robber yelped as the strand snagged his ankle, tripping him into innocent chips. It’s almost pitiful as his arms flailed helplessly, packs crashing at the spectacle. With a grin, Yuji shot another string of white around the man’s torso.

“Relax! I’m the friendly neighbourhood jock—wait, superhero! Friendly neighbourhood superhero!”

Though the robber still spun in place, tumbling like a washing machine on spin cycle,

“You little—”

Yuji fired again, webbing his arms and yanking him upright,  

“Ohhh, you like being dramatic? We can do dramatic.”

Another around the legs, another around the torso, and suddenly the man found himself dangling midair like a piñata—arms pinned to his sides, legs stiff as broomsticks.

A jar of olives bounced off his head for emphasis.

“PUT ME DOWN! WHAT IS THIS—?!”

With a swing from the shelf, Yuji landed with flair, crouching on a layered stack of cereal boxes as he grinned in amusement.

“Relax, dude. You’re… uh… artfully suspended. Also, please stop moving, you’re making me dizzy.”

To his dismay, the robber still gyrated, knocking over carts and cans skittering across like tiny rockets. Thankfully, Yuji ducked just in time. With a sigh, he simply shot another web again.

“Hold still! Or I swear, I’ll—wait, nope, I’m not threatening you. I’m… just trying to help! With style!”

So, fast-forward to now, and really, it’s just another Tuesday in 2010s New York.

“The main cultural differences shape America in—”

“Hey! Can you let me down already?!”

Yuji, eyes squinted, snaps his head toward the man, coins jingling from his pockets. But he isn’t frowning at the robber… He just can’t read his notebook properly, especially with the thin fabric over his eyes. Each word is blurred into hazy smudges of grey.

Sometimes, Yuji Itadori doesn’t mind being the centre of attention.

Not when he's wearing the tight red-and-blue jumpsuit Nobara had stitched for him, seams puckered in all her nagging perfection.

Not when Megumi’s tech—definitely not borrowed, not stolen from his lab—glimmers faintly at his wrists.

And not when local news crews are scrambling to post grainy cellphone footage online, captions labelled with ridiculous, corny hashtags like #NYCSpidey, #OvercaffeinatedAcrobat, and #UnmaskThisGuy.

As soon as his last lecture of the day ends, he pulls down the mask, slips into the famous suit, and swings through the empire city that never sleeps.

He’s not Yuji Itadori anymore. He’s Spider-Man.

But tonight, though, he has an even greater problem than petty robberies and saving cats in trees. He has college.

“Dude, can you keep it down? I have an assignment due tomorrow and I’m stuck here babysitting you—”

Police sirens wail in the distance, cutting him off. And underneath his mask, he simply smirks, snapping his notebook shut as red and blue sweep across the graffiti‑scrawled walls.

“Aaand that’s my cue.”

With a flick of his wrist, the man is left gaping, flailing uselessly as Yuji leaps from the ledge. 

The moon hangs low and full tonight. In the midst of its glow, he arcs over streets, headlights glinting like glass, weaving in between scaffolding poles. Trash swirls in the gusts around him, while faint damp concrete lingers as he glides past flickering streetlamps.

The grids of blocks lie dark, the breeze sharp, yet every window glimmers with golden light; they’re constellations scattered across the city that guide him home.

Even if what he does is nowhere near world-changing, he’s always reminded that the city is full of life, narratives. Every window, every golden light that spills through each pane of glass, hides a story—a heartbeat—and that fact alone is enough to lessen the weight of his double life just a bit.

As always, while swinging past, his gaze skims the streets, searching through the blur of headlights and shadows. He finds you like clockwork. Trudging home, arms full of groceries: a paper bag with lettuce, a baguette tucked under your arm, and vegetables brimming atop. You’re humming a song from your dangling earbuds, oblivious to the world around you.

He doesn’t mean to stare, but when you live in the same flat, coming home at the same time he clocks out from patrol… well, it’s only natural he makes sure his crush roommate gets home safe, too, right?

“I wonder what she’s making tonight…” he mutters.

With one soft push, he slips his window open and dives back inside.

The wooden floor doesn’t even creak under his landing, and the globe lamp atop his desk glows like a dim moon over scattered paper. He passes sticky notes plastered across his wall, zipping out his suit and tossing his book onto the bed. Stepping out, he flicks on the hallway lights—and it isn’t long before he hears the usual. 

Your keys, the gentle click of the lock, and the first step you take inside, wrapped in the flat’s cosy warmth.

“Welcome back!” Yuji beams, hair tousled.

You nod back with a smile, shutting the door behind as you toe off your shoes. As you set the bag of groceries onto the kitchen island, you give him a smug smirk,

“Did you just wake up?”

His eyes dart away, guilty, all while he rubs the back of his neck. A sheepish chuckle escapes.

“...Maybe?”

You raise an eyebrow, sighing as he pulls a chair from the island. 

Ever since you moved in together with your childhood friend, you’ve learned three things about him: he eats terribly, naps like a cat, and will stare at you from the corner of the room with glassy, desperate eyes if he ever smells food.

And whether he admits it or not, you know when to drag him by the wrist, plop him down in front of a bowl, and pour him something warm. You’ve done it since high school. You’re still doing it now.

Sure, he’s stubborn, but so are you, and tonight is no different.

“I’m just making some simple tomato soup,” you say, spreading the groceries across the counter.

The city skyline glitters faintly from behind him, setting aglow the twinkling fascination in his golden eyes.

“Because you—” you tap his forehead with a finger, nudging him back, “are finishing your presentation script tonight. And I’m helping you with it.”

His eyes widen. 

“What?! How do you know about that?”

“If I have to hear Megumi complain one more time about you cramming your share of the load,” you groan, washing the vegetables, “I might start seeing both of you in my dreams.”

“Oops…” Yuji whistles, caught red-handed.

In the corner of your eye, you see him drift over as you slice the tomatoes.

“Can I help you cook then? Y’know… as repayment?” 

You nearly slice the tip of your finger at the audacity, but his hands, as usual, catch your wrist before anything disastrous happens.

“You?”

You turn to look at him, his smile as bright as ever.

“The last time you offered, everything tasted bland.”

He pouts under your gaze—lips pursed, brows scrunched.

“I’ll never learn if I don’t try...”

A beat passes.

You sigh in resignation, and that’s all he needs. Yuji’s already pumping his fists triumphantly in the air, snatching the spare apron hanging off the oven handle.

“Let’s goooo!” he cheers.

You giggle at his flippant victory cry, but you don’t notice how his gaze lingers on you in the soft golden kitchen light—the curve of your eyes, the bloom of your cheeks. He’s taller than you, so it goes unnoticed, hidden in the shadow between you.

“And this time, don’t forget the salt,” you tease, stepping toward the pot.

“Yeah, yeah—oh! Put on that Cowboy Bebop opening. It’s been stuck in my head all day.”

You frown, eyeing the tiny apron stretched ridiculously over his frame. Your thumb’s already swiping across your battered iPhone 4, searching. When the first chord blasts, Yuji just stares.

“Based on how you’re holding that knife,” you chortle, “this feels more fitting.”

“…You think I’m gonna break into kung-fu fighting?!”

You shrug mockingly, moving to boil the water as he sputters just beside you. And it isn’t long before the kitchen settles into a cosy rhythm—the chop of vegetables, the hiss of butter, the soft swirl of simmering broth—and of course, your constant two-minute interval scoldings.

“W–Why are the tomatoes diced like that?”

“I—I swear someone did this on Hell’s Kitchen last night—”

“I told you a little oil. Why is the pan half full?!”

“Uh…”

“I’m monitoring what kind of weird cooking shows you’re watching from now on.”

The soup’s fragrance fills the room—sun-ripe tomatoes, roasted garlic, and basil blooming bright with butter. It smells like warmth, like home, and the little life you’ve carved out together. Even Yuji stops mid-chop, knife still hovering in the air, just to inhale.

“Here you go,” you say, sliding the bowl toward him.

He drops into his chair—shoulders rolling, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips. He thinks you don’t notice, but his fingers are still faintly red around the knuckles. The moment his eyes land on the bowl, something bright flickers in him.

The soup glows a deep orange-red, thick and velvety, droplets of olive oil shimmering across its sheen like tiny flecks of gold. Steam curls upward, brushing his cheeks, and in the dead of winter, the warmth blooms against him like late summer. Softening the night sky, brightening it like morning light.

When he takes the first spoonful, his eyes go wide.

Silence hangs in the room, but he just sets the spoon down gently, shoulders dropping another inch. He takes another bite, slower, and holds it in on his tongue. Under the table, his foot taps out its usual restless beat to a steady rhythm.

You have no idea what kind of day he’s had to be this hungry.

You don’t see the scuff on the side of his shoe, from where he landed too fast on the rooftop across the street. Or the tiny tear at the hem of his sleeve, where something sharp grazed him. Or the way he’d winced when you turned away earlier, instantly straightening as if nothing had happened.

All you see is Yuji—sunshine, sweetness—devouring the soup as if it’s literally saving him. You quietly rest your chin in your hands, grinning while he inhales spoonful after spoonful, like it’s the single greatest thing he’s tasted all week.

“Is it good?” you coo.

He nods so fast his hair bounces, and a smear of soup ends up on the corner of his lip. He doesn’t notice, but you do, and you’re giggling before you can stop yourself.

You turn toward the window, watching the city smear into streaks of gold and red, and in that split second, he lifts his gaze, eyes catching on you. His spoon pauses halfway to his mouth, suspended in midair, forgotten for the still of a heartbeat.

His breath stumbles, chest rising too quickly in the quiet. Goosebumps prick along his arms, and this time, it isn’t from the danger his sixth sense is warning him of. It’s from the way the skyline burns in your eyes, as if every light in New York decided to gather just to admire you with him.

He catches the soft amber strokes on your cheeks as your small smile curls like cotton-soft warmth—and underneath the dim neon glow, you look too gentle for the shadows, too bright for the night. For a breathless moment, he wants to steal you away.

To borrow you from the world, and keep this evening tucked somewhere only for the two of you.

“...Let’s go see something.”

The words slip out before he can catch them.

You blink up at him, and the room instantly falls away, softened to all but a hush of the world.

“What?”

He’s already getting up from his seat, draping his jacket over your shoulders as he takes your bowl. He reaches out your hand, and after a few seconds, you finally cave in. Leading you to the window, he pushes it open to the rushing cold air.

“What are you—”

“Trust me.”

He steps onto the fire escape’s metal platform. You hesitate for only a heartbeat, then follow, fingertips brushing the cold iron railing. Halfway up, he glances back at you, and his smile spills across the dim rooftop glow. Brighter than Manhattan’s windows, brighter than the neon signs, and even more so than the giddiness in your chest.

Your heart stutters for a bit.

The hum of traffic drifts up from below, weaving through the gaps in the grating, and when you reach the rooftop, the wind tugs at your clothes, ruffling hair and jacket alike. Stretched beneath you was the entire glitter of New York ahead, a glowing chaos of gold veins and shadows.

You suck in a breath, clutching Yuji’s jacket tighter around your shoulders.

“...It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at the shimmering skyline, but only at you. The spark in your eyes catching the glint of distant lights. Sitting down, he pats away the dust beside him, pulling you down to follow him. You plop yourself down, knees brushing.

“Right? When things are heavy, I like to sit and just watch the lights from above.”

Giggling, you take the warm bowl from his hands, the heat spreading through your fingers and mingling with the steam curling like tiny ghosts between you.

“I didn’t know you were also a rooftop climber.”

He flinches slightly, but you don’t notice, lost as you are in the flickering tapestry of lights and the comforting weight of his jacket draped around your shoulders.

“...Thanks,” you murmur.

He tilts his head to your voice, and his smile blooms like a lantern in the cold fluorescent glow of the city. He notices the dark circles under your eyes, the slump of your shoulders while cooking, and the faint, heavy sighs. Time hangs between you, quiet. 

“Is it because of your mother?” 

He doesn’t mean to pry. He simply waits, patient and quiet.

Years ago, when he was fourteen and the weight of the world had abandoned him to debt and despair, it was you who had pulled him into the light.

You, who had brought him home, were pleading with your parents to let him stay, working alongside him through three jobs, shielding him from bullies, and carving out space for him in a world that had none.

And it wasn't because of pity—it was simply because it was right.

And that small, steady truth had been more than enough for him to realise, walking home together one evening, that life without you was unthinkable. Impossible.

But ever since that incident, Yuji spends his nights differently now, wondering if he even still has the right to be sitting next to you. Perhaps that’s why he’s swinging across buildings now, a distraction to the ache he can’t name. The tugging knot of fear that writhes from his core.

“Mm… same old,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the golden veins of streets below, lids heavy.

“You know I’m always here for you, right?” 

You shift your gaze toward him. His brows crease, jaw tight, lips parted, as if he’s waiting for a question you’ve buried too deep to speak. Yet your hands move betrayingly, fingers brushing against his, seeking him out over the coarse, cold brick beneath you.

He threads his fingers through yours with an ease so natural, it terrifies you. A knot coils low in your stomach, tightening with every heartbeat, your hand trembling beneath the gentle heat of his.

The wind tugs at your hair, lights flickering beyond the skyline like tiny stars. Amidst the faint hum of traffic and the electric scent of the city, each glow pulses, just like the racing of your heart.

You can feel it, the quiet certainty in his touch. You know he means it. You really do.

But even so, your lips betray you. They tremble against a single word, from the weight of too many nights spent replaying every thought, every fear.

“...Thanks.”

A fragile whisper, soft as paper, heavy as stone.

Somewhere far below, a taxi honks. Somewhere far above, a neon sign blinks. But in between both, it’s just the two of you. And even with all the uncertainty, the nights, and the unspoken truths that linger between breaths, you settle.

This litany of quiet is enough.

It’s eleven o'clock out, the sun is stupidly bright, and you want to die. Like—crawl six feet under and stay burrowed in there—die. 

“See you tomorrow!” the woman calls as you leave, a paper bag of tangerines digging into your fingers.

You flash her a beaming smile, hiding your soul-rotting exhaustion. The door’s jingle follows you onto the bustling sidewalk.

New York is already in full chaos mode. Yellow cabs are barking at each other, crowds are shoving downstream like human traffic jams, and tourists are wrestling with crumpled city maps like they’re cursed.

When you glance up, you see the usual pigeons parading shop awnings, lined like entitled landlords. Scaffolding poles crisscross above you, towering between skyscrapers, and your earphones dangle uselessly around your neck.

No song is strong enough to fight the throbbing migraine pulsing behind your eyes, and it’s probably because you were up until 5:00 a.m. helping Yuji.

The memory punches you in the brain.

“Why the hell is it blank?” you’d blurted—because how else were you supposed to react to that monstrosity?

You were both on the living room carpet, his laptop glowing tragically atop the coffee table. Yuji jerked his head toward you, scandalised.

“Um, no? There’s the title slide, the body slide, and the bullet points. It’s got everything it needs.”

You didn’t need a degree to see all the ways that was a crime, and maybe you’re just a saint—that’s what he thinks—but you were already storming into your room, grabbing your laptop.

“Okay, you—” you pointed at him, “write your script. I’m fixing your slides.”

His eyes widened, watching as you flipped open your laptop, copied the link, and sent it over.

“We’ll revise the whole thing on four, and—”

Bla bla bla… your words were already blurring into the mindless static of Yuji’s head. In that deserted hollowness of a brain, there was just awe.

The way your focus sharpened, the way your brows pinched, the way you sank into a task like the world around you melted away… it was the same look you’d had four years prior.

When both of you still worked for some cramped, greasy kitchen in Queens—and then, he’d been elbow‑deep in suds, wrist aching, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead.

Suddenly, you burst through the door.

“What the—” Yuji had jumped, nearly dropping a plate.

You didn’t even flinch at his shock. You were already rolling up your sleeves, sweeping half his stack of dirty dishes into your arms.

“No wonder you’re coming home at ten every day,” you muttered, scrubbing. “I asked the manager how many extra shifts you took. Care to explain?”

Yuji immediately paused. Your eyes still stayed focused on your side of the sink, though. The plate in his hand, the steam, and the music drifting faintly from the restaurant’s old radio all seemed to stop.

“We need the money,” he said gently, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a hopeful smile. 

He reached to take the plate from you,

“Come on—hand it back. It’s my responsibility.”

Your grip didn’t budge. You just glared at him from under your lashes.

“We promised not to keep secrets from each other,” you murmured.

Silence fell. Only the muted hum of jazz seeped in from the dining area, trembling throughout the fragile string in the air.

Then you whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear.

“...It's not like I want to stay home either."

His stomach tightened.

You weren’t supposed to say—even, feel that kind of hurt. Hell, he didn't want you to think of uttering those words... At least when he was by your side.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. But after a few moments of still silence, he dug his fingers into his palms.

His chest paused mid-rise.

“We’re moving out as soon as I get paid.”

Your head snapped toward him. And there it was—that boyish grin. The same one he’d given you at six years old on the playground, when he offered you half his juice box just after you scraped your knee.

“I checked our savings,” he said softly. “We’ll have enough by this month.”

Your lips parted. Your eyes widened. And when the realisation hit you, Yuji quickly stripped off his gloves and ruffled your hair with a warm, shaking laugh.

“New York, angel. New life.”

Your throat tightened. Your heart stopped.

And before you knew it, your vision was blurring up like fog. His hair still spun rose-gold, soft and shimmering through the garble—and somehow, even through the haze, he was still the brightest thing in the room.

He had prayed to every God he knew to do anything, to never see you cry again. That if sadness ever had to choose, it would pick him, and not you.

So when your tears finally spilt under the cheap fluorescent lights, he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you in, firm arms wrapping around you as you clung to the back of his hoodie, shoulders shaking.

You choked on your own soft sniffles, finally surrendering to the dam of emotions you’d bottled all these years. All the while, he quietly kept his hold on you, whispering it again, breath warm against your ear.

New York. New life.

Flash forward four years—after the spider bite, after the powers, after the secrets that clawed at his nights—and some things never changed.

“Angel…” he murmured, stunned all over again.

Sure, he saved cats, strangers and entire banks on his better days, but it came at the cost of everything else.

His friends all think he’s unreliable, a dud, and weirdly bad at showing up—college deadlines slipped, plans fell apart, and every time the hairs on his arms stood up, that electric buzz tingling in his bones—he had to go. He just had to.

He knew what happened when he ignored it, and even in the darkest of nights, he still hears the crackle of fire from the apartment next door.

But you stayed.

You always stayed.

He wanted to hug you.

To kiss you.

To press his forehead to yours and promise that he’d protect you from everything—even himself.

But he swallowed it down, locked it away where it couldn’t slip out too easily.

And he just… smiled.

That boyish, earnest smile he never realises has the power to crumble all your walls.

Enough to also keep your whole world from collapsing. Enough to make you brave. Enough to make you trust him even when everything else in your life feels like it’s slipping between your fingers.

For as long as you can remember, it’s always felt like you and him against the world.

You know how he disappears every night, how he’s never on time for anything, how he comes back scraped or breathless or exhausted—but you never ask. You don’t pry. You don’t push.

Because Yuji is the one person you’d bend your whole life around if it meant easing his burdens. You trust him—you trust him in a way that terrifies you. You’ve known him long enough to understand the softness of his heart, the way he tries to carry everything alone, the way he refuses to let people worry for him.

And you know, deep down, that he’d never hurt anyone.

He’d never hurt you.

So you keep your silence with that one line he’s unknowingly drawn between you. 

Even when you feel his gaze lingering on you longer than it should.

Even when goosebumps rise along your arms in the soft, living warmth of the room.

Even when you ache to reach out, to cup his face, to ask him why it feels like something is always slipping away.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you steps forward.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, his hands clench slightly at his thighs.

Even when this fragile string you’re threading so carefully on is the very thing hurting you both.

You’re slipping through the afternoon crowd like a loose page torn from a book, shoving past another tourist whose camera strap is swinging wildly. The air smells faintly of burnt bagels, exhaust, and wet asphalt from last night’s rain. Metal trash cans clatter in the wind, lids rattling against their rims, and somewhere above, the faint screech of the subway reverberates from the tracks overhead.

Footsteps echo around you, tyres hiss against the wet asphalt, yet even in this city that never sleeps, your thoughts drift as you shuffle through the bustle.

I wonder how Yuji’s presentation went?

Hopefully well. Otherwise, you’ll have to suffer through the hell of Megumi’s complaints for at least another month. 

You yawn, squinting as your vision blurs slightly against the harsh reflection of the rising sun on glass skyscrapers. The traffic light clicks, the pedestrians’ signal flipping to red, but suddenly, your eyes catch something else entirely.

Something small, trembling, utterly out of place in the chaos. A golden-furred bundle curled in the middle of the crossing. 

A puppy.

Your heart stutters.

Everyone sees it, yet no one moves. Cars keep rolling, and the pup curls in on itself, shaking so violently you can feel it even from the curb.

What the hell?

Your mind scatters in ten directions at once, tripping over every worst-case scenario. Logic screams, Don’t run into traffic, so you're forced to stand there—foot tapping, throat tight, breath trapped—waiting. As soon as the pedestrian light ticks green, your legs run before you can even think.

You sprint.

Your sneakers slap against the asphalt, the city blurring around you in a rush of horns and exhaust. With a quick drop of a crouch, breath heaving, you slowly stick out a hand for it to sniff, but it shrinks back, paws skittering against the cold pavement. 

It’s terrified. Of everything. The honks, the stomps, the chatter—New York’s roar is swallowing the tiny thing whole.

The pedestrian countdown crackles overhead, each tick like a punch to your ribs, and your heartbeat syncs with it—frantic, stuttering, racing.

“It’s okay, it’s okay…” you whisper.

But it’s not. Not even close.

You glance up.

Ten seconds left.

Fuck it.

You drop the paper bag. Tangerines scatter across the crosswalk, bumping under shoes, rolling into gutters as you sweep the trembling puppy into your arms. Its ribs flutter against your palms frantically. You whisper whatever calming nonsense you can manage—

HOOOONK.

The blare is so loud it splits your thoughts in half.

Before you even fully straighten, the world explodes into white behind your eyes. You snap your head toward the sound.

A truck is barreling toward you.

Too close.

Too fast.

Your entire body locks. There’s no time to run, no time to scream. The world narrows to the shadow swallowing you—

An arm suddenly clamps around your waist.

The ground vanishes, wind knifes past your ears. In a blink of an eye, you’re off the asphalt and slammed into the blur of motion. 

The city snaps back into focus just as your feet touch down on solid pavement, and right behind you,

“Whoa there—careful!”

You freeze, heart slamming into your ribs.

You know that voice. You’d know it in a thunderstorm, a blackout, a dream.

“Yu—”

But when you whirl around, ready to scream at him, you freeze. The person holding you isn’t Yuji.

It’s Spider-Man.

The spandex, the mask, and the red and blue in all its stupid glory—standing right in front of you, fingers still trembling slightly where they had been gripping your waist. He slowly lets go of it, watching as you spin to face him, face shaken. 

As more and more people start to crowd the two of you, they’re lifting phones, shouting.

It’s his voice. You know it.

But there’s also absolutely no way that Yuji Itadori—your perpetually late, starving, ghost of a roommate—is the same Spider-Man plastered all over the Daily Bugle every day, busy saving lives.

You swallow hard.

“…Thank you.”

He glances down, raising his knuckle for the shaking pup—and after a few sniffs, he boops its nose, its tail giving a tiny, shy wag. 

“What a cutie,” he says softly. “Is this yours?”

He knows the answer. He shouldn’t even be talking this much. But when you look up at him—stunned, scared, and shocked—he stays.

You pause for a moment, brain short-circuiting before shaking your head. 

He gestures gently.

“I can take him to a local shelter, if you want.”

What?

Your arms instinctively tighten around the pup, but after a few beats, the tension in your shoulders eases. With a hesitant nod, you slowly pass it over—and to your surprise, he holds the little thing way too gently, cradling it close to his chest.

Then, he asks,

“Do you want to come with us?”

Your head instantly perks up to him. 

He wants you to come… with him.

Your heart thuds against your ribs, the cluster of crowds sending your brain into cartwheels now. Your fists are still against his chest, clenched, and after a few beats, you nod once.

“...Please?” you add, voice barely above a whisper.

Something in him melts.

“Alright,” he murmurs, hooking an arm around your waist with the pup. “No tall skyscrapers this time, though. Gotta make sure I don’t scare the pup.”

Before you can even process what he’s saying, a white web shoots out from his wrist—

And you’re fucking airborne.

“AAAAA—!!”

You’re screaming as the wind whips across your face, the ground blurring beneath your feet.

One awning leads to another, gilding just above the traffic—and somehow, that makes it even more terrifying; you can see the cars, the flashing lights, the stunned pedestrians filming you as you pass.

You cling to him like your life depends on it, your yell trembling amidst the racing wind as your arms stay wrapped tight around his neck. Meanwhile, this idiot is laughing. Laughing. And even the puppy is having fun, tail wagging like a metronome of betrayal.

You swear you can even see his tail wagging as well, burrowing your face even deeper into his neck as you shut your eyes.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” you shout, voice cracking.

The idiot of a vigilante only laughs harder, grip still strong on your waist.

He doesn’t know how his heart nearly stopped when he saw you kneeling in front of the barreling truck. He doesn’t know how close he came to losing his mind. And he doesn’t know how many Gods he’d prayed for the shortest split second.

Every God, to reach you in time.

But he knows one thing:

You’re here, screaming—scared shitless, sure—but alive.

“Put me down, put me down, put me down!” You’re sobbing into his neck, eyes glued shut as the wind smacks the hair into your face. 

Finally, the world slows to a stop. He lands softly on the asphalt, and everything stills—all but your trembling breaths. Shallow, shaky, and way too embarrassingly loud in your own ears.

He leans in, voice low enough that only you can hear it through the muffled city noise.

“We’re here,” he whispers.

You refuse to move. Absolutely not.

Your face stays buried in the crook of his neck, arms locked tight, fingers curled stubbornly. He chuckles softly.

Cute.

The pup wiggles out from between you two, popping its head out. It yaps once, twice, and you slowly crack open one eye, hands weakly releasing their grip on his suit. A shaky breath leaves your lips as you finally peel yourself off him, stumbling back—only for him to catch you again by the elbow.

“And we haven’t even reached forty feet yet,” he teases, head tilted.

You glare weakly, voice hoarse.

“I am never doing that again.”

He doesn’t even need to say anything; you can feel the smug grin through the mask. 

With a soft spin on his heel, he steps past you toward a storefront wedged between two towering brick buildings. The sign above it is faded, chipped around the edges, and the door’s chime jingles as he slips inside with the puppy nestled in one arm.

You stand there in the midst of the pavement, though, heart still thundering, sneakers planted on solid ground, and even if you’ve touched the ground for at least a few minutes now, it feels like you’re still up there mid-swing.

The city moves like normal around you. Horns, footsteps, conversations—it all feels muted, stuffed cotton in your ears. You’re floating.

Absolutely floating.

A few moments later, and the chime rings again. He steps out… with the same puppy still in his arms. You blink as he gives a tiny shrug.

“Sooo… turns out they’re totally out of vacant spots right now.”

He glances at the pup, the critter innocently tilting its head. 

“I can swing to another one, maybe—”

“I’ll take him.”

The words leave your mouth before you even think them through, cutting through the fragile string of silence.

He looks at you, stunned. You’re taking it in?

Before he can say anything, you crouch immediately, scratching the puppy under the chin as it whines into your palm, tail flailing like a fuzzy little helicopter.

Sure, why not?

Maybe Yuji will finally start showing up more. Maybe he’ll actually help take care of it. Maybe—

“Uh—you sure?”

All the while, Yuji, as mentioned above, is panicking to death in his head. He’s not even there for half the night, how the hell is he gonna take care of it? But there’s you, of course, so it can’t be that bad, right?

“Mhm,” you nod, scooping the warm ball of golden fluff against your chest. “Look, it loves me already!”

You giggle as it barks happily, tiny paws scrambling at your collar as it leans up to lick your jaw. Warm little breaths puff against your skin, sunlight breaking through the thinning clouds overhead, catching on its fur and turning it into a tiny halo of honey-gold—soft enough to melt winter, blithe enough to quiet the city. 

He goes still. 

Of course, it loves you.

The breeze rolls by, threading through the loose strands of your hair, and he watches the sunlight kiss them the same way it kisses the dog’s fur, as if the two of you were made of the same warmth.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The tilt of his head, the stillness of his hands, the way he forgets about the crowd, the noise, the city—all of it betrays him.

You’re shining underneath the bleeding sun, laughing even with the trembling puppy in your arms, and for one still second, the weight of what almost happened hits him harder than any fall he’s taken tonight.

Harder than any punch, any rooftop landing, any sprint through the freezing wind.

And he knows it. He knows exactly what that ache is.

“Where do you live?” he asks, voice lower than before, too casual even to be casual.

Your gaze snaps to him. And the second you see the curve of his masked grin—smug, obvious, and entirely too proud of himself—your stomach sinks.

“So…” he drawls, head tilting. “Round two?”

You groan, clutching the dog a little tighter like it might suddenly save you.

“God, save me.”

“Roger that, Ma’am.”

You smack his arm. He laughs. 

And the sun, traitorous as ever, lights you up like something worth falling for.

The metal railing trembles as he steps onto your balcony, but unlike it, you don’t steady—not even after your sneakers touch the concrete. Your knees are still jelly, your stomach is still somewhere midair, and you’re pretty sure you’ll never get used to this.

Frankly, you’re praying you won’t ever have to.

Behind you, the sun melts into winter’s edge, streaking the clouds with bleeding crimson.

“Welcome home!”

“Thank you,” you breathe.

The golden pup squirms in your arms, and the moment you crack open the balcony door, it launches inside. You can’t help but laugh as it bounds across the living room, sniffing corners, trotting in frantic circles, all while its tail wags with a delirious joy only pure innocence can have. 

You’re tired—he can see it. The slope of your shoulders, the soft drag of your steps, the yawns you pretend are subtle. Even your laughter sounds like it’s holding up the walls of a crumbling day.

He leans against the railing behind you, watching with a chuckle, and he knows he shouldn’t linger, shouldn’t risk even this much, but it’s you. And tonight, for reasons he can’t name out loud, he wants to show you something special.

“Hey,” he calls softly, “ever wondered what it’s like sixty feet up?”

You turn. He stands there with his arms crossed, head tilted, grin smug enough to see even beneath the mask.

“You’re kidding.”

He shrugs.

“You look like you need a pick‑me‑up. And I think I know just the thing.”

Before you can argue, his hands are slipped around your waist already, like he’s done this a million times before.

And somehow, like your body recognises him from somewhere you can’t name, you don’t pull away. You only lift a brow, smirking.

“Literally?”

He huffs a boyish laugh and reaches past you to slide the balcony door shut. His gaze flickers to the puppy already curled on a cushion, drifting into a soft nap after its chaotic afternoon.

“The vet said he’s trained and vaccinated. So…” His voice dips, playful. “It wouldn’t hurt if I steal you for a few minutes, right?”.

You pretend to think about it.

“Maybe.”

Maybe.

Damn, if he didn’t have his stupid mask on, you’d see the way his whole face breaks into the most hopeless grin ever. God really does send his hardest missions to his strongest soldiers.

“Hang on tight.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. Your arms loop around his neck, and just as quickly as you can breathe, you’re suddenly up in the air—you still can’t help but scream at the sudden jump in height.

A strangled cry rips out of your throat as the city drops away beneath your feet. He’s still laughing at the ridiculousness of your reaction, and for once in both your lives, you’re screaming with the sort of freedom that only comes with the wish of a shooting star.

You definitely feel like one, too. 

Skyscrapers streak past, wind clawing at your clothes. Your face is buried in his shoulder—because looking down might as well kill you—but even through your terror, a traitorous warmth swells in your chest.

He hears every sound you make, every breathless scream, and he’s stupidly amused. Even when your eyes are screwed shut from how fucking terrifying this is.

Finally, he lands on what sounds like concrete with a soft thud, steadying you before your knees can give out. Your fingers are still clutched to his suit, but he pries them off gently, turning you around. 

You crack open one eye.

Then both.

And instantly, your breath catches.

The horizon is on fire.

The wild, bright yellow flame burns in the centre of the molten gold, every skyscraper splinting it in fractured sheets of amber and rose. And as it dips right across the water, your heart skips a beat, the sky bleeding with streaks of orange and bruised violet. Light scatters from the heavens, a shower that shimmers just across the horizon’s sea—a ramp of falling stars just for the two of you. 

“…It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

The same words you told him the first time he brought you to the rooftop. He remembers. God, he remembers everything. He turns his head.

The horizon is burning in the distance, but he doesn’t glance up. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the way the light brushes your hair, the tilt of your jaw, the slow inhale of your awe—and in that moment, the city, the sunset, the wind, nothing else exists.

You outshine every single drop of light in the bleeding sky, and he hates that he can’t even tell you.

Something in your chest loosens, then gives. For one strange, impossible moment, the pressure of everything—your deadlines, your rent, your exhaustion, the heaviness of simply existing—feels lighter.

You turn to him, smiling.

“Thank you.”

The sun flares behind you, painting you in gold, and he thinks helplessly that even this sunset pales beside you.

His heart punches against his ribs, hammering hard enough to bruise.

He keeps his hands in fists so you won’t see them shake, nails digging into his palms, trying to anchor himself.

Because if he doesn’t, he’ll do something reckless.

…Like pull his mask up and kiss you under a dying sun.

He jabs a gloved knuckle against the glass of Nobara’s bedroom window—once, twice, thrice—fast. Even muffled behind the mask, Nobara can recognise it anywhere. Especially when it’s coming from her window on the tenth fucking floor.

“Knock, knock! House of fabulous engineers and fashion icons! Hellooo?”

A muffled groan leaks from the glass.

The window slides open with a wet creak, and Nobara leans out—hair damp from a shower, hoodie half-zipped, face frowned. She’s literally one inconvenience away from shutting it on his fingers.

“What,” she deadpans, “the hell do you want?”

Yuji straightens proudly, chest puffing out. 

“Guess who just saved someone from a truck, carried them to a view that’d make Van Gogh rise from the grave, and completely turned their day around! And they don’t even know it was me!”

His words are tumbling over like runaway marbles, tripping out of his mouth in the sudden rush of excitement. Each breath fogs the inside of his mask, tiny clouds drifting up as he gestures wildly, eyes sparkling even behind the webbed veil.

From behind her, Megumi’s voice drifts, monotonous as ever.

“You look like a five-year-old who drank too much espresso.”

Yuji spins halfway, giving him a thumbs-up.

“And you built the tech that made that possible! So technically, I am a caffeinated genius who saves people, sooooo—you’re the genius behind the genius!”

“Obviously it’s about her,” Nobara says, arms crossed, one brow arched. “Why else knock on my window like some homicidal pigeon?”

Yuji grins boyishly beneath the mask, tilting his head.

“Because someone had to tell the people who made me this awesome that I did something awesome!”

He hops back onto the slick rooftop, landing with barely a splash. Rain glazes over the red and blue of his suit, gloves leaving faint smudges of rain, but he doesn’t care. He crouches—knees loose, fingers tapping, eyes flicking between Nobara and Megumi—and he rambles.

“You’d be so proud. I got her out of danger—like, barely-saw-my-life-flash-before-my-eyes danger—and she held onto me and we just… we ended up on this roof where the whole skyline looked like it was melting gold. And she laughed! And I—”

His hand stills over his heart.

Nobara squints at him, expression softening for half a second before she ruins it deliberately.

“You’re ridiculous. Just confess already.”

Yuji crouches lower, fists on his knees, eyes practically sparkling. The rain slides off his mask in thin streams, glossing over like small scattered stars. All the while, the skyline stretches behind him, windows blinking like constellations.

He’s glowing too, like he can’t hold all his giddiness inside.

Behind her, Megumi doesn’t move, but there’s a faint, reluctant curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. They’ve both seen this a million times.

Yuji, hopelessly in love. Yuji, trying not to be obvious. Yuji, failing.

But then, he thinks of you, back in your apartment, probably waiting for him with that puppy curled on your lap—probably wondering why he’s coming back late again.

His heart kicks.

Without warning, he shoots a web to the edge of the rooftop.

“Okay—gotta go—BYE!”

Before Nobara can yell, he launches himself into the storm-soaked night, flipping once, twice, and vanishing into the wind.

“YOU’LL HEAR ABOUT THIS TOMORROW, I SWEAR!” he hollers back, voice bouncing between the buildings.

Nobara sighs dramatically and shuts the window, all the while Megumi’s smirk survives exactly three seconds before he wipes it off.

As he disappears into the glittering darkness, the city continues to shine. But it’s obvious who he’s rushing home for, and somewhere below, the night hums with the secret only three people know:

Spider-Man Yuji Itadori is swinging through New York like a boy in love.

When Yuji comes back, he’s yelping in surprise when the little rascal of a pup rushes over to him. Its paws are already scattered across the wooden floor for a launched attack.

“What the—?!” 

He picks up the pup in his arms, snuggling into it as you appear from the corner of the hallway, snickering at the scene.

“Kiniro likes you already.”

It takes everything in him to bite back his laughter and act surprised. After all, he can’t quite literally tell you he was the one saving you both just earlier today, right?

“I didn’t know you brought back this little pup,” he giggles, letting it lick his face. “You even named him?”

You sigh, plopping yourself onto the carpet.

“He was in the middle of a pedestrian street. Thankfully, Spider-Man saved him.”

You pat your lap, Kiniro eagerly running straight back to you,

“The animal shelter was full, though, but I think we’re stable enough to afford just another pet, don’t you think?” 

Yuji’s already walking over to you, slinging his bag across the couch as he ruffles your hair.

“I can just pick up another job if you really want to.”

He doesn’t miss that you don’t include yourself in being saved, but he doesn’t nag. All that matters is you’re safe and sound, and with the arrival of little Kiniro, your grin seems just a tiny bit wider. 

“Ugh, you’re not even home half the time,” you groan, tugging him down to sit next to you, “Don’t.”

He smirks at your comment, simply shrugging.

“You would not believe my day, though,” he starts, running a hand through his hair.

“Coach made us do sprints at 8 a.m. Eight. A. M. The sun was barely awake. I was barely awake,” he plops himself down beside you.

“Then I had to do that boring presentation for Anthropology.”

You snort.

“What about it? Did you actually, I don’t know—not screw it up?”

“Ohhh, the presentation? Killed it. Destroyed it. Megumi totally knew you helped, too.”

You shake your head, smiling as he continues. With a soft sigh, you raise both hands behind you as you stretch out your sore arms.

“Thank God. We still need to go grocery shopping, though… We don’t have food for either him or us.”

“Do you want me to go?” 

You’re already getting up, though. 

“Nah, let’s go together, like usual.”

He smiles. Yeah. Like usual.

So flash forward now, one hour later—

He’s tossing all sorts of odd combinations into your trolley, and when he’s the one pushing it, that means you’re going to be barely stopping him from picking yet another pack of chips in the aisle beside.

Because, seriously, what kind of trolley has fruits, meat, chips and dog food all at once? Any other college student, he says. Well, you don’t complain further, because you’re already busy thinking about what to cook for dinner.

Metal shelves press together like metro train commuters, all the while humming coolers whisper across aisles—stacked with the classic 99¢ ramen, chips, and plastic-wrapped bagels. The overhead fluorescent lights buzz faintly amidst the static hiss of the radio’s pop song, always a little too bright, and it cuts through the shuffle of tired locals grabbing dinner after work.

Both of you pass each aisle, and when he reaches up just one more time, he says, for the latest bag of chips, you slap his hands away. He gives you a pout, but you shoot it back down, eyes still peeled ahead, while the trolley miserably follows behind now.

“So what’s on the menu, Chef?” Yuji asks, arms on the handle. 

“Japanese curry,” you hum back, already tossing the small sticks of chives into the trolley behind.

His eyes glisten at the thought of it, his mouth watering already. 

“You always make the best dinners.”

With a mere huff and the slightest curl of your lips, you refuse to turn back to face him. You can already feel the piercing stare of awe on your back, but it does little to keep the budding brim of pride at bay.

Because honestly speaking, that’s all you need.

When the tiny 2010s New York apartment smells like onions sizzling in butter—warm, sweet, it seeps both into the walls and your mind that you’re actually home.

The window above the stove rattles a little every time a subway roars somewhere underground, but inside, it’s just the two of you, moving around the cramped kitchen like you both have a hundred times.

“You’re cutting them too big,” you tease, nudging his elbow as he chops another carrot chunk.

“They’ll shrink in the pot!” he fires back, puffing his cheeks. “Plus, big pieces are funner to chew.”

“That’s not how carrots work.”

“Sure it is.”

You break into laughter, and he falters into the same grin behind his ever-so-bravado. 

Before you can turn back to the stove, his hands slip around your waist from behind, pulling you just close enough that your back warms against his chest. It’s second nature to him by now—but somehow, this time, his touch reminds you of someone else just earlier this afternoon.

“Hey—hey,” you giggle, trying to stir the pot while he sways you side to side, “I’m gonna spill the roux.”

“That’s the plan,” he murmurs, chin gently resting on your shoulder as he watches the stew bubble. 

“Teamwork, right? I’m moral support.”

“Moral support doesn’t usually involve hugging me every five seconds.”

He gives a soft, guilty hum.

“Hmm. Guess I’m extra supportive.”

Outside the window, the streetlights of early-night Manhattan cast a warm orange glow across the counter, mixing with the flicker of your old fluorescent kitchen light, and somewhere below, a taxi honks, someone yells. Your radio’s playing the classic pop songs on repeat rotation this week, and inside, tucked within the mellow warmth, there’s just the soft simmer of curry and the occasional clatter of utensils.

Yuji leans forward to peek into the pot, arms tightening around you as if he can’t help it.

“That smells so good,” he says, voice a little softer now.

You feel your cheeks warm more than the stove ever could, but you still shove him with your hip anyway.

“Then set the table, you sap.”

He laughs boyishly before finally letting go. Grabbing bowls, he’s humming off-key to the radio, and when you glance back at him, his sleeves are already rolled up. He plates the curry bubbling behind you, and the two of you settle snuggishly into the couch, blanket tossed over both of your legs.

As usual, Yuji sits close, stretching his arm along the backrest so that he can tug you closer whenever he feels like it. He’s already rambling off into the darkness, and long before you know it, you’re both talking over the show more than actually watching it.

“But, uh… lunch was good,” he adds quietly.

“Ate outside. Weather felt nice. I kinda wished you were there, though.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it; Yuji seldom does things like this. He just rubs the back of his neck, cheeks burning pink.

“Y’know… campus stuff is better when you’re around,” he murmurs.

“Feels less like I’m just running around all day and more like…”

He pauses, searching for the word.

“…I’m just living day-to-day.”

You snort.

“You’re such a dork.”

“A dork who had a rough day,” he huffs, nudging your knee with his. 

You card your fingers through his soft pink hair despite yourself, and he melts instantly, like he’s been waiting all day for this. At some point, the warmth of the curry settles into your stomach, the weight of his arm drapes heavier against your shoulders, and your eyelids grow heavier with each second.

His heartbeat is steady, right under your ear, and beneath the warmth, you don’t even notice when your bowls slide onto the coffee table. You just fall asleep tucked into his side, wrapped in his hoodie and the low hum of the city outside the window.

He simply watches, and somewhere, underneath the warmth of the quiet, his hand stops just a beat from tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You don’t know how long you’ve slept, but when the sudden, distant siren of an ambulance cuts through the silence, you wake. The apartment’s dark except for the TV’s dim blue, and your head’s still snuggled against the couch cushion, but Yuji isn’t there.

His spot is still warm, yet the empty bowls are already in the sink.

“Yuji?” you whisper, sitting up as the floor creaks softly beneath your bare feet.

Silence echoes, and only the faint late-night wail follows through the room, the ticking of your clock.

It's dead midnight.

Outside your window, a breeze seeps softly from the fire escape. The curtains shift, and you turn to read the single sticky note pasted on the coffee table, scribbled in his ever-so messy handwriting:

“Sorry. Something came up. Didn’t wanna wake you.

Be back soon :)”

You run your thumb over the smiley face, feeling the echo of warmth where he’d been.

You don’t know why he disappears every night.

But for now, all you know is the apartment still smells like curry and him—and the couch feels just a little too big without his arms around your waist.

Dawn breaks as gold washes over the pavement, daylight spilling into the still-waking streets. You’re shuffling along beside Yuji, shoulders brushing now and then. In both your hands are cups of cocoa from the corner cart, each crowned with a swirl of whipped cream he swears is just “the best in the city.”

Steam lifts from the paper cup, curling into the damp morning air, all the while streets still glisten from last night’s rain, passing headlights shimmering in fractured streaks. Inhaling, the air smells of salt and roasted peanuts, tinged with the sweet bite of chestnuts toasting somewhere behind you.

“You’re going to burn your tongue if you sip that too fast,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

He sticks his tongue out at you, laughing even harder when you snort back at him. You simply shake your head as he bumps your shoulder, grinning.

The crowd hums around you, a river of people rushing with purpose, but you walk slower than usual, matching his pace. His hair catches the sunlight in golden highlights, and as he turns to glance over at you, the corners of his mouth tilt when he notices you staring.

“And you’re gonna spill your drink if you keep staring,” he laughs, holding out his hand. 

You giggle, letting him grab your wrist gently, tugging you just slightly forward as you step over a puddle. His warmth lingers a second too long, and as the sun rises a little higher, he watches you sip from your cup—eyes soft and warm.

Kiniro’s barking as well, his leash wrapped just around Yuji’s knuckles. 

Yuji gives it a little tug, but for a split second, his shoulders tense. He’s distracted for a moment, silent. 

There’s a siren somewhere uptown. A horn blast. Something sharp flickers across his expression before he smooths it away.

You pretend not to notice. Instead, you just nudge your shoulder into his again.

“You okay?”

He grins.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

But his fingers tighten just slightly around your wrist.

You tilt your cocoa toward him.

“Trade?”

He huffs a relieved laugh.

“Fine, but only because I know mine has more whipped cream.”

You swap cups, and his shoulders loosen, the tension in his jaw melting away.

The warmth of the moment softens the city around you—right up until your phone buzzes. You glance down, frowning.

“Did you eat yet?” “Are you really out with him again?”

Your chest tightens. No matter how far you’ve moved, her messages still slice like winter wind. You shove the phone deeper into your pocket, just as Yuji starts rambling about some comic he swears he didn’t dream up. 

“Everything okay?” 

It’s his turn this time, unaware of the text buzzing under your coat. You nod in response, though, forcing a smile.

“Yeah… just distracted.”

He doesn’t probe, and you just follow him down a narrow side street, fire escapes shadowing over cracked sidewalks. The city hums with distant trains, honking taxis, and the usual rumble of early traffic. He twirls you once in the crosswalk, and for a brief moment, your worries fade. Laughter bubbles up easily, sunlight spilling through breaks in the buildings.

Everything is gold.

You don’t even pass five blocks before you hear the sudden strum of a guitar, faint from a musician tucked just beside a subway entrance, tin cup right at his feet. 

Yuji’s eyes sparkle instantly like a kid spotting magic.

“Dance battle?” he asks, grin stretching mischievously.

You nearly choke on your cocoa.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He’s already bending his knees, taking a fighting stance. “You. Me. Right here. Winner gets bragging rights for life.”

You groan, trying to pull him away, but the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, the laughter in his voice, makes it impossible to resist.

And before you know it, both your cups are set on the window ledge just beside, and he’s twirling you gently in the middle of the sidewalk, weaving through the small cluster of pedestrians staring in a mix of confusion and amusement.

“Yuji! Stop, I’ll—” you squeal, laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

He only snorts harder, spinning you until your hair whips across your face and you bury your head against his shoulder.

“You’ve got moves,” he teases, voice softening. “Better than I thought.”

When the music shifts to a slower melody, he doesn’t let go. His grip on your waist pulls you closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours, eyes half-closed. The rest of the city fades, and in the midst of it, there’s only the pulse of your laughter, the warmth, and the soft brush of his breath against your cheek.

For a second, it feels like the world stopped just to let him hold you.

Everything melts away, and time stills.

Then—he freezes. The sparkle in his eyes dims.

“I—I gotta—” he starts, pulling back slightly, fingers brushing yours.

You frown, confused. This isn’t the first time he’s bailing midway, and suddenly, the warmth’s twisting with the usual tension.

“What?” Your voice cracks. “Where are you going?”

He bites his lip, hesitating.

“Something came up… I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.”

Before you can argue, he’s already turning, weaving through the crowd and quickly disappearing like he’s done so a hundred times. You watch, heart sinking, as the tide of bodies swallows him.

Your phone buzzes then—again—in your pocket.

Your stomach knots, all the while the sweetness of the morning is turning brittle at the edges. 

You frown at the screen, fingers trembling slightly—another message. 

You take a breath, lukewarm cocoa in your hand, and look back down the street where Yuji vanished.

For a heartbeat, the world was quiet.

Almost enough to drown out the buzzing phone. The crawling ache.

Almost.

The campus is loud as usual, and your bag is slung lazily over your shoulder. It’s field day, and Nobara’s perched by your side like a hawk.

Field day always turns the campus into a festive frenzy—music blasting, banners everywhere, and the smell of grass and sunscreen wafting with the crispy fry of food from student stalls. The sun’s golden light is just enough to dust everything with a warm edge, shedding the tiniest bit of warmth amidst the early winter, but your chest still feels tight, and every cheer from the bleachers is just another headache pulsing beneath the last.

Your fingers curl around your bag strap. 

“You better scream your lungs out for him,” she says, flipping her hair as the two of you shuffle through clusters of crazed students.

“He made me promise I’d drag you here even if you tried to run.”

You roll your eyes with a huff of disbelief, but still, your chest warms at the mention of him. In the midst of it, Nobara pauses.

“Hey, you okay, though?” she asks, nudging your side. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“I’m fine,” you say, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. 

The football field is already swarmed by the time you reach it. Voices rise and fall like crashing waves, bleachers trembling under stampeding students trying to get good seats. You spot Megumi standing near the edge in all his emo glory, stretching like he’s prepping for a battlefield instead of just another friendly match.

He sighs when he spots you and Nobara, but you don’t miss how the corner of his mouth twitches just a bit upward.

“Told you she’d come,” Nobara smirks.

He mutters something along the lines of “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” but his eyes flick briefly toward the locker tunnel—where Yuji should be…

And right on cue, the man himself bursts out.

Yuji comes sprinting with his helmet in hand, hair ruffled, grin stretched wide enough to split galaxies. His jersey clings to his shoulders, the number glowing against the sunlight. He’s sprinting across the grass like his body was built for this—shining, bright, unstoppable. His hair catches the morning light like rose-gold flames, the soft pink of it glowing warm against his skin.

But he’s late again, and not just a little—ten minutes behind schedule. Yet no one seems to mind except you.

Your chest twists. The familiar pang rises again. 

The moment he notices you, he practically trips over his own feet from how fast his attention snaps your way.

“There you are!” he calls, waving the helmet wildly above his head.

Nobara snorts. “Lord, he’s so lovesick it physically hurts.”

You pretend not to hear her.

Yuji jogs up to the fence separating players from spectators, leaning against it with both forearms as if he can’t stop himself from getting closer. His breath comes out quickly from the run, but his grin is wide and bright.

“You made it,” he says too eagerly.

“We always make it,” you scoff, nudging your bag up your shoulder. “Don’t disappoint us.”

“Yes—yes, Ma’am,” he salutes, cheeks pink. “I’m gonna win extra hard now.”

Behind him, the team captain shouts his name. Megumi’s barking at him,

“If you miss the huddle again, I’m making you run laps.”

Yuji jumps, jolting upright.

“Coming!”

But before he turns, he reaches out—fingers brushing yours through the fence. Just a fleeting drag of warmth, but enough to leave your pulse scrambling.

“I’ll look for you after every play,” he says sheepishly. “So… don’t leave, okay?”

Nobara rolls her eyes so dramatically she might strain something. “He’s going to combust.”

You’re definitely not telling her you just might too.

Yuji runs back to his team, helmet tucked under his arm, shouting something stupidly upbeat that gets the whole bench laughing. The field hums with energy, sunlight bouncing off jerseys, the grass almost glittering.

The game commences.

And Yuji—it’s like he was born for this.

He’s fast. Focused. And ridiculously competent.

Every time he steals the ball, the crowd roars. Every time he dodges someone twice his size, Nobara shrieks. And when he scores—an impossible curve just inside the goalpost—he swings both arms up, searching the stands until he locks eyes with you.

He beams like you just handed him the universe.

And the whole world feels golden—sunlight, victory, thrill. Megumi is yelling instructions, Nobara’s screaming insults at the opponents, and Yuji’s just there in all of his radiant glory—shining without even trying.

It’s warm. It’s bright. It’s alive.

You’re cheering too, but your smile still falters, tight around the edges. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your bag strap.

But for now—

Yuji wins.

And he looks at you like you’re the reason he did.

He barely hears the final whistle over the roar of the crowd. One second, he’s sprinting across the field, cleats kicking up dust, teammates shouting his name—

And the next, he’s tearing off his helmet and running straight for you.

You barely get a sound out before he crashes into you—arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground in a dizzying spin. His laugh bursts warm against your neck, almost boyish in how free it is.

“You saw that, right? You saw that, right?” he breathes, grin blinding, forehead pressed to yours as if he needs proof—needs you—to make it real.

Nobara’s whooping behind you. Megumi’s pretending not to stare, and he’s shoving his hands in his pockets like he didn’t just sabotage two passes solely so Yuji could score. The field is a riot of noise—whistles, cheers, the brass band warming up again—but all of it blurs around him.

Yuji’s still holding you there, thumbs brushing your ribs. The pink of his hair, the warm brown of his eyes, the soft grin that always pulls at the corner of his mouth. His hair brushes your forehead when he leans in.

A voice cuts through the crowd.

“Congratulations, you all! What a play!”

It’s a senior guy from another team—someone charming, loud, the type Yuji knows people tend to gravitate to. He jogs past, tossing you a quick smile like it’s nothing.

“You were cheering SO loud,” he tells you, laughing. “Honestly, I think you were louder than the team.”

Yuji’s smile twitches.

The guy just continues, leaning in a bit too close,

“You coming to the afterparty? Nobara said you might—”

Yuji steps in without thinking, placing a hand on your back.

“Oh,” the guy says, blinking. “Hey, Itadori. Great game, man.”

“Thanks,” Yuji answers—but something in his eyes dims.

Nobara simply smirks with a cross of her arms.

His eyes flick back to you. Quick. Searching.

Did you smile back? Did you think the guy was cool? Did you—

Suddenly, the team crowds around him—slapping his back, grabbing his shoulders, shouting over each other, and you’re both separated from the wave of intrusion.

“You’re coming with us tonight, right?”

“Yo, we’re buying you dinner!”

“We’re gonna replay that touchdown like a hundred times—”

Yuji’s flustered, overwhelmed. His chest is heaving, and sweat trickles down his forehead. He doesn’t like the sudden attention, and he keeps looking back at you over their heads—checking, making sure you haven’t drifted away in the crowd, but he loses you just as quickly as they came.

Megumi sighs, nudging him.

“Go,” he mutters. “We’ll catch up.”

And that’s all he needs.

He practically breaks out of the huddle just to run over to you—soft murmurs of apologies as he bumps into someone else’s shoulder. 

Everything else is noise to him, and it isn’t long until he catches the familiar sight of the back of your head again.

He settles beside you, still breathless. His fingers hover, then hook lightly around your wrist, tugging you closer.

“You’re walking with me, right?” His voice drops.

“Please?”

Nobara wiggles her eyebrows.

“You two are disgusting,” she groans, then pats your shoulder.

“I’m getting drinks. Don’t do anything gross while I’m gone.”

She disappears. Megumi drifts off too, yelling something at a teammate.

And suddenly, it’s just you and him again.

The air is warm from the sun, the grass glittering with confetti. His hand is still curled around yours.

“I’m really glad you came, y’know.”

You smile softly.

“Of course I did.”

“And… that guy earlier,” he adds too casually, “Do you… know him?”

There it is—the tiny crack in his voice.

And something sinks in your stomach. You’re exhausted—raw beneath the skin. And you’re way too tired to explain the history he’s scarred you. Not today. Not after this win. Not when he’s glowing like a sun you don’t want to dim.

So you answer gently,

“Not really. Don’t worry about it.”

Yuji’s silent.

But you can feel the tension humming beneath his ribs as he tries to read your face. After a few steps, he murmurs, barely audible,

“Hey, so… did you really cheer that loud?”

You grin.

“Yeah. For you.”

“Then why do you look so tired?” he asks.

Your steps falter. “I’m fine.”

His brows pinch. He looks at you closely.

“You don’t have to say ‘fine’ just because you think it’s easier,” he says. “I can handle it. Whatever it is.”

But your mind is still tangled from the morning, from the noise, from everything you haven’t wanted to burden anyone with. You look away.

It should’ve been easy—Yuji’s arms around you, the campus buzzing with leftover cheers, Megumi shouting something smug in the distance, Nobara somewhere in the corner of your eye. Everything is loud, and warm, and safe.

But Yuji doesn’t see the phone screen still lighting up in your pocket.

He doesn’t notice how your fingers have been curling in on themselves, and suddenly, the sunlight feels too bright. Your pulse crawls up the back of your throat, and softly, without meaning to, you’re muttering under your breath.

“You’re not even here half the time. How are you gonna handle it?”

He catches it too, but he doesn’t say anything. You don’t even know he heard it.

He’s been either late or disappeared midway through the last three times you hung out. Last weekend, he ditched you mid-dance, and you told him it was fine—of course it was fine—it just stung more than you want to admit, and today, he barely made it to field day on time.

Something about helping someone, getting caught up, you weren’t even sure.

He’s always trying, always running. Always tired.

You don’t want to be another thing that drags him down.

“It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry about me today. You’ve got more important people to celebrate with.”

Yuji stops walking altogether. The shift is small—barely a misstep on the pavement—but it feels like the ground trembles.

“What?” he asks quietly.

“Everyone’s congratulating you. You should enjoy it. You don’t need to be glued to me.”

His face falls in slow motion.

“Is that… what you think? That I’m only here because I feel like I should be?”

You don’t answer fast enough, and your silence hurts him more than any shouted insult could’ve. The tension that holds in the air now is unbearable.

His face contorts into a frown.

“Seriously?” he murmurs. “I just ran straight to you after the biggest game of the semester, and you think I wouldn’t choose you?”

His voice wavers, and you quickly shake your head, tilting your head to look at him.

“Yuji, that’s not—”

“No, it’s okay,” he says, stepping back, eyes darting everywhere except your face. 

“Yuji—” His expression ruins you, and now, you wish more than anything but to take back your words.

He swallows hard.

“I get it."

There it is.

The crack in the glass. The place where he breaks. You reach out for him, but all he does is step away.

“You know I didn’t mean that, I was just tired—”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The cheering behind you erupts, but the world between you stills. The stadium burst into cheers for the next round of the competition, and his teammates are shouting his name, waving him over for the afterparty.

“Yuji! Let’s go!”

He hesitates.

Because he wants to stay, and you can see that. But still, he pulls his hand back.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, smiling the way he always does—the one that makes your chest warm and ache and twist all at once. “Promise.”

You just… nod. It’s easier than saying you’re not sure you believe it anymore.

And even in the blinding afternoon sun, the warmth he leaves you with still feels cold.

The bleachers, the crowd, the pats on his back—they all drift into nothing.

Nothing matters.

Not when guilt claws at him with each step he takes further from you. He can’t stop himself, though.

He doesn’t deserve you, and even when he sees the faltering pain in your eyes, when it seems like he’s ripped your whole heart out, even when he didn’t mean to—

He should walk away from you.

You deserve better.

But when the hair on his skin stands, the jolt of every nerve in his system sparking up, the dread of what he’s always feared crawls back up into him.

He runs straight back to you.

You slowly step away from the crowd, letting the chatter fade into the background. The noise of the campus stadium and cheering grows distant, muffled, yet every step feels heavier than the last. Your bag drags against your shoulder, but truthfully, that’s not even what’s weighing you down.

Each breath catches in your chest as you walk through the shortcut through the science wing. Home. You just want to go home now.

The afternoon sun glares against the metal supports of the demo tents. You barely notice them. Instead, your mind is wrapped up in everything, and you hate that you even feel this way. Hate that even until now, every time you think you’ve grown to be logical enough, your heart always gets the better of you.

Your steps echo softly within the hollow of your mind, seconds stretching into minutes, minutes into hours. You don’t even know how long you’ve been walking. How far you’ve wandered. All you know is that you’re all alone—both literally and in your head.

A loud metallic groan rips through the air.

Suddenly, the metal pole just above the building snaps. There’s no thought, and only the sudden, sickening realisation that it’s coming down.

Oh.

You just stand there, memories flashing through your eyes in replay.

Yuji flashes through your eyes.

This is it—

But suddenly—all you see is a blur of red and blue.

Your chest slams against a familiar chest, and the world flips upside down for a heartbeat. Air screams past your ears. The pole crashes behind you, scattering debris, a deafening clatter that reverberates in your bones.

You gasp, clutching him, every nerve ending on fire. Pain lances through your arm where the pole grazed you, and your knee scrapes against the pavement as he manoeuvres you away. 

The wind tears at your hair, and even in the chaos, your mind reels. 

“You… you okay?” His voice is low, urgent, but behind the mask, it trembles.

It’s Spider-Man.

But you can’t answer. Your body shakes, each blink glowing hotter and hotter as the weight of everything finally crashes.

“I—I—” 

You can’t finish.

Your throat tightens, and you simply break in his arms. 

His grip tightens, swinging you back toward a safer alleyway, ignoring the chatter, the noise, and everything else.

“It’s okay… you’re okay. I’ve got you,” he whispers, and somewhere in the midst of it, his voice cracks.

“Hey, look at me. Just—just look at me,” he lowers himself beside you, knees hitting the cold concrete, his hands closing around yours with a trembling gentleness. 

You choke on a breath, shaking your head furiously, face buried in your arms.

“I can’t… I can’t—”

His voice softens, frays at the edges.

“Please. Breathe. Just breathe.”

The tears spill faster, hot and relentless. You’re folding in on yourself, small and shaken, and the words slip out in pieces you can’t hold back.

“I—Yuji… I can’t… I just…” Your voice quivers. “I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to—”

“You’re not!” he almost shouts, but it cracks, breaking down into a whisper.

“Do you hear me? Your life matters. It matters.” His breath trembles.

His hands cup your face now, fingers digging into the sides of your jaw as he kneels beside you.

“And if no one else can keep you safe, then I will. I will. So don’t ever—ever say that again.”

Your sobs shake all the way through you, and he pulls you into him, arms banding around your body, holding you. Even then, the panic still claws at your ribs. He presses his forehead to yours, his voice barely holding itself together.

“I’ve got you. Just… just trust me. Do you want to go home?”

You’re sobbing into his chest now. Your ribs are aching, your shoulders throbbing, and you’re stuttering in shallow gasps, yet somehow, with the last tiniest bit of strength left in you, you manage a nod.

His arms wrap around you again, lifting you gently. The wind roars past as he swings, your body cradled against his chest. The city blurs into streaks of silver and orange, but none of it grounds you. Everything still bites.

By the time he lands on your balcony, your legs buckle, and he sets you down with a quick turn away. Like he thinks he should leave. Like he thinks he’s the problem.

Your chest caves in.

“I can’t… I don’t—” you whisper, and then, with trembling fingers, you grasp his wrists. 

He freezes, panic flashing behind the mask.

You tug him down to your level, breath shaky, heart ricocheting against your ribs.

You look up at him, heart pounding so loudly you can barely hear the storm around you—and for the first time, Yuji wants nothing more than to rip off his mask. Right here. Right now.

Because trust has always felt like something he wasn’t allowed to have… yet here you are, the one constant in the chaos of his double life, holding onto him like he’s the only steady thing in your world.

The home he was never sure Yuji Itadori deserves, not when Spider-Man’s saving lives, all the while Yuji is running late for another hangout somewhere else.

The slope of his jaw beneath the mask, the shape of his shoulders beneath the soaked suit, the faint scent of detergent he always uses at home. You’re exhausted—tired of the uncertainty, tired of the guessing—everything about him feels almost too familiar.

It breaks something loose inside you.

“Yuji…?” 

Your voice is barely more than a breath, but to him, it lands even harder than lightning.

He freezes.

He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even move a muscle.

Not even when your fingers slide to the edge of his mask, and in a heartbeat of terror and clarity, you pull it up. 

Your world stops.

The way his voice cracks in the exact shape of Yuji’s kindness, the way he whispers comfort with words only Yuji has ever spoken to you. The way he knows exactly how to hold you, just like Yuji did when you both danced in that one street.

And now, seeing him—wet-faced, trembling, eyes glassy with fear and relief—it hits you like a punch straight through the ribs.

“Y–You…” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry—I was going to tell you, I swear, I just—”

You don’t let him finish.

You lean in and kiss him. Desperate, shaking. Relief, anger, and love all at once.

Fear—that you could’ve lost him before you ever got to say any of it.

He goes stiff with shock… then melts with a shaky exhale, pulling you so close your feet practically leave the ground.

“You… you’re alive,” he whispers into your hair as he pulls back slightly, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought—God, I thought I lost you.” His voice cracks as he buries himself in the crook of your neck, arms still locked around you.

Your fingers curl into the back of his suit.

“...Don’t go.”

He lifts his head, tears dripping down his cheeks. His forehead presses to yours, his breath shuddering.

“Stay. Please.”

You’re whispering, shaking. He looks at you for a second—and it doesn’t take another until his lips crash into yours again.

The floorboards creak. The air is heavy. Kiniro’s sleeping somewhere in the kitchen, but your legs are wrapped tight around Yuji’s waist now. He’s holding you up, fingers digging into your thighs.

“Wait—”

He cuts you off with another kiss as he stumbles into the living room, lights still off. Your hands gently clutch the back of his suit even tighter. Your kisses are sloppy, frantic, and desperate. He quickly yanks his mask off, throwing it straight at the couch while he lifts you like nothing with one hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, but he’s already back to nibbling your bottom lip, working his way up to your breathless gasps.

“Mm… Yuji,” Your fingers lace through the pink threads of his hair, ruffling through them as something pools just beneath your stomach. 

The door rattles behind you as he pushes it open with your back against it, a creak rattling across, and when he does pull away, a drool lingers just between the two of you, and he looks up at you, lifted, like the most gorgeous angel ever. You pant, hand grasping his clothed bicep, as he presses a thumb under your chin, tipping your head further back. 

He’s wanted this for the last five years of his life, and now here you are—lost in it and in his arms—he just might explode into a million pieces.

“I love you,” he peppers even more kisses, agonizingly dragging a trail from your chin, all the way up to your drooped eyelids, hazy, muzzy even as your breath heaves with each gasp. “So fucking much.”

Your heart’s also pounding loudly, and even when he plops you down on his bed, you refuse to let go. You watch as he fumbles the unbuttoning of your clothes, and you tilt your head back as he trails even more wet kisses from your face. His knee slides right between your legs.

Goosebumps trail each time his lips meet your skin, and his fingers are still gripped tight onto the flesh of your thighs. His bed, his taste, your head is so intoxicated with him, it’s driving you insane. Even inhaling the fresh lemon detergent of his sheets makes you nuzzle against it, whining as he plants yet another kiss on your neck.

“Slow down,” you sigh, threading your fingers through his hair as he trails down to your stomach, nails scratching his scalp as he nuzzles into your touch, kissing the thin fabric separating you from his desperate mouth.

But as drunk as he is, lost in the whirlwind of your moans driving him insanely, unbearably hot amidst the cold air, he pauses for a second.

Just above your stomach, he slowly turns to look up at you.

“...Are you okay with this?”

He looks up at you like he’s worshipping a goddess, because even in all your dazedness, you’re drop-dead gorgeous—eyes glossy, lips curled, breath panting.

“Mhm…”

He instantly snuggles his face into your stomach, making you giggle,

“What the—Yuji!”

Every kiss feels like worship, his mouth tracing shakingly down the insides of your thighs until he reaches the heat between them. With a gentle press of his hands, he nudges your legs apart and slips your pants down your hips, letting them fall away completely.

He goes utterly still.

God, he thinks, it’s so fucking pretty. And even though he’s never done this before, not really, he’s seen enough, learned enough, to know what to do.

His thumbs glide through your slickness and gently spread you open, baring every trembling part of you to his stare. The cold whisper of air makes you shift and whimper, embarrassment warming your cheeks. You don’t see it, though—the way his gaze drops, dark with want, his breath nearly catching at the sight of you.

Slowly, he leans in, breath warm against you before his tongue draws a long, deliberate lick through your folds. He can’t help but utter, a low, hungry groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck… taste so sweet,” he mutters against you, hips pressing hard into the mattress as if he can’t help himself.

“Yuji—”

Your back bows off the sheets in an instant, a startled cry slipping out as your thighs snap around his head. But he only growls softly in response, arms locking around your legs to hold you open for him. He doesn’t stop—not for a second—as he devours you, messy yet greedy, drinking down every drop of your sweet slick.

His throaty groan vibrates straight through you, sending shivers up your spine. Your jaw falls open, eyes fluttering shut as you melt back into the mattress.

"You're so beautiful— so..." He can’t help it—can’t help melting into your taste.

His mouth grows sloppier, jaw loosening so he can slurp louder, tongue moving with sprouting confidence. He circles your clit again and again, then dips lower, pushing his tongue clumsily but tenderly into your heat. His lashes brush his cheeks as he moves, muddled and klutzy—yet careful, and worshipping you with every greedy stroke.

Your fingers glide down your stomach, trembling as you reach for him, burying your hand in his hair. Your nails drag lightly across the nape of his neck as you tug him closer, guiding him deeper between your thighs. He groans into you, then pulls back only long enough to slick his fingers with his tongue before rubbing your clit in slow, deliberate circles. He watches your slick drip down, following the trail with dark, dilated eyes.

Your tongue slips out, thumb brushing your lower lip as you look down at him. The sight alone makes him shudder.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs.

Heat flares over your cheeks, but you nod with a soft, breathy hum, lips parted as he lowers his mouth again. He laps at your folds slowly, savouring you, sweet warmth spilling over his tongue while he keeps his gaze on you.

“Mhm… Yu…” you breathe, a small moan escaping as your lids grow heavy again.

Something warm blooms in his chest at the sight of you weakly squirming, voice all soft and sweet, and he dives back to your clit. His tongue flicks over the sensitive bud until your moans climb higher, your hips jerking. He’s rutting subtly into the mattress.

“Yu—ahh, I’m gonna—gonna cum—”

Your legs tremble, thighs trying to snap shut on instinct, but he only tightens his arms around them, holding you open as his mouth works you through it—pushing you right to the edge.

And then you’re falling.

Your jaw drops slack, tongue lolling slightly as stars burst behind your eyelids. You gasp out a broken “Haagh—” all the while, soft, desperate moans spill from your lips.

The sound you make has him tensing all over again, breath catching as he leans in to press a soft kiss to your inner thigh. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, watching the way your lashes flutter, and how your body trembles with the aftershocks he pulled out of you.

He stares like he’s mesmerised.

And in the heat of it, he just can’t stop himself.

His thumb finds your clit again, pressing lightly, and your words dissolve into breathy whines. He's talking you through it.

Watching as your pretty lashes kiss your cheeks as your hips lift, chasing more, and he gives it to you—sliding a finger inside with a low, desperate sound.

“Your voice… fuck—” he groans, the sound almost a plea.

You yelp, grip tightening—one hand buried in his hair, the other fisting the sheets.

Then he adds a second finger.

He hums as your walls stretch around him, giving you barely a heartbeat before he’s thrusting them in and out, building pace. Your eyes go wide, back arching sharply, nails sinking into his bicep as he peppers kisses up your neck.

“I—Y-Yuji—ahh, please—I just came—” Your voice breaks so sweetly it nearly kills him, and maybe he should give you a second to breathe—but he’s already kissing down your chest, already pulling your top up without you noticing, clumsily unclasping your bra with unsteady fingers.

He’s dreamed of tasting you like this for years.

His tongue drags over your nipple, lips closing around it as his fingers keep working you open, and all he can think—watching you squeeze his arm, bury your face in his shoulder, thighs trembling around his wrist—is how heartbreakingly cute you are, and how intoxicatingly soft your breasts feel.

Your legs shake as he finally pulls his fingers out, and he pops them into his mouth, sucking them clean while staring right at you in all his dazed hunger.

Your lips part in silent awe, chest rising and falling as you watch him. He reaches for his suit, unzipping it and letting it fall to the floor. His hands fumble with his boxers—slow, torturous—and you can’t tear your gaze from the dark shape straining against the fabric.

When it slips free, your breath catches—your heart stutters.

It’s fucking huge.

Your pupils blow wide, a tiny sound catching in your throat. He gathers the pre-cum on his thumb, spreading it over the swollen head before settling beside you on the bed.

“Okay, angel…” he exhales, voice shaking, “think we’re… good…”

Your face burns, dizzy with need. His lips find yours again as he rocks his cock through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing you both. You grind up instinctively, but he pulls back with sudden panic in his eyes.

“Shit—condom—”

You cut him off.

“I’m safe.”

He freezes. Looks at you once, and his fingers tremble. Both of you are flushed, breathless, then he kisses you again—harder, desperate. 

“I fuckin—“ he’s gasping through each clumsy kiss, “fuck—I love you—so fuckin’ much.”

The words—messy, breathless, dripping with sincerity—turn your mind to nothing but mush. By the time he settles back between your thighs, lifting your legs high around his waist, you’re already trembling. A slow, burning stretch blossoms inside you as he presses just the head of his cock in.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs.

“Ngh—Yuj—” you start, but he kisses you before the rest can leave your lips, fingers threading through your hair with such tenderness it makes your chest ache.

“You’re, urgh, doing so well… Yeah…” He watches in fascination at the lewd scene of your cunt taking in his cock. “Fuck—so fuckin’ good—“

He's panting, eyes fixed on where your body’s parting around him. He’s only seen stuff like this on his phone, but it doesn’t compare to the real thing, and the sight alone makes him choke on a groan.

Your moan breaks loose, higher and needier as he rocks his hips, inching in deeper. You’re tight—so tight—and the mix of pressure and pleasure has you clinging to him, whining when his hand squeezes your thigh.

“I-It’s okay, angel—fuck, b-breathe,” he huffs, eyes squeezing shut as a low groan rumbles out of him. “I’m not gonna last like this, baby.”

The name hits you like a spark—your body involuntarily clenches around him, and he notices instantly. He lifts his head despite the sweat trailing down his temple, a breathless, smug little smile tugging at his lips.

“You l-like that, baby?” he teases, voice cracked and warm. His hand cups your chin, guiding your gaze back to him as he pants through the ache.

“Y-Yuj…” you whisper, gasping as he sinks in deeper.

You nuzzle instinctively into his palm, stroking your cheek.

And fuck—you can’t expect him to hold back when you’re kissing the rough heel of his hand like that.

He can’t doesn’t wait for you to adjust fully. His mouth crashes onto yours, tongue greedy and eager as he kisses you like he’s drowning. His knees shake as he digs into the mattress, all before he slowly thrusts forward—each controlled drag burying more of his thick length deeper inside you.

You cling to him, nails digging into his broad shoulders, into the hard cut of muscle beneath his skin, and he grunts at the sting, hips rutting deeper, each movement slow and heavy enough to make your breath stutter.

You feel everything—every ridge, every pulse, every maddening inch of him, and your moans twist into soft, breathy cries, mixing with his low, guttural groans against your lips.

You don’t even hear how the room’s engulfed with nothing but the lewd squelches now, his hips softly plapping against you, grunting in your ear whenever you unintentionally clench around him.

Your soft whines turn into sweet cries, and his eyes dilate in awe, cheeks flushed as your vision blurs. Your wet lips part, crying his name over and over, and with each cry, you can feel him somehow grow even larger as he kisses your cervix like he’s addicted.

“Angh—wait!” you whine, grasping his nape, back arching as he continues his torturous pace, the burning yet filling stretch leaving you breathless.

Your mind is scrambled, completely lost to the pleasure as you try to adjust, but he’s already slowly picking up his pace. And it didn’t matter how pathetic your whines got, or how much you came, because he's just kissing you with worship, peppering every part of you like you’re heaven itself, tongue peeking into your mouth again.

And he’s hooked. Hooked with how every time he tries to pull, you’re sucking him back in.

“It’s too much—Yuj—Please—“ and he’s also whimpering right above you.

“Haah—Fuck, fuck, I’m close, baby—“ his lips part, groaning when you instinctually clench around him again.

He swallows each pathetic whine of yours and vice versa as he grunts into you with every thrust, panting against each other.

Your mouth’s dangling open with trails of drool, and each time he whispers sweet praises of how gorgeous you are, you can’t help but string out moans and whimpers, filling the thick air of his bedroom.

“You’re taking me… so well… ”

You can hardly squeeze any comprehensible thoughts out of you, and your head falls back against him, strength slipping away, hips quivering as quiet whimpers escape you.

“Hnngh, Y-Yujiii..."

“Can I cum inside?”

“M-Mhmm,”

You agree instantly, breath catching as your body betrays you. You’ve forgotten long ago, anyways, how to resist him.

A certain shiver ripples through you, and Yuji’s pace picks up even more, breath even heavier for the release he's been saving just for you, his whole life.

“Baby,” He pleads. “Fuck, baby, please—Look at me,”

The same strong hand on your jaw softly tilts your head to turn, and your eyes meet his dilated pupils,

“Can you feel that? Feel what you do to me? What you’ve been doing to me, baby? Ngh—”

You feel him rolling the rest of his cock deeper inside you while he’s whimpering, and all at once, the air seems to leave your lungs as he slides his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. Before you can even register what’s happening, he’s standing with you in his arms, the weight and closeness leaving your heart racing.

"Does this feel better for you?”

As if. Your legs go weak in his arms, trembling as your body twitches now with every subtle movement he makes. You’re completely at his mercy, breath catching and chest rising and falling faster than you can control. Tiny, messy traces fall from your lips, dripping out onto the floor with soft splatters down below.

He spreads you out wider, aims sliding beneath your thighs, and fingers digging into the plush of your thighs. You feel like you’re simply floating, all whilst he hauls you up and down his cock, leaving you helpless as you sink back into everything he’s sliding desperately into you.

“N-Ngh, Yuj—” Your voice catches, eyes misting as he burrows closer into the crook of your neck.

A deep, almost dizzying warmth pulses through you, and suddenly, it all bursts. Your hands claw at his back, squirming and desperate for the grounding presence of him. He huffs against your skin as well, breath ragged. His voice drops eager, and you feel it shiver straight through you.

“Haah… I’m so close.”

All you can do is tremble around him, giving a slow, lazy nod, lost in the crazed intensity between you.

He’s spilling every rope of cum inside you, and even through it, he doesn’t stop. He keeps a slower, gentler pace, thrusts kissing your cervix even more like he’s thanking you, same as how he’s peppering your face with kisses now.

"Yuji…"

He pants softly in your ear, plopping his cock out tiredly from your hole and onto your bed below. Both of you are still heaving, your bodies stay pressed tightly together.

You murmur from underneath his weight, voice muffled against his shoulder, and it makes him melt as he still holds you close.

“I love you so much... Fuck, I’m sorry I acted like a jerk,” he whispers, gazing into your tired, adoring eyes. “I’ll jump off a cliff if I ever make you cry again.”

You laugh, playfully punching his arm. With a quick peck to his nose, you’re already readjusting so you can straddle him again.

He traces a finger gently along your lips, a little grin on his face.

You raise a brow.

“What?”

“Can we um—“ he leans in for a quick kiss, “Can we try doggy style now?”

Okay, cross his weird cooking shows—you’re monitoring his weird porn stash too.

Everything aches when you wake up. Your arms are stiff and your legs are all sore, peppered with bite marks and faint crescents from last night. Sunlight filters through the peeping blinds, painting golden stripes across the bed, but that’s not the only weight you’re feeling on top of you.

Yuji’s arm is draped over yours now, warm and comfortably heavy. He’s sprawled on his stomach beside you, hair a chaotic mess, eyelids shut, face practically buried in the pillow. You shift slightly, wincing at the soreness, and his eyes snap open like he’s sensed you awake.

Under his breath, a groan escapes him, followed by a tilt of the head as he glances at you, face squished adorably into the pillow.

The memories of last night hit you like a freight train, and your face instantly blooms scarlet.

“Good morning,” he whispers, lips curling into a smile.

“…Morning,” you croak, voice hoarse.

He instantly breaks into laughter, rolling lazily onto his back beside you while you frown at him, still too self-conscious.

Your gaze drifts over him unconsciously, eyes tracing over last night’s scratches on his broad back. The little ridges where his elbows pressed into you, his chest rising and falling from sleep and… other marks. His ears are pink, warm under the sunlight, and he buries his face into your hair, all snuggled with you. Both of you stay like that for a few heartbeats, breathing each other in, disbelief lingering like the soft haze after fireworks.

Eventually, you reach for your phone, which you’d carelessly tossed on the bedside table yesterday. But when the lock screen lights up, your heart nearly jumps out of your throat.

“What—” Yuji murmurs, groggy and confused.

“I have class in thirty minutes!” you gasp, scrambling off the bed despite the soreness. “I cannot miss this one!”

His eyes instantly widen, and before you can blink, he’s already on his feet. He rushes over to your side, scooping you into his arms as he carries you to the shower.

“I’ll get your clothes, hold on!” he calls, and just like that, he’s darting to your room, leaving you blinking and flustered. 

The shower’s warmth does little to soothe the ache of your limbs, but you linger just long enough to pull the towel tight around yourself. When you finally do open the bathroom door, you freeze.

Spider-Man. In. The. Flesh.

He’s standing there, folded clothes in hand, looking every bit like the superhero he is. Though the awkward, nervous smile beneath it? 100% Yuji. You pause, staring, and when you finally reach for your clothes, you whisper a hurried thanks, cheeks burning.

He gives a little wave back at you.

You’re not telling him thanks, this time, though—when fast-forward five minutes, you’re in the air, soaring past skyscrapers, strapped in some ridiculous ghost mask he bought last Halloween.

Your stomach flips every time the wind picks up, hair whipping across your face, and the city below blurs into dizzying streaks of light. When you eventually land in a quiet alleyway, you’re gasping for breath, legs trembling, and he finally lets go of your waist. You glance at your watch.

Ten minutes left—cue panic.

You start to turn and dash, but can’t resist sneaking one last glance over your shoulder. Yuji simply stands there, chest heaving, mask slightly crooked, head tilted. He's waving you to get moving already.

But you can’t leave it at that. You run back, grab his clenched fists gently in one hand, and lift his mask just slightly to plant a quick peck on his lips.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

And before he can say a word, you’re off—rushing back into the bustle, heart hammering, adrenaline still sending quivers through your shaky legs.

"Oh my god...."

He dramatically leans back against the cold alley wall, sliding down slowly while clutching at his own head beneath his zipped get-up.

His suit definitely needs an upgrade from Megumi, he thinks, because you’d left him totally knocked out.

And right now, his brain is half-filled with how easily you just slipped away—the other half overclocking on how he's so, so down bad for you.

Somewhere above, a pigeon coos from above, judgmental in its stare.

Class has barely ended when your phone buzzes. The hallway is in its usual chaos—sneakers squeaking across scuffed linoleum, laughter ricocheting, backpacks slung over shoulders. You’re juggling your bag, your water bottle, and an overdue sense of exhaustion as you pull out your phone, fully expecting a group chat notification or a calendar reminder.

But then you see the name on the screen. Yuji.

Yuji: look at the manhattan bridge :))

Your brows knit, but curiosity wins, and you turn toward the tall window overlooking the city, breath fogging faintly against the cold glass. The sky is rinsed in a soft apricot glow, dripping over the skyline like spilt honey. Its golden hour tints with warmth, enough to melt even the sharpest edges of steel and glass.

And that’s when you see it.

Strung between the beams like frost, shimmering in the golden, like it’s snared a wandering cloud amidst the bleeding sky—three words are strung across the Manhattan Bridge in enormous, gleaming webs.

Each letter was woven thick, looped around half a dozen times so they wouldn’t blow away in the wind.

Your eyes widen.

No way.

I LOVE YOU.

Your heart skips violently, and your breath stumbles out of your chest in a gasp.

A stupid, giddy laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, and your hand flies to your mouth as if you can physically push your stunned smile back in.

“Idiot…” you whisper.

Around you, other students press against the windows, whispering, pointing. Someone mutters,

“Brother did a whole Hollywood sign…”

“Is Spider-Man in love?? With who??”

Your phone buzzes again.

Yuji: empty classroom, east wing. the one w the broken light. hurry! :(

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fight off the warmth spreading through your chest as you practically float down the hallway. Your steps are light, your face is on fire, and your heart's busy doing backflips inside.

By the time you reach the forgotten old classroom in the east wing, your pulse is sprinting. The door sits slightly open, the flickering ceiling light casting lazy pulses of brightness across the desks like it’s trying, yet failing, to stay conscious.

You push the door open.

And there he is.

Yuji stands near one of the desks, mask pulled back and tucked into his hood, pink-peach curls mussed from the wind.

His cheeks are flushed, hoodie slightly crooked, and even though he’s leaning like he’s been waiting forever, he probably swung here mere seconds just before you arrived.

How do you know that? Because the flowers in his hands look like they've just gone through hell and back.

When he sees you, something in him softens so completely it makes your breath catch.

“Hey,” he says, smile tugging gently at the corners of his mouth.

It’s so pure, so bright, it almost tricks you into thinking he didn’t just do something as insane as webbing a literal confession across a whole bridge.

You let out a breathy laugh as you approach him.

“Yuji… you webbed the entire Manhattan Bridge.”

He rubs the back of his neck, practically glowing.

“I—uh—wanted to make sure you saw it?” He winces. “And that you didn’t think I was joking.”

His voice gentles.

“I mean it.”

Before your brain can even catch up with your racing heart, he reaches out. His hands slip like usual to your waist.

He looks at you like sunlight through glass, stars folding into themselves—unfathomable heaven of devotion graced into every line of his expression.

“You ready to go home?” he asks softly. 

You wrap your arms around him.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and his forehead drops to your shoulder in the tiniest, softest surrender.

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as you giggle and ruffle his hair.

“I love you too, silly.”

Outside, the sun sinks slowly behind the skyline, ember light scattered across the room as it catches on a stray fleck of web on Yuji’s sleeve. It glows like silver fire as he lifts you effortlessly, stepping toward the window. You simply cling to him, heart soaring as he pushes the pane open and the cool wind rushes in.

With a soft laugh, Yuji leaps, both of you cutting through the evening breeze as the city roars beneath.

Taxis honk, trains rattle, pedestrians shout, but everything muffles the moment his arm curls tighter around you.

With him, flying feels safe.

With him, the city feels small.

With him, the skyline with I LOVE YOU strung across it feels like the only world that matters.

He steals a glance at you mid-swing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

New York watches as he swings past skyscrapers—and this time, he isn't alone. He holds you like he has nowhere else to be but by your side, basking in the afterglow of a love he had written across the skyline just for you. 

Petals float below from the two of you, and you say his words back. Barely louder than the wind, but just enough for him, and only him, to hear.

It's what you’ve found between this litany of quiet you’ve both settled into:

“Home.”