#so enjoy this angst I suppose

[lets-try-some-writing]

Innocent Abominations

Optimus can feel it, he can feel the twisted nature of the Terrans. Logically he knows they are good, they are kind and wonderful sparklings who need only love and guidance to grow. But Primus... the Matrix screams that they. Must. Die.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

They were a dying race, that much was clear. The youngest amongst them was Bumblebee, and he had not even lived to see the height of Cybertron's glory. He was forged during the war and only knew its wrath. Such was their reality, where their youngest had been in existence for millennia. Without the Allspark, their people were doomed to extinction, a slow and agonizing end to a species that once dominated their corner of the galaxy and forged wonders greater than any others of their time.

As such, the enframing of newsparks should have been cause for increadible celebration... and yet, as Optimus looked upon the two sparklings that were bound to the human spawn born of Dorothy, he found himself conflicted. His spark sang with joy at the revelation of new life, regardless of its Earthly origin. The Terrans were forged on Earth, but all their scans showed they were most certainly Cybertronian down to the core of their CNA. The bonds they held with the humans were unusual, along with their ability to live without energon to fuel them, however aside from those oddities, they were normal. Twitch and Thrash were wonderfully innocent, both so very kind and untainted by the curse of war.

The parts of Optimus that remained Orion demanded he spend time with the new little lives that frolicked around him. However as he looked upon them, another part of his being, the places where the Matrix dug into his spark... they revolted in disgust. The Terrans were to the part of him that was changed to be a Prime, a disgrace, a taint, a threat. The Matrix prodded, it made its demands, and while it seemed hesitant, it grew adamant as it urged him onward, pushing him to draw his axe and end the sparklings before they could grow and become and anathema worthy of note. His nature from his time as Orion screamed in outrage at that idea, and thus, Optimus found himself forever at war with himself.

Twitch was such an excitable sparkling, so eager to learn and willing to mature. She would become a fantastic leader and a wise teacher given time. Thrash was similarly enthusiastic, but he was calmer, more inclined toward the calmer things in life, at least that is what Optimus predicted should the sparkling be given time. They were young, and while they learned much from humanity, they needed to recall their origins, to know their progenitor race. That was what the parts of Orion preached. At the same time, the Matrix grew increasingly upset the more he spoke with the Terrans, its anger and primal disgust growing more with every interaction. He needed to keep them safe, but he could not be near them, not while he was so volatile.

Thus, he gave the sparklings Bumblebee to be their teacher, and for their own safety, Optimus left. He threw himself into his work, unwilling to interact with the little Terrans for fear of the Matrix's anger growing hotter. He could sense them, every moment of every cycle... their presence on Earth forever lingering at the back of his processors for reasons he could not decipher. Why did the Matrix despise them? He did not know, the relic within him offered no answers. Still he tried to be there for the Terrans as much as he could by hiding them from G.H.O.S.T and periodically prodding Megatron until he would go visit them.

His careful time away ensured that the odd times he interacted with Thrash and Twitch, he remained composed. Combat protocols still ran beneath his plating, screaming and demanding activation, but it was manageable. He could still smile and offer the two Terrans words of wisdom and small amounts of affection. But touch? His whole being blanched when the Terrans came too near. He tried to keep Megatron and Bumblebee between him and the Terrans whenever possible. He couldn't be trusted around them, not when he was so very torn. Megatron found his behavior odd and questioned him a time or two, but usually Optimus's excuses worked and he was able to slip away without too much suspicion.

He could handle it. Just so long as the Terrans stayed a safe distance away, he could pretend, he could maintain a smile and not be drowned in the all encompassing desire to see them obliterated. Never more did he wish Ratchet were with him, or even a medic like First Aid or Ambulon. Someone, anyone, he just needed an explanation, or some sort of reason as to why he felt the way he did. The Matrix offered no answers despite the fact that his desire to raise young directly conflicted with its disgust toward the new sparklings. He knew no one would understand, he knew none would have an answer, and so he continued keeping to himself, doing everything in his power to destroy the pinpricks of primal hatred that constantly rattled his being.

Bumblebee: The Terrans are progressing well in their training. They have trouble focusing, and I admit that it is very irritating, but for their age, they are performing well.

Optimus: That is good to hear.

Bumblebee: I haven't seen you in a while Optimus, and I am sure the Terrans would love to hear from you again. They haven't seen you since the incident with Soundwave.

Optimus: No. I cannot do that. I cannot be near them.

Bumblebee: What? Optimus is something wrong?

Optimus: No, nothing that should concern you... just keep working with the Terrans. I will do my best to convince Megatron to visit in my stead. He is better acquainted with the Terrans anyway.

Bumblebee: But Sir-!

Optimus: Thank you for giving me your report Bumblebee. I hope to hear again from you soon.

It was hard enough keeping suspicion off him with just two Terrans constantly leaving his plating itching and some part of his being shifting unsettlingly. But then three more had to be forged, three more blessings that had Optimus's spark screaming in agony as his natures combatted. He had to grit his denta and clamp his field down tight enough to ache as he greeted the newsparks and learned their designations while planning for their attack against Mandroid. The humans didn't know. They didn't know what lurked amongst them. Neither did his fellows. They couldn't see, they couldn't sense the Terrans for what they were.

À̷̡̢̛̖̼͈̑̐̓́b̵̖͕͖͒̈̓́̌̚ớ̴̧̧̤̻̝͓͎̰̥̙̟͈͗͂̈́̄̀̈́͐̒ͅm̷̖̹͗̀̅͑̐͂i̷̤̗̰̳̞̜̦͕̲̐͋̑͜n̴̡̹̹̯̫̪̥̫̗̗͐̑̿͛̍̌̀́̑͆̕͝ͅä̸̧̦͖́̈̀̋t̷͎̱̠̻̰͇̹̱̫̓̈́̾̃́̀̈́͊̈̓͊̐͋i̸͇͙̮͚̪̽̓̀̊̉͑͒͐͋͒͂͘͜͠ŏ̴̱͍̳͇͕̮̠̞͈ͅṉ̶̤̺͇̼̠̳͉̘̟͚̜͑̔͋̏̿̓͑͌̿̄s̶̛͕̹̙̻̈́̒̉́̎̿̓̃̀͒̓͘. Ḯ̶̬͍̬͖͎̪͈̄̈̈̆͂̋̐͑̈́́͠ṇ̴͎͎̪̤͔̮͎͈͉̪̘́̃n̵̦͑̚̕͝ō̷̧̘͉͍͚̬̗̊̊͒̇̀́͝ͅc̶̛͙̰̳̮͕̃̉̀̾̂̇́̿̾̑́̌͂̾ȩ̵̡̛̝̻̺̜̰̮̪͈̠͙̖̀̋̐̉͜͜n̵̢͓͙̪̪̯̪̠̰̪̦̳̈̾͂̍͌̈͋͝͝ͅt̵̢̬͍͔͉̥͉͓͕̲̥͙̟̀ ̷͉͍̺̑́́̈́̓͜m̴̢̢͚̹̥̝̘̪̟̀ǫ̸͕̣̪̗͙̗͎̝̞̠͌̅͌̓͌̄̀̏̆́͑̅͋̏̚ͅǹ̷̨͍͈̱̄̿̎͂̍̓ͅs̵̛̯̆͛͊̽͒̋̑͂͆̌̔̅̚͠t̶̟͔̼̖̜̺̲̬̩͖̺͍̦̊́͊ẽ̸̬̻̯̫͙͕̞̱͋͗̀͋̔̈́̀̈́̊̀͘͘͜͝ŗ̶̯͔̩͇͂̄̂̈́̈́̄͒̎͊́̕̚̚͠͝ṣ̷̬̘̰̠̹̔̌̄͗̎̈́͗͑̈́͘.̴̡̤̻̲̗͔̋ͅ

His optics locked onto Hashtag as she walked, scanning her endlessly for weaknesses. His audials forever perked as he observed Jawbreaker, primed and ready to find the slightest hint of aggression. His axe burned within its compartment as he watched Nightshade frolic with joy, innocently pleased to be alive. Combat protocols itched with such intensity that he had to dig his digits into his own plating with ever leap into the air Twitch took. And he had to clamp his field down so harshly ever time Thrash even looked in his direction that he could tell Megatron knew something was wrong. He wanted, no, he NEEDED to end this threat. The vermin were spreading, their taint growing as they spawned more of their number. The humans were unwitting hosts, housing parasites that were going to devour them.

The taint was spreading, and the parts of him that remained Orion could no longer fight against the Matrix's truth. All that kept him from killing the Terrans right then and there was the more heretical threat in the form of mandroid. The Terrans managed to live a day longer and it was entirely because Megatron noted his barely contained bloodlust and sent them away.

Megatron took him back to headquarters and tried to prod. But Optimus said nothing, merely twitching every now and then as he retreated to his quarters. It BURNED. His plating itched every moment of every cycle he tried to keep himself composed. Any word of the Terrans nearly had him flinging himself into a rage. The Matrix ordered that they must die. While that which remained of Orion screamed in denial and desperation, it meant nothing against the all encompassing pinpricks that ran across his frame at all hours. It took time, but the desire only grew worse. With his last bout of empathy for the little things, he reached out to Megatron with a simple order.

Optimus: You must guard the Terrans, Megatron.

Megatron: Optimus, what's going on with you? You've been off since the moment the Terrans were forged.

Optimus: If you wish for those things to continue living, you must watch them, protect them, keep them away from ME.

Megatron: Optimus-

Optimus: It burns and aches, the Matrix has made its demand. I cannot keep it contained. Those things... those innocent little abominations... I cannot be near them.

Megatron: What in Primus's name has gotten into you? What has that relic done?

Optimus: Those things... the Terrans... it hates them, it despises them. It wishes them DEAD. If you care for them, do not let our paths cross. They will not leave my grasp unharmed next we meet.

Megatron: This isn't like you. I've never seen you like this before Optimus. Whatever this is, we can deal with it. It would be difficult, but Shockwave or Starscream may have knowledge of where our medics are.

Optimus: I am out of time Megatron. They are not like us, they are tainted. I will kill them the next time they are near. Do not let them near me. Do not make me kill those sparklings.

Megatron was shocked, but he listened. He did what he could to help by taking over reports from Bumblebee and taking up residence with the Malto family for their own safety. The Maltos were rightfully concerned, especially when Megatron began to forbid the Terrans from wandering without his supervision. They didn't understand, and if possible, Megatron intended to keep it that way. Bumblebee was quickly brought into the loop and together they kept dutiful watch, always tracking the Terrans and even getting Arcee and Elita involved in tender to the Terrans when possible.

The threat was growing, and they could sense it as a new presence made itself known night after night not long after they set their watch.

Optimus tried to stay away. He tried to keep calm. He TRIED to ignore the call. But nightmares haunted his every recharge cycles, visions of the Unmaker sending force an army of his spawn... his Terran abominations. His whole frame burned and agony assaulted his spark as the Matrix pulsed, sending shocks through his body as it demanded action. It showed him visions over and over again, causing Optimus to hide in his quarters as much as physically possible for the sake of his fellows. It meant little though when G.H.O.S.T began to make their moves and Optimus found himself creeping out of his quarters in the dead of night.

The call was too strong. He could not stop himself as night after night he tread silently through the forest, taking care to keep himself out of sight as he approached the Malto home. He did not wish to harm the humans, no, he merely needed to remove the parasites. He stayed at the edge of the tree line, watching, waiting, preparing himself for an opportunity to snatch away one of the abominations and destroy it. But he could not act, he could not move, not while Megatron and Bumblebee kept their optics locked onto him at the edge of the forest every night, ensuring he remained at bay. The Matrix would not stand for him harming his own. No... just the Terrans, just the abominations needed to be removed.

It became endless habit for him to stalk the edges of the woods around the Malto home, his gaze locked onto where the Terrans rested. Periodically he would try to step out, to make progress and come nearer, but Megatron and Bumblebee were dutiful. The moment their gazes locked onto him, he hurried back into the forest, waiting for an opportunity. It helped to be on the hunt, it caused the burning to fade as duty settled instead. But even that grew to be insufficient with time. He needed to eliminate the threat, there was no other option. And so slowly but surely over the course of weeks, he came nearer and nearer before allowing himself to retreat in response to Megatron and Bumblebee raising their weapons in his direction.

Nearer and nearer, bit by bit. Soon he would have his chance. Soon he could put an end to the threat. Soon... Soon...

H̶̡̘̭̭̀̀̅̇̀̐͐̐͝ẽ̶̮͇̖̠͚͕͋̾̀̈́ ̷͉̮̝̞̫͈̅̂͒͛̎̂͌͘ć̴̥̬͝ö̷̢̖̠̣́͒̀̔̂́̈́̊̕͘ų̴̡̧̜̭̤̖͖̬̇͐́̔̚l̵̢̺̦̣̦̠̘̭̮̀̃̔̀̕̕͜ḑ̷̥͔̰̦͓̳̏͊̊ ̷̧̥̳̖̼̹̒ͅḿ̷̥̲̰̩̤̦͉̻̠͔̂̿͑a̴̠̙̩̦̿ǩ̶̞͚̪̝͎͔̘̲͙̺̬͐̇͑̐̃̉̑̏ē̶̢͉̣̥̭̘͚̭̟̣͚͑̈̿̓̾̀͑̈́͐͌ ̴̛͔̝͚͖̣͙͓͈̦͎́̓̀̈́͂̊̀̏i̵̫̩̪̺̗̜͕̿͌̒ͅt̷͍͉̭͓͔̒̔̓ ̷̗̗͈͓̥̲̈́̾̎͊̿̐̈́̚̚͠͝š̴̰̈́t̶͎͉̗͕̏̏̑̏͋̓̆̀͜ő̴̘̦̋̒̍̔̊̒̄̈́͝p̶̡̦̳͉̞̳͍̒̓̌̊̂̊͌͋̕ ̵̣̘̰̲͍̭̱͊̋̉̊̋̈́̕h̶̬̰̯̺̓̏̀ự̷̪̺̀̍̐̐̎͌͆̚͘͝ṙ̷̢̺͖͗͌̇̂͛̌̈̊t̴̡̰̼̣̘̯̠̝͙̍̀̂̽̂̚ĩ̵̖͈̝͐͆͊̈́̕͠n̸͇̺̠̝͙̅̐g̷̜̼͈̥̓̂͌͐̂̎̎̐͝

[leapdayowo]

Isa is the one with a nightmare, as a treat :)

Ya know, obviously Siffrin (whose name auto correct keeps changing to suffering, which is pretty fitting lol) went through hell and back with the loops. All the angsty art and fics around that I totally get and love to see, however I like to imagine the toll their whole journey took on everyone…

It’s brought up in the game how the King’s power over Vuagarde had a huge impact on Bonnie with their sister + with Mirabelle having the weight of saving a country on her shoulders, but I can’t recall if anything was brought up with Isa and Odile? (Oh nooOOoOo, how awful I can’t remember! Guess I’ll just have to rewatch a let’s play of the game again! What a shame… /j) So yeah :3 Nightmares for everyone! Though Sif definitely has gotten quite a lot more baggage from their journey (which I do intend to make art of eventually..)

[brekitten]

Bruce doesn't dream.

He never has, really - at least, not that he can remember. He never even had nightmares from the night his parents died. Maybe that's why; maybe he just subconsciously trained himself to not dream after that night, in fear of the nightmares that were sure to come. But the point is that he does not dream.

And yet.

The dream always starts out the same, every night, every time he closes his eyes and slips into the embrace of sleep. He's in a pitch-black room, one so dark that he can't see his hands even when he raises them right in front of his face. He knows, somehow, that he can walk for hours without coming into contact with anything - walls, furniture, anything at all to indicate that he was even in a room. Yet he knows that he is, although he's not sure why, as there really is no reason for him to know that.

The dream changes, after a while of walking. He knows that he won't find anything, no matter how far or how long he walks. This place is empty, desolate even. It fills him with dread every time. The change is never consistent, always bringing him to a different place each night.

(Once, it was a dusty old bedroom, one that made his heart ache, although he didn't know why. He had taken notice of the various space-themed decorations, the model rockets and NASA posters and stars on the ceiling. It was clearly a child's bedroom, but it hadn't been used in a long time. Another time, it was a darkened lab, illuminated only by the strange vials of green liquid lined along the many, many shelves. Bruce had wondered, after he had awoken, if it was Lazarus Water, but that felt wrong. It was something else. Something more. It had made him uneasy, and he got the feeling that something terrible had happened there. He didn't get a chance to investigate the gaping hole in the wall before he had been whisked away to another part of the dream.)

This time, he is in a brightly-lit white lab, and he has to blink stars out of his eyes at the abrupt change in lighting and color. He looks around; it seems like a typical lab, but everything is pure white, except for a green stain on the table. He can feel bile rising in his throat at the sight of the cuffs on the table, and though he still doesn't know what the green substance is, he gets the horrible feeling that it's blood. A lot of it.

He uses what little time he has to investigate the lab. There is an abundance of medical supplies, but many look unused, with the exception of the scalpels. The pit in his stomach continues to grow. Why were there so many? He reaches toward a vial of red liquid, wrong wrong wrong this is wrong, when the dream changes again.

Now he's in what is clearly a cell, except even the cells in Arkham aren't this bare. The only thing it contains is a familiar white-haired teenager, who is chained to the floor with cuffs that glow the same green as the vials of Lazarus Water that he's seen before.

Though Bruce has never learned his name, he has been in every dream, the one constant (besides the empty room, of course) in each one. The kid has never spoken, never done more than watch, but Bruce has always gotten the feeling that he was the reason for these strange dreams.

He knows that he should be more worried. If some kind of meta has managed to get inside his head, there's no telling what could happen. But he can't bring himself to be. Something is wrong, and it's not the teenager.

He can't help but think of his own children.

Something feels . . . off this time. The kid isn't looking up, isn't even moving - he seems limp, almost, as he kneels on the ground, weighed down by the chains keeping him there. Green blood - Bruce knows it's blood now, it has to be - drips from his still figure, pooling on the ground underneath him.

Bruce can't move. He desperately wants to, what could he even do? but it's like he's frozen in place. He can only watch as the teenager slowly, agonizingly, looks up at him, his bright green eyes dull and filled with fear and desperation and hope and -

Bruce wakes.

[jenna-louise-jamie]

thinking about yassen gregorovich instead of sleeping (because i love him) and how he is a catalyst. yassen stabbs ash -> ash kills john rider -> ian rider raises alex -> yassen kills ian rider -> mi6 blackmails alex into becoming a teenage spy.

i have so many thoughts that i can't properly articulate. obviously this is a simplified chain of events, but yassen and his choices set off a chain reaction of the world's most unfortunate dominos. especially when you read russian roulette. to be clear im not necessarily trying to blame him for everything because that feels very mean. he was also just a 14 year old kid when everything in his life went wrong, just like alex. only difference being yassen literally had no one.

i think i should write an essay about this because i haven't even gotten into my thoughts about what yassen and alex's dynamic would look like past eagle strike. i would imagine it'd be similar to ellie and joel from the last of us part 2.

where obviously yassen loves alex and alex on some level cares for yassen back but struggles to reconcile that with the fact that yassen is responsible for his uncle's death. a very unforgivable act. it would be so messy and complicated and angsty, because on one hand here is an adult who truly cares about him and has a connection with him through his father. yassen could tell alex about john, and trust that yassen truly wants whats best for him. but he killed ian, and he cannot take that back.

while alex reels from those feelings, yassen is also trying to reconcile his love of alex with the knowledge that he on some level is responsible for the suffering alex endured at the hands of mi6. and possibly even the fact that alex's godfather is the one who killed john and helen.

[adragonsdance]

Does anyone else ever think about how WC!Scott canonically brought Mertha back to life and there was a bit of hand waving like “Eeuuhh she was a goat that’s not to difficult” but really she was a human soul trapped in a goat’s body, so Scott could bring back a human soul by like, the middle of the trials, so he might have already been powerful enough to bring back Milo by that point or soon after, without having to go full Lich and do all the horrible things that ritual entails, but by that point he had convinced himself so thoroughly that the only way to achieve his goal was by becoming the Supreme Witch that it didn’t even cross his mind to try?

[littledreamling]

∇ - old age/aging headcanon (for dream and hob if they were human rather than immortal, i suppose)

Oh my friend, you have just unlocked a side of my mind that's rarely seen but so so feral!

From this headcanon meme!

I absolutely adore aging Hob and Dream. Even outside of a human au, I love the thought of them growing old together. Age continues to exist, even if the physical evidence of it (and indeed, the end result of it) does not. Hob still ages; each year that passes is another year since he last saw his mother, another year since he last rode a horse (he really wants to get back into that and keeps telling himself that this year will be the year, but it never is), another year since he heard his oldest friends' laughter. He feels the weight of his immortality every single day, and it's not an unbearable weight, but it hangs off of his shoulders nonetheless. Dream, too, ages. Perhaps not in the same way; his life is not measured in the same way as human lives are, he does not count each passing second as an added second to his never-ending, eternal clock, nor does he measure the length of the road behind him (or the road ahead of him) in human years. Yet he ages. If learning and growing and changing are all marks of growing up and growing old, then he is doing both. He was not always; for a long time, he had been stuck in time, neither adapting nor maturing in any conceivable way, but recent events (and a certain immortal mortal) have dragged him firmly into the realm of the aging.

And it's a good thing! Hob had learned the old aphorism long ago: change or die, and he had chosen to live. Living means changing; changing with the times, changing outlooks, changing opinions, changing biases. He is a master of change, moving from one life to the next with all the fluidity of a rushing river. His ability to do so is his aging. Likewise, Dream's willingness to, if nothing else, at least see Hob's point of view about change, shows his own aging.

But you didn't send this ask to hear me wax poetic about the philosophy of aging or changing, so here are my thoughts on old, human Dreamling.

Dream is a grumpy old man. He's the old man who worked every day of his life, without break or vacation, and his body is punishing him for it. He was definitely an artist of some kind, maybe a sculptor, maybe something else. It doesn't matter; at the end of his day, his knees click and his knuckles are swollen with arthritis and all of the muscles that had built up in his shoulders have languished in his old age. He can't hold a paintbrush or spin a pottery wheel anymore and it eats him alive with every sunrise. Hob, on the other hand, is the singular spot of warmth and light in Dream's life. Hob, a retired soldier, or maybe a life-long construction worker, has kept his sunny disposition (and, infuriatingly, his fit frame) into his older years. They're the quintessential grumpy one/sunshine one, though anyone who knows them personally knows that Dream has a soft spot for children, and for birds, and for anyone who has a story to tell, while Hob has a mean streak a mile wide if you get on his bad side. They spend their days sitting at the kitchen table, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on their front porch, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on a bench in their local park, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea. They always have warm cups of coffee or tea. They're well-known at the coffee shop, and Hob will recount the story of how they met in that very same shop loudly and at length to anyone who asks (and sometimes to people who don't).

On days when Dream feels as though he can't get out of bed, like his body is too heavy for the world, like his mind has fallen into such disrepair as to be unusable, Hob is the one who sits next to him, a warm hand on his shoulder, and affectionately calls him a drama queen. He'll roll his eyes at his husband's antics, but he'll bring him breakfast in bed anyway. And when Hob is haunted by old nightmares of a long life, not always well-lived, Dream will hold one of their countless books in long, shaking fingers, and he will read to his husband, poems and epic tales, and Dream won't tell Hob that he's not reading, he's reciting, because his quiver and eyesight have gotten so bad that he can't see the words clearly, but he knows them in his heart. And Hob won't tell Dream that he doesn't need to go through the trouble, that it's his presence that's grounding, not the words he's speaking; he'll sit in his presence and let the wash of words roll over him like a comforting tide, drowning his bone-deep anxieties. He'd listen to his husband read the phone book and still find enjoyment in that deep voice and the cadence of his tone.

And when they die, because they do die, they die together. Not in time, mind you, but in company. Surrounded by friends and family, the younger siblings of the Endless family, the children they adopted and the grandchildren, both blood-related and not. Morpheus dies first, his body breaking at the seams. He dies in his sleep, napping on the couch while Hob cooks dinner, and his last words are breathed into the quiet room, asking Hob for a blanket. The funeral is a somber affair, a solemn celebration of everything Morpheus had been; an artist, a husband, a father, a flawed man. The entire town attends, even those who had gotten yelled at from across the lawn or across the park (Dream had taken grave offense to anyone disrupting the local bird population, a story that gets told at the reception with teary eyes and wobbly smiles). When Hob gets home, their entire family is there, warm and laughing and joyful and he can feel his husband in the room, in the people they both had dedicated their lives to.

When Hob dies a week later, no one is surprised. It's his daughter who finds him, curled up on the very same couch, wrapped in the very same blanket, tucked lovingly around him, as if someone else had draped the quilt over his shoulders. She cries, because he was her father, and she loved him, and a part of her had hoped that he would be around forever. But there is a larger part, a much larger part, that finds comfort in the sight. Hob and Dream were never meant to be separated. Wherever they are, she reasons (because they were never a religious family), they are together. For now and forever. As they always should be.

[non-un-topo]

Little Light - tog ficlet

Something I felt like writing but didn’t know what to do with. A little scene inspired by an old fic of mine, Dahlia. A bonus scene, if you will.

--

Somewhere outside these old wood walls, an owl calls the morning forth. A gentle if not calming sound to Andromache, but to tiny brand new ears it is unknown and frightening.

The babe emits a discontented little squeal, and as Andromache leans away from the wall to see into the makeshift bassinet — an armoire drawer, placed on the floor between a bedroll and Andromache’s watchful place at the wall — the tiny thing grunts and attempts to kick her swaddled legs. A little lip pouts, trembles, then her gummy mouth opens with grumpy staccato cries.

There’s a shift in the darkness on the bedroll just beside the drawer. There is enough pre-dawn light pouring in from a half-boarded window for Andromache to see Yusuf poke his head up from behind Nicolò’s shoulder, then quickly lift himself on an elbow as he comes out of sleep to register the baby’s distress.

Andromache’s hand is on the swaddled baby’s stomach, just rubbing very gently as Yusuf carefully crawls over Nicolò and comes forward. The child’s newborn cries sound almost like little angry coughs, increasing in volume as Andromache’s attempts to calm her do virtually nothing. She’s so small, so new. In her mind, Andromache is going through the list of remedies to calm her down: Is she hungry? Is she cold? Does she need a change? Was she simply startled by the owl? There are no easy answers, just a crying baby wiggling in tattered fabrics, all they have for her.

Yusuf is on it, though. Has been since that first horrific day that brought the tiny thing to them. He squats in front of the drawer, and Andromache removes her hand as Yusuf very carefully slides a hand behind the baby’s head and neck and begins to free her from her swaddle.

The moment her arms are free, they shoot up next to her head — some reflex Andromache has noticed, and Yusuf coos at the sight of it. Andromache watches the soft look in his eyes with unease, but she’s then drawn to the shift of Nicolò as the baby’s cries wake him too.

Yusuf shushes the babe, and there’s a moment of uncertainty on his face like he’s having similar thoughts to Andromache, similar anxieties, before he gets both hands below her tiny arms, fingers stretched out behind her neck and head to support her, and lifts her from the drawer. As he does so she scrunches up into a little ball, hand-stitched nappy crumpling up as her knees bend, and her pink fists bracket her face as she grunts.

Andromache watches in silence as Yusuf settles the baby against his shoulder, fingers feather-light and safe on the back of her head where her wispy hair gathers at the base of her skull. She adjusts a little, rubbing her nose into Yusuf’s shirt, as Yusuf pulls open the back of her nappy to check her.

Nicolò is there next to them then, more alert and awake than Yusuf whose eyelids are drooping. Andromache can see all the thoughts in Nicolò’s head play out just by the slight crease in his brow as he watches the baby’s face. He raises a hand, sets is back to the floor, and although Andromache had warned them both about the dangers of becoming attached to the child, she does not want the poor thing to suffer while three capable adults can comfort her. She blinks permissively at Nicolò but he doesn’t need the permission from her, only from himself.

Yusuf is bouncing the baby slightly against his shoulder as he shushes her little noises. He turns his head to see the longing on Nicolò’s face and nods sleepily at him. As Nicolò reaches out to stroke a thin curl on the top of the baby’s head, she begins to squeal again and soon unravels into hiccuping little cries. With mild alarm, Yusuf adjusts her so her face is not pressed into his clothes.

“Let me?” whispers Nicolò, hands out and ready. Yusuf nods, stifling a yawn, and very carefully passes the little grumpy ball over to Nicolò, who lays her over his forearm, cupping her bottom and scrunched up feet in his large hand. Yusuf releases her head last in the crook of Nicolò’s elbow, and her fists fly up again as she settles back with another round of staccato cries. With that done, Yusuf immediately stands to rifle through their packs, likely in search of some goat’s milk they’ve saved.

Finding sustenance for the child has been exhausting and certainly a battle, but Andromache has seen too many children starve to let this one go hungry. She will be fed every chance they get, and she will be warm, and when they are able they will pass her into loving hands who will be able to house her and love her and help her grow tall and strong.

But for now, Andromache only sits and watches as Nicolò rubs the pad of his thumb up the space between the child’s peach-fuzz brows, a little trick she’d taught him that may calm her down and put her to sleep but does not seem to be working at the moment. The baby’s mouth is still wide open and trembling as she cries and so, supporting her with both arms, Nicolò stands with an exaggerated groan and begins to bob her just slightly.

“Alright, piccola,” he says, turning away as he begins to pace around a little, humming some low made-up tune on the spot.

Yusuf stands at his side then, with the jar of milk and the cloth they use to soak it in so the baby can suckle, and Andromache lets herself relax, lets her back touch the wall again as she just watches them together, the pink-faced baby emitting little punched-out cries between them. She’s quieting down, though, as Nicolò bobs her like the sea. Yusuf stands by with the cloth, peering curiously at her little face.

Nicolò makes a brave move then. With one shared look with Yusuf, he blinks down at the child and leans down to ever-so-gently press his lips to her head. He stays there even after the little kiss, and Andromache can hear him hushing her softly as he continues to bounce her.

She’s stopped crying. As Nicolò draws back, Andromache can see that her eyes are wide open, gazing up at Yusuf and Nicolò in wonder. They smile down at her, and something lodges itself in Andromache’s throat. Almost subconsciously, her hand closes around the pendant against her chest.

Yusuf senses her unease, of course he does, because he looks over at her and beckons her over with a jerk of his head and an outstretched hand. She goes willingly, if a little stiffly, and although she swears in her mind that they will not be keeping this child it is nice to see the men smiling in victory and adoration at her little face.

“Looks like she just wanted to be held,” Yusuf whispers.

Andromache might think something about the fact that the first hands to ever touch this baby were Nicolò’s. She might think about the fact that Yusuf’s soft voice had been the one to calm her cries on that first night. She might remember the way her tiny body felt so warm in her arms the morning the child’s mother left this earth, when the ground still trembled with aftershocks and somewhere in the distance the ocean watched Andromache’s back.

She says none of this. Instead, she joins them in the middle of the room as it slowly fills with early morning light. The broken three of them, and the fragile brand new fourth.

They have not named her yet. Andromache does not dare. But she will be called Dahlia, after the flowers her mother sold in a little shop north of the hills of Campania, where the winds smell of oleander and the olive trees face the sunrise.

[drindrak-art]

There is nothing wrong with Rose Tyler's old pocket watch.

The watch belonged to her father - at least, that’s what Rose always believed and that’s what she told the Doctor when he asked. The watch was broken and had been for as long as she’s had it; not that she let the Doctor know that bit. Something deep inside her told her to lie lie lie about it - that it worked fine, that it was just a stupid trinket that reminded her of her father, that there was nothing wrong with her watch. And eventually he dropped the subject and never brought it up again. Though she always noticed the looks he’d send to it, brows furrowed, confused and searching for something strange about it. So Rose would hide it away in her pockets; hide it from his scrutiny.

But the Doctor’s interest in the watch would always bring her attention to it.

Because Rose would barely remember she owned the watch. Her gaze would shift from it as if she wasn’t holding it in her hands; as if she wasn't feeling the cold metal warm in her grip. Her attention would always switch focus to something other than the perfectly normal, nothing weird about it, watch hiding in her pockets.

People rarely even noticed the thing and never brought it up unless Rose did first. And always, always, the first thing she’d say is, “It’s my dad’s old pocket watch. Still works perfectly fine!” No matter what people said about it, she’d always reiterate that there’s nothing wrong with her watch. It's a normal, nothing strange about it, stop asking about it, pocket watch.

Rose would often put the watch out of her mind - her head already too full with that constant damnable noise. Always in the back of her head pounding away like a child’s drum set - just one-two-three-four one-two-three-four, over and over and over, neverending. The pain from it was at least manageable with over the counter pain meds.

When she’d looked into the Heart of the TARDIS and the TARDIS looked back and together they became the Bad Wolf, the noise had, for one glorious moment, vanished as if it was never there to begin with. One beautiful, silent moment.

But it was back the moment the Bad Wolf left her - the moment the Doctor died to save her from burning. Pounding in that one-two-three-four harsher than ever, leaving her with a near constant headache that nothing seemed to help with.

When she’d begun falling towards the Void alongside the Daleks and the Cybermen, the watch screamed for her to open it, to let it help, to not let the Doctor abandon her again - but Pete, her alternate universe dad, caught her before she could. The watch quieted and Rose pushed the strangeness of it out of her mind because now she was trapped, stuck in an alternate universe without the Doctor, without the man she loved most of all.

It’s not until Bad Wolf Bay, after words said in tears; a desperate “I love you!” falling from her lips and his stupid, waste of time response of: “Quite right too … and I suppose, if this is my last chance to say it-”; after his image disappeared before finishing his sentence and her heart broke more than it ever had, that she finally, finally, took proper notice of the watch.

The watch was hot to the touch and pulsating a soft golden colour and whispers of “it’s time, it’s time, open me, do it, do it now” escaped it and god how her finger itched to press the clasp and open it - but her mother’s arms go around her shoulders, dragging her into a hug. The spell the watch had on her breaks and she forgets it entirely.

Forgets it until nearly two months later, when she’s lying in bed in a too empty apartment, trying and failing to get over the Doctor, and the watch hisses to her: “Stupid, useless little ape. Open me. It’s time. Open the watch, now.” She looks at it and it's like she’s in a trance, staring and staring at it, unable to look away. Her finger catches on the clasp and the watch swings open with a bright golden light that burns through her like Bad Wolf once had and crushes her human mind beneath the louder than ever one-two-three-four one-two-three-four… and she collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

Five minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, the Master opens her eyes and smiles.

[appledotcodotuk]

Pub Quiz Crusaders

The pub is loud. There is a logical reason for this wall of noise: it is a Saturday night. A time for people to peel themselves away from work and muster their best impression that it, in fact never existed. Such concepts are almost always considered in the abstract, really. On the TARDIS, every night and no night is a Saturday. And as for the work, well what was that saying about loving what you do? Still, not everyone was of the same opinion, and because she had finally worn him down (with precisely 27 seconds of pouting) he had let her choose a place to take a break.

Here he was, tucking himself into a corner of a beer-stained countertop, and trying to look like he was considering the drinks menu. Far more out of place amongst chatter and small talk than on the surface of a new planet. In the background, the noise begins to hit somewhat of a fever pitch: the walls are practically creaking under the collective weight of jabbering arms: condensed sweat dips clammy fingertips into concave divots where elbows bend and flesh meets flesh.

It is really quite incredible, The Doctor finds himself thinking - the way the human body takes an absolute mass of contradictions and turns them into something absolutely spectacular. In his humble and unasked for opinion, to see something so at odds with itself in motion was downright mythical. It shouldn’t work! And yet, every step a human takes is with the sort of self-righteous determination in the face of impossibility that only a human can make. Frankly, he was surprised people could even focus. Why didn’t they just say bugger this for a lark let’s just sit here and look at each other for a moment, more often – if it was ever said at all? Typical really. You give people a body that is just beautiful, really, genuinely, just quite marvellous – so enduring, so adaptable, so… soft – and they don’t even take the time to appreciate it.

Perhaps it was the lack of novelty. His last regenerating had been comforting in teh way thrusting your hand into a fireplace, and not caring if the flesh started to show flashes of the white that lay beneath was: at least you were still warm. New body, new senses, same old thoughts. He liked the feeling of being shaped. Putter around piloting the same bundle of meat, bones and nerves long enough, and the marvel of cornea-to-pupil-to-iris adjusting, constructing, fitting, to-lens-to-retina, that pulsing field of bright light and electricity which dance along the nerves and flood you with colour and shapes from the inside out is given the limp, and utterly inadequate misnomer of ‘seeing’.

From across the bar, Rose is laughing at somebody else’s joke. If he had the sense to, he might have felt a little bit of resentment towards the pretty young man leaning towards her, pointing across the bar towards some shoulder-brushed poster in the far flung reaches of his periphery. Rose obliterates the peripheral, anyway. It is not that he only has eyes for her – a ridiculous phrase, how on earth could he fulfil it? He had tried, but the distressing fact about the eye was that there was no way to control what you see – it was just that looking at anything else felt like just as lamentable a waste of his faculties as neglecting the marvels of his own human-but-not-quite-human body. Cripes. He didn’t remember being quite such a fawning narcissist before. But really, he muses, with a darting glance at his horizon-line lips, can he help it? He is Rose’s. He had avoided his reflection quite studiously in those feverish first hours, when he had still had movement in his limbs and consciousness. Attempted invasion aside, he didn’t want his first meeting with this new face to be the mirror’s cold isolation. All he needed, all he would ever need, was to be folded small and whole into the curve of those nut-shell eyes. What do you think? You think, therefore I am.

He had seen Rose for the first time with eyes wearied by war. He wanted to see her again, see her more, see her always. He allows his eyes to flex and concentrate and pull somewhere deep within the echoing chambers of his hearts her face, her smile, her arms and un-held hands. Her fingers fall in a neat little wave as she sees off that grinning idiot (he catches himself, he is not supposed to care) and bounds over towards him.

‘There’s a pub quiz happening tonight.’ She says, and he can see himself reflected in her eyes. Her voice lilts, leaving ample space for a not-question to dangle. The Doctor smiles, and his eye-pooled doppelganger grins back, lazy and slightly crooked because he is hapless and a fool and can’t help himself – can’t help himself? If the Academy could see him now… - but he doesn’t say anything yet. To appear overeager is dangerous. Far better that she give herself over to that intoxicating vulnerability: to want and to show it. ‘Well, I was just wondering if we could stay, ‘s been ages since my last quiz.’

‘Well, Rose Tyler,’ he says, putting that careful enunciation onto her name; savouring the way the syllables roll around this new tongue, ‘Am I in the presence of an expert?’ He asks, wiggling his newly expressive eyebrows. His reward is tenfold: a warm giggle, a light tap on his shoulder. ‘Well… in that case I’d be an absolute Graske in a basket to say no, wouldn’t I?’ Now his whole body is swaying; shifting on his squeaky, appallingly loud bar stool and telegraphing everything he tries his level best not to indulge in: the self-satisfied delight of making Rose Tyler laugh. The moment is sweetened by the undeniable fact that her laugh is at least 5 decibels, and 50,000 emptrons (a new and very valuable measure of delight he had made up about two seconds ago) higher than anything that ridiculous young man had been capable of. But, because he is both unfathomably better and smarter than Rose’s newly acquired strutting fool, he tries his best not to show it.

‘Oh, just you wait. I’ll go sign us up!’ She turns to leave, but not before reaching over and squeezing his hand.

The ‘Buh’ he mutters is thankfully, mercifully dashed against her retreating back. Wouldn’t do to be lost for words moments before he’d need to put those words to use. Rose Tyler had a special ability to render him speechless; to snatch the words, which this body clung to so stubbornly, from his mouth and scatter them in the void itself. He had never been this chatty in his last form. When he was alone in the console room, and caught a gaze of himself in the Time Rotor, hovering over the Heart, he sometimes wondered if this body was an apology. Repair. The opportunity to speak all the words unsaid, and yet simultaneously say absolutely nothing at all. He really was still the same man.

He stares down at the treacherous appendage, flexing and clenching and always the main recipient of Rose’s affections, with a mixture of inexplicable jealousy and delight. He had scared her. Even when everything was alright, because Rose was travelling with him again, it had been snowing ashes, and his hand had given her the creeps. Horrible things, the creeps. A shiver up your spine packaged into a phrase that felt whimsical: the name for a band dealing exclusively in Halloween covers perhaps. He had always loved the concept of novelty covers. Take the same old song, repurpose it a few times, twist a few lyrics here and there – it was an admirably bald-faced mixing and mashing. She had looked so frightened huddled behind the branching coral of his beautiful ship. He had been so ready to pounce on the danger, only to realise her eyes were on him. Can you change back. Change back. Give him back to me. He had really tried for a moment. Begged his cells to unspool their DNA, to turn back the reel and project the face she trusted back onto the shifting flesh that had formed his new, soft head. But even as he considered it, he knew. There was no going back. Not for either of them.

‘Alright, so, there’s a few different categories: History, Science, General Knowledge, Literature and … God! What was the last one?’ She’s back. The Doctor swings around to face her in a way that he sincerely hopes is at least a little more suave and cool (since when had he needed to be cool?) than it feels. ‘Oh, I HATE when this happens.’ Her foot taps a quick frustrated tempo, and unconsciously a finger rests itself against her bottom lip. The Doctor tries very hard to defy the independent and localized gravitational field of Rose, a law that Newton would certainly find he had severely neglected to consider, but part of him knows the resistance is cursory. So he steals a glance at her lips. They’re working their way around a word, trying to put air to those flashing bolts of electric thought. ‘It’s right on the tip of my tongue! M… M…’

‘M….oney? M….artians? M…ovie-‘

‘Movies! Yes! You’re brilliant, you are.’

She’s joking, mostly, but the simper that it produces is fully and abashedly authentic.

‘Course I am. So! Rose Tyler: Trivia Master Extraordinaire, what is the strategy for tonight’s battle of wits?’

‘Hmm, well, my second-in-command, we have a simple goal. Win.’

‘Hm! Short and to the point, I like your style.’ He pauses, trying to delay the words from coming out of his mouth but they’re already being flung into the air by his tongue tapping cruel rhythms into his teeth and: ‘I’m so glad to have met you’ come barreling out, far too light for the history that drags the sentence towards the floor. Mangled, like a record player that scratches as it plays.

She stiffens a little. Imperceptible to most humans, hardly worth noticing for any species with superior sight. But he notices, and he also knows that there is no hiding their shared awareness of that moment, of the words that call to a past neither of them are quite willing to address with sincerity. But, there is the perfect cover, because in the ruddy glow of fire burning red in beer and the cheeks of its drinkers, over a pub quiz, it is easy to shoo sincerity away.

He takes her hand. Hesitates. She interlaces their fingers and smiles. It is returned. Of course it is. He grasps for more words, always more words. Words to fill the holes that words tear. ‘Come along, Trivia Master Extraordinaire, the scene of our grand victory awaits!’

Their competition: a young couple who, when they weren’t canoodling (Rose had practically guffawed at that word when he’d said it, but no other phrase came close!) were taking sips of rapidly decreasing beer and a pair of mothers who had surrendered their sheet to the creative flourishes of their youngest had stood absolutely no chance. Rose Tyler and The Doctor, team name: TARDIS (Truly Amazing paiR of Dilemma Interpreters and Solvers) an acronym so strained that the owner, when handing over their prize had paid homage with a grumbled gesture of ‘you lot’, had entered the melee and emerged with nothing less than absolute victory. They had been harsh, and at times, merciless. A fumbled phrasing, a half-remembered title was given absolutely no leniency. All’s fair in love and war. With an exactness, precision, and an intimate apprehension of historical events that went against the received knowledge of ‘History’ (it would be at least half a century before The Doctor would forgive the two lovebirds for their skepticism at his assertion that Dickens had encountered real ghosts alongside the four featured in A Christmas Carol - thus tallying the score to at least the mid-50s – but a jab in the ribs from Rose had silenced him) it would’ve been daylight robbery to give them anything less than first prize.

Cradling their spoils: a single bottle of champagne that Rose had commented was often half-off in the pub’s local, they stumbled their way home. Home. Of course, the TARDIS was home for him. But it surprised him how quickly home had expanded to include her in it. Her cheeks were warm, and slightly pink from the cold and the drink. He has no excuse for the light pink that flushes his face with a warmth, a semblance of humanity. Alcohol has no effect: he doesn’t feel the cold. But, hand in hand with his best mate, he finds himself wondering if drink could ever produce this rush, this ecstasy. The Doctor and Rose in the TARDIS, solving planetary crises or cruising by the estate for pub quizzes. It was right, it was safe. It was as natural as the way their arms curled around each other, interlaced like an embrace.

[camels-pen]

you are a person that is looked up to. respected. sought out for certain types of help, on occasion. a very important figure.

you make many friends in order to help you with your responsibilities and it never takes long for you to consider them family. they bicker and fight on occasion, but they are your precious family. you love them and they love you just as much. they care for you and look out for you, to a point sometimes you would consider yourself spoiled, but they insist it's the least they could do for you, because you are an important person, but also because you are loved. you are so so loved.

you become ill one day. nothing much, just a small cold, but your family frets and frets, trying to make you feel better. the cold doesn't go away, always this small annoyance to you, but you grin and bear it, because you don't want them to fret any longer.

you start getting pains on the back of your neck. little ones, at first, but more and more started to come, started to hurt in different places around your neck. your closest friend and guide, practically a doting grandmother to you, takes to rubbing your shoulders and your nape when she can, and when she can't, she'll get one of the younger ones to do it instead. you try to grin and bear it as best you can and, eventually, they stop fretting as much. your guide scolds everyone else, certain that someone must be stressing you out enough to get hurt. your bonds with your family are special after all, and negative thoughts and actions can really hurt you. the others gasp and shake their heads, saddened that one of them hurt you, but they mostly take it in stride.

the neck pains never go away.

you gain a new member of the family. a handsome young man with little to offer in terms of aiding you in your duties, but he does his best. regardless, you are happy to have him. and it's always amusing for a new helper to get so nervous around you. the following days are fun and content, watching him get used to the family and the various mishmash of tasks that must be done. you take him on a few of your outings and he is greatly overwhelmed, but he is observant. he aids you in keeping mind of the details, the little things that might slip through or be lost in the big picture. he is clumsy and he is new, but he too, might make a fine guide one day, should the need arise.

you become ill again.

it is not a simple cold, this time.

you hardly know what is happening around you anymore. your guide came to visit in the morning and you could hardly muster a greeting before she pulled back the blanket to expose your bare back.

you have a feeling you know what she saw. you don't want to think about it.

your guide excuses herself and through the door to your room you can hear her faint reprimands—much sterner and less forgiving than the last time—and mentions of holding rituals to purify each and every member of the family. the pain is horrible, you writhe on your bed to try to escape it, and you wish, more than anything, to be able to stand and tell them you're alright. to lie to them that everything's fine. that you will surely survive.

you hear as the last ritual is completed. your pain has worsened by the end of it. it's unbearable now. you can hardly speak anymore, but you are still capable of sound. still capable of making grunts and gasps and wheezes.

your family are arguing outside and you can hardly hear them now, but things don't sound good. you feel the illness spread further. it's covering your neck completely, most of one arm, and much of your face.

you don't know what to do.

you know exactly what you need to do.

you won't do it.

someone does it for you.

someone like you. an important figure, but not one that is looked up to. one that is feared.

you are present, when it happens. you are in the middle of this family you can barely recognize anymore, this family whose bonds are in tatters, as they are taken away.

as they are killed.

you are stuck, physically stuck. the pain steals your movement, but there is someone—something else holding you down. you cannot move. you cannot stop this. you are forced to hear their dying screams as they call out for help. as they call out, for you, to help.

you beg—with your hoarse and pain ridden voice, you beg and beg and beg for this person who is like you to stop this slaughter.

you tell this person who is like you that your family is good, is gentle, and to please please stop—to not kill any others.

you don't know if this person who is like you couldn't hear your strained whispers or if your words fell on deaf ears, but this person who is like you does not listen.

your family calls out for help again. they reach out to you, for protection. you reach out to them, a small fickle hope that you could at least save—

light. sunlight was filtering in through the window.

you hear someone come in.

it's the new member, the clumsy one.

now, the only member.

he says he is incapable of protecting you. he says you should find new helpers, friends, family. he says this, after having cared for you tirelessly on his own for so long, while you have barely had the will to move.

he starts to say something else, but you can't take it.

you tell him, in a quivering voice, "I never want to go through that again."

you cling to his lap and say, "I don't need any others!"

you cry and bury your face in his thighs and exclaim, "All I need is you!"

it takes time, but you pick yourself up, and—despite your words—you find new helpers, new friends, new family. but unlike before, you let any and all you find into your home, regardless of how suitable they are to helping you. unlike before, the risks of getting ill are higher, but you don't care. you need to make up for letting your family die. you need to always take in those who need it, to make up for those you failed.

and unlike before, you will not allow your family to die.

your name is Bishamonten and the next time you see the Yato God, you will kill him.

[searchingforshinies]

just realized that i’ve never posted this one on my Official Writing Tumblr-

[eggbagelz]

It is occuring to me that not many ppl will enjoy the actual contents of the roadtrip au

[fushitoru]

infect me with your love

pairing ⸺ spiderman!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you have always existed in gojo satoru’s shadow. he is a physics prodigy, a person that everyone endlessly admires for his intelligence and charisma, and you hate him for taking the spotlight that you deserve to share with him. but it all changes one day at 5:07AM at your starbucks job when gojo barges in, ordering ridiculously sweet drinks and posing existential questions. is there more to gojo that meets the eye, and is it linked to the vigilante swinging around New York City?

warnings ⸺ college au, academic rivals to lovers, SMUT, tooth rotting fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, basically the holy trinity, reader works at Starbucks (BOYCOTT tho), set in NYC, both reader and gojo are physics majors, mentions of SA, attempt at SA on reader but nothing too graphic, some violence, gojo swings reader across NYC so might trigger fear of heights?. SPIDER-MAN KISS SPIDERMAN KISS, injury and mentions of blood, mentions of gun, inappropriate use of webs LOL, fingering, oral, p in v sex, reader has a vagina, fem reader implied

playlist ⸺ quantum rizzics

a/n thank you for @avaults my POOKIE for beta reading this. this has been a journey and my first longfic and i hope you guys enjoy this as much as i did writing it it's my baby:')

if u don’t wanna read the smut just skip the part after they make up, it’s not necessary to the story and is the ending scene. but just to be clear, minors dni.

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist | spiderman!gojo masterlist

fun fact: starbucks opens at 5am.

of course, that depends on your local hours and where you live, but in the campus starbucks you worked at, your manager fortunately didn’t really care if you showed up to your opening shift a bit late. after all, no professor or undergrad is waking up at the ass crack of dawn to get a fuckin coffee; if they really needed a pick me up, they’d go to get the free alcohol at one of the frats that was still partying. 

matter of fact, your manager didn’t really give a fuck what you did as long as you didn’t get the shop blown up or the matcha spilled (it was expensive). this meant you could leisurely wake up at 4:45am and set up the display muffins and cake pops when you arrived in the shop at 5:20am. really, the manager ought to reduce the hours because all you do is finish your readings for your gen ed history classes on the canvas app on your phone. so, really you get paid for doing your homework on your shifts—not that you’re complaining or anything.

that is, until gojo satoru.

first, let’s get the record straight about who gojo is. gojo is a physics second-year—same as you–who is the bane of your existence. up until a few months ago, you never saw gojo satoru outside of classes (where he was dozing off) unless you happened to show up at a frat party, which was only a few occurrences when you got peer pressured by your friends. clearly, he was a “work hard, party hard” type person because he frequents the frats more than the library while having the grades to make up for it because he’s a prodigy. he’s charismatic and smart as fuck; right out of middle school he was studying manifolds and abstract algebra while the rest of the high school freshmen were learning the quadratic equation and the concept of variables. he probably learned what gravity was at age of two and was doing research in quantum field theory by the time he got into college. 

take the last time you saw him outside of class, at office hours with professor yaga.

the air in professor yaga’s office is thick with the scent of old textbooks, the hum of the overhead lights adding to the familiar quiet. you’ve been waiting all week for this chance, and you’re armed with a question that’s supposed to signal i’ve done my homework. you lean forward, trying to project confidence as you ask, “i read in your last paper that you’re working on optimizing error correction in quantum computing systems. is there a reason you prioritized stabilizer codes over surface codes?”

professor yaga’s brow lifts, impressed, and you can feel the warmth of his approval starting to settle around you. “ah,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised, “you’ve actually read it. that’s... a complicated question.” he leans back, launching into an explanation, and for a second, you think this might actually be it—the moment he notices you for your dedication, your depth of knowledge.

but then, the door creaks open behind you.

you tense, a sinking feeling pooling in your stomach even before you turn around. of course, it’s gojo satoru, strolling in like he owns the place. his bag is slung over one shoulder, and he’s flashing that easy grin that never seems to falter. he spares you the briefest glance before zeroing in on professor yaga.

professor yaga’s face shifts instantly, a mixture of annoyance and resignation flashing in his eyes as he sighs, “gojo. nice of you to join us.”

“hey, i was just passing by,” gojo says casually, though he’s clearly anything but. he doesn’t pass by anywhere without making an entrance. “thought i’d check in on how everyone’s doing.”

the glint in yaga’s eyes sharpens, and he fixes gojo with a look. “when’s that last problem set coming in, satoru? i’ve had enough late assignments from you for one semester.”

at this, another professor at a nearby desk chuckles, casting an amused glance at gojo. “don’t push him too hard, yaga,” he says as if gojo’s delinquency is something charming, a shared inside joke. “kid’s already got the department’s highest scores without trying.”

oh, for god’s fucking sake. you force yourself not to roll your eyes, your grip tightening on the strap of your bag as you sink back in your chair. of course, all it takes is for him to show up and somehow you’re rendered invisible. just minutes ago, professor yaga was engaging with you, treating you as if you might actually belong in this room with your carefully constructed question. now, he’s utterly distracted, entirely absorbed by whatever pseudo-flattering insults he’s throwing at gojo. and, for the record, that stupid, balding professor is wrong. you have the same fucking scores as gojo, so you’re equals.

you’re not even sure gojo realizes he’s doing it—that he has this magnetic, obnoxious effect on everyone in a room. but that’s exactly what grates on you the most. he pulls all eyes to him, like he’s some cosmic force everyone’s compelled to admire. and you? you’re just… there. not that it’s any different than the usual experiences you’ve had as a woman in stem, always feeling like you have to prove yourself five times over. but somehow, gojo makes it worse.

and he does it all effortlessly, like physics is some sort of playground where he can breeze through research and exams, sprinkling charisma wherever he goes. he’s probably off writing his own theories on manifolds while everyone else is struggling to keep up with quantum mechanics. meanwhile, here you are, clawing for every shred of recognition, only to watch it fizzle as soon as he steps into the room.

he flashes a grin at professor yaga. “i’ll get it in,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “i’m just, you know, prioritizing. some of us have… extracurriculars.” he doesn’t wink, but he might as well.

you resist the urge to scoff, sinking deeper into your seat as the frustration bubbles up, sharp and hot. it’s not like you’re jealous. you’d rather endure anything than admit that. but watching gojo waltz in and immediately siphon off any attention you’d managed to earn feels like a slap. if he could just stop showing up, or better yet, stop pretending to be so casually brilliant, maybe—just maybe—you’d have a chance at something other than this routine invisibility.

you let out a huff, pretending to check the time, imagining you had somewhere better to be. you have brilliant, observant blue eyes following you out the door, but you’re too busy trying to keep yourself together until you reach your dorm, where you ugly cry it out.

which, of course, brings you to mornings like this one, where you actually do have to be somewhere. namely, behind the counter at the campus starbucks, opening up shop while most of the world is still asleep. you catch sight of the green mermaid logo ahead, just visible through the dim haze of a 5:07 a.m. chill.

and right beneath it, there’s a familiar head of silver hair.

your eyes have to double take on the man who seems to be looking a bit slouched, tired and leaning against the light pole while tapping his foot. the muscular yet tall stature and white hair are unmistakable; it’s the same ones you’ve dreamed about throttling. but you’re so confused as to why he’s there that you just decide to wordlessly walk towards the store and open up, ignoring his presence until his voice cuts through the morning silence.

“doesn’t this store open up at 5?” his voice sounds tired and groggy, you notice. 

“uh, yea,” you answer tentatively, shrugging. “but, um, no one comes until 7 so i show up late.”

his eyes narrow and somewhat playfully (well, as playful as he can sound at the ass crack of dawn anyways), he asks, “don’t you know time is of the essence? seems pretty irresponsible to me that you’re not showing up on time.”

you just stare at him for a bit because, after all, this is the guy you’ve been having the murderous equivalent of wet dreams about for the past year talking to you in a friendly, joking, familiar way. needless to say, you’re at a loss of words in your slightly flustered state, so all that comes out is a short “sorry” before you’re walking in, getting ready to put on your apron and setting the oven on to heat up the croissants. 

gojo follows in after you, choosing to sit at the table closest to the counter. he sets the backpack he had on his back down, rummaging through and whipping out his laptop and plugging it in. it’s a heavy old thing, and gojo’s biceps strain as he pulls it out and you almost snort when looking at it in its entirety. a gaming laptop.

 but you don’t do that, because laughing at someone who’s a stranger to you would be mean, no matter how much you hate him, so you resort to setting up the counter and getting some powders out. bending over, you get the newly shipped box of cake pops, deigning to put them out on display until you’re interrupted with a cough.

you turn, looking inquisitively at gojo until he points down to the counter, indicating that he wants to order. you mumble, “just a second!” before you continue hauling the box to put it on the top counter where you can easily unpack it and brush your hands, walking up to gojo and getting the system ready to take his order. 

and your fingers are poised on the buttons until you realize that no order is coming out of his mouth. you blink, and he blinks, keeping a stoic face that nevertheless poorly conceals an amused expression.

“…what can i get you?” 

at that, he pouts. “no good morning? no chirpy hello?”

you just stare at him for a good second. what the fuck?

“what?” gojo frowns. “shouldn’t you do that to every customer?” you realize belatedly you’ve said it out loud in your shock, but shake it off nonetheless. 

the silence lingers after gojo’s teasing comment, making you acutely aware of the odd situation: you’re standing there in your work apron, face-to-face with the man you’ve imagined taking down in your head a thousand times, and yet here he is, tired but playfully trying to chat you up. you should hate this—he’s getting under your skin, but for some reason, you just feel unsettled, disturbed that he’s so human.

you don’t trust your voice to not crack while making eye contact with him, so, instead, you focus on your screen. you settle on a simple, flat, “morning,” without a hint of cheerfulness, staring down at the register like it’s your lifeline.

gojo’s eyebrow quirks at your half-hearted greeting, but he says nothing, opting instead to study you with an amused glint. you can feel his gaze, like a weight on your skin, and it almost makes you shiver. he leans forward a little, propping his elbows on the counter, his posture loose but expectant. his playful energy is barely masking something beneath it, something harder.

gojo's grin is wide, almost boyish, and it makes your stomach churn more than it should.

“see? was that so hard?” he says, leaning forward on his elbows like he’s settling in for a chat. his tone is too friendly for someone who’s never exchanged more than a glance with you in class—someone you’ve been actively avoiding whenever possible.

you scowl, moving to the register to finally punch in his order. “what would you like?”

“hmm...” he taps his chin, dragging out the silence. he’s enjoying this, that much is obvious. “surprise me.”

you blink, fingers still poised over the buttons. “surprise you?”

“yeah,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “you work here. you know what’s good.”

you want to throttle him. really, truly throttle him. there’s no way this is real—no way the gojo satoru is sitting in front of you at 5:07 in the morning, asking you to surprise him with a starbucks order like he’s some quirky regular.

and yet, here you are.

“fine,” you mutter, punching in the order for the sweetest, most ridiculous concoction you can think of. caramel drizzle, extra whipped cream, a pump of every syrup in the back room—you’re not going easy on him. “that’ll be eight dollars.”

he doesn’t blink at the ridiculous price. of course, he doesn’t.

pulling out his phone, he taps it against the card reader and flashes you another grin. “thanks, i’m sure it’ll be great.”

you barely resist the urge to roll your eyes. “uh-huh.”

as you move to make the drink, the silence between you stretches uncomfortably. you’ve spent so much time thinking about gojo, despising him, that now that he’s here, right in front of you, you don’t know how to act. and the worst part? he seems perfectly at ease, completely unfazed by the fact that you’ve spent the better part of a year dreaming of his downfall. he’s back to looking at his stupid heavy ahh gaming laptop, and as you move over to put in copious amounts of caramel pumps, you notice that he’s on cool math games playing fireboy and watergirl and almost snort out loud. he’s locked in on his game, his legs moving up and down anxiously, reminiscent of an ipad kid.

after a few minutes of assembling his monstrosity of a drink, you slide it across the counter. “here,” you say, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice.

gojo raises an eyebrow at the drink, the sheer volume of whipped cream threatening to spill over the lid. “wow,” he says, sounding genuinely impressed. “you really went all out.”

“you said to surprise you.”

“i did,” he admits, grabbing the cup and taking a slow, deliberate sip. his eyes widen slightly at the overly sweet taste, and for a brief moment, you think you’ve won.

but then he smiles again, that same irritatingly carefree smile, and you know you haven’t. 

“so,” gojo begins, leaning back in his chair like he’s settling in for a long conversation. “what’s a genius like you doing working the early shift at starbucks?”

your hands freeze mid-clean, and you glance at him sharply. genius?

you can’t tell if he’s being sincere or mocking you—probably the latter, considering who he is—but the word still lingers in the air between you, unsettling.

you scoff, trying to brush it off. “gotta pay the bills somehow,” you mutter, going back to wiping down the counter. but gojo’s gaze is heavy on you, and you can tell he’s not letting it go.

you glance up at him. “look, i like having time to think in the mornings. it’s quiet. besides, no one’s lining up for coffee before 7, so it’s not like i’m missing anything.”

gojo chuckles softly, but there’s something off about it. “thinking time, huh?” he repeats your words, but there’s a strange edge to them, like he’s mulling them over. in fact, you think you just realize that he’s been acting oddly this entire morning, restlessness evident in his figure. he taps his fingers on the table, his eyes flickering to the window, watching the gray morning light spill into the shop.

“doesn’t it ever feel like…” he trails off, brow furrowing slightly. “i don’t know… like you should be doing something else? like… something more?”

his question hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken, but you get the feeling he’s not talking about you. there’s something in his voice, something that sounds like he’s grappling with his own thoughts, with his own place in the world.

for a moment, you’re tempted to brush him off. to tell him he’s overthinking things, that he’s gojo satoru and he already has everything laid out for him. but something stops you. maybe it’s the way he looks—his usual confidence slightly cracked at the edges, his playful tone masking something else. something deeper.

you shrug, turning back to the counter. “i mean… it doesn’t have to be ‘more’ all the time. sometimes just showing up is enough.”

there’s a pause, and you can feel the weight of your words sinking in. gojo goes quiet, really quiet, and when you glance back at him, his usual smirk is gone. he’s just… staring at you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure you out.

“just… showing up, huh?” he repeats softly, almost like he’s testing the words. his fingers stop tapping, and he leans back in his chair, his gaze unfocused, like he’s somewhere else entirely. somewhere in his own head.

you don’t say anything else. you’ve said your piece, and somehow, you know it hit deeper than either of you expected. there’s a strange silence between you now, not uncomfortable, but heavy with understanding.

gojo stands up after a long pause, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. he looks at you, his usual grin slipping back into place, but it’s softer now. less cocky. more real.

“maybe you’re right,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing in his voice. “sometimes it’s enough just to show up.”

and with that, he gives you a small nod, turning and heading out into the cold morning. the door swings shut behind him, and for a second, you just stand there, staring after him.

something’s shifted. you don’t know what it is, but it feels like the start of something. something bigger than just a rivalry.

you shake your head, turning back to the counter. it’s too early for this shit.

…

“you know, i didn’t get your name.”

gojo’s voice cuts through the low hum of the espresso machine as he leans against the counter, that same insufferable grin plastered across his face. he’s here again, of course, only this time it’s during your closing shift. the place is quiet, almost deserted except for the occasional customer who swings by for a quick coffee before heading back out into the cold.

you look up from the equipment you were cleaning, already annoyed. “i’m pretty sure we’ve shared at least one class every semester.”

you weren’t trying to hide the pettiness. gojo, for all his academic genius, clearly couldn’t be bothered to remember you—a recurring face in his orbit. it’s not like you were expecting him to remember you, especially among the sea of faces in lecture halls, but something about the way he strolled in, acting like this was just some cute, quirky meet-cute, got under your skin.

gojo quirks an eyebrow in confusion, his gaze drifting up toward the ceiling as if searching the recesses of his mind for your name—only to come up empty. “are you a grad student?”

you flash him an exasperated look. “just for that, i’m not telling you.”

grabbing a towel to wipe your hands, you step out from behind the barista counter, heading towards the trash can just behind him to restock the straws. as you make your way to the supply room, you can feel his eyes following your every move. to your surprise, gojo starts walking toward you, his presence looming as you dump the straws into the container.

it isn’t until you turn around that you realize he’s standing right next to you, bent comically at the waist and squinting at something on your chest. heat creeps up your neck and into your cheeks as you realize his proximity and move to take a step back. 

he wasn’t ogling you (thank god), but instead, squinting at the nametag pinned to your apron.

"ah," he says, straightening up with a triumphant grin. “there it is. y/n, huh?” the way his mouth rolls over your name slowly makes you feel a bit weird, because after all, this is the guy you’ve shit talked about in your diary finally acknowledging you existed, but before you can reflect on the feeling, you bristle again in annoyance. 

“really? you had to get that close just to read my name?”

gojo doesn’t seem fazed by your annoyance, in fact, it only seems to amuse him further. “hey, i was just trying to be thorough. gotta make sure i get it right, you know?” his grin widens, and you swear he’s enjoying this way too much.

“thorough. sure.” you turn away, trying to busy yourself with the straws again, but the heat still lingers on your face. his proximity had been… unexpected. and a little too close for comfort.

when you’re done with the straws, you steel the courage to turn your body so you’re facing him, making an indication with your hands for him to move out of your way. instead of him giving you space to leave the cramped corner, he leans against the counter now like he practically owns the place. in doing so, he effectively pins you against the corner of the coffee shop, leaving you no option but to fiddle with the straws while pointedly avoiding his gaze, but not before you see the pout on his face. “you’re not going to ask me for my name?”

“i know it. it’s gojo.” you immediately curse yourself for letting your lips loose.

fuck. he squints his eyes in what you perceive as suspicion. “how do you know my name?”

“i saw it on your credit card information.” you couldn’t exactly tell him how you’ve stalked him (as well as how inefficient you found a function in his 6th grade robotics code), so that would be a plausible enough reason. 

but gojo, of course, doesn’t let up. “so, y/n,” he starts. “you going to the party next week? you know, for halloweekend?”

ah, halloweekend. the ultimate weekend for getting excuses to dress slutilly, excessively drink, and get laid. at your college, it was an even bigger deal, with people partying for all three days of the week’s end as well as the weekend before and after halloween. you shook your head. “i don’t think so.” that phys 321 assignment was not going to finish itself, nor were parties really your scene.

“what?” he immediately crosses his arms across his chest, frowning and leaning closer to you to squint at you. “why?”

you sigh inwardly, awkward at the prospect of him bugging you further about your life. “i’m bu—”

you’re interrupted by the sound of the door opening and instinctively move to get behind the counter to take the new customer’s order; at first, you thank the heavens that you got a distraction from gojo, that you’re not alone anymore, but seeing who the customer was, the hope extinguishes like a candle face with wind.

you both see a man swagger in, the same guy you’ve noticed hanging around far too often lately. his eyes immediately lock onto you, and a slow, sleazy grin spreads across his face.

“hey, look who’s still here,” the man says, sauntering over to the counter like he owns the place. “my favorite barista.”

you tense, forcing a smile. “what can i get you?”

he doesn’t answer right away, his gaze sliding down your body in a way that makes your skin crawl. “i was thinking…” he drawls, leaning in closer than necessary, “you and i should hang out. you’re always here, and i’m always here, so it’s like fate or something, right?”

your stomach churns, and you take a small step back, maintaining your composure. “i’m good, thanks.”

but he doesn’t let up, leaning further across the counter. “come on, don’t be like that. just one drink. you deserve it after a long day.”

“i really can’t—”

“don’t be shy,” he interrupts, a grin spreading wider. “i’m a nice guy, i promise.”

before you can think of another polite rejection, gojo steps forward, his body language shifting entirely. the playful air around him evaporates, replaced by something colder, more dangerous. he positions himself squarely between you and the guy, effectively cutting off the man’s view of you.

“she said no,” gojo says, his voice firm, low. “so why don’t you fuck off?”

the sleazy guy blinks, clearly not expecting the sudden shift. his smile fades, and he glares at gojo, sizing him up like he’s considering pushing back. but one glance at gojo’s unwavering stare, and the guy decides it’s not worth it. with a muttered curse, he turns and leaves, the door swinging shut behind him.

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. the guy’s been bothering you routinely; part of you thinks that he’s still not going to leave you alone, but the rest of you visibly relaxes, the weight of this guy’s harassment lifting off your shoulders under gojo’s protection.

gojo turns back to you, the usual teasing smirk creeping back onto his face, though his eyes are still sharp. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you manage, though your voice is quieter than you’d like. “thanks for that.”

“don’t mention it.” he shrugs it off like it was nothing, but there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now—something protective. “i know you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself, but i figured i’d speed things up a bit.”

you roll your eyes, trying to shake off the tension. “you’re such a hero, gojo.”

“always,” he replies with a wink. and just like that, the moment’s lightened again, the balance between you restored, though there’s a subtle shift in the air. something unspoken between the two of you—an understanding, maybe.

you don’t acknowledge it out loud, but as you go back to restocking, you find yourself glancing at him more than before. and for the first time in… well, ever, you don’t completely mind his presence.

…

fast forward a few hours, and after a bit of conversation, gojo finally leaves the fine institution that is your campus starbucks. right now, you’re alone and finishing cleaning up. you lock up, the starbucks finally closed, finishing your last task for the night. it’s quiet—too quiet, actually, with the usual streetlights casting strange shadows across the empty sidewalk. the air feels heavy, like something unseen is lingering just out of reach, watching from the dark. you shake it off, telling yourself you’re just tired and letting your nerves get to you.

as you start your walk back to your dorm, the feeling only grows. the street’s nearly empty, and with each step, the silence presses in closer. it’s fine, you tell yourself, picking up your pace. but then you hear it: the echo of footsteps, faint but unmistakable. heart pounding, you speed up, every instinct telling you to just get back. almost there. you just have to cross the alley—

“hey there,” a voice drawls, and your stomach sinks. a hand moves to grab at your shoulder, making you turn quickly. what meets your vision is the same guy from earlier, his grin widening in a way that makes your skin crawl.

you try to move out of his grip, but he grabs you harder, cutting off any escape. “aw, don’t be like that. i just wanted some company.”

your throat’s dry, but you manage, “i said no.”

he doesn’t even pretend to listen, his gaze trailing over you with that same leering interest. “no need to be so uptight. i could make this fun for you.”

your back hits the wall of the alley. trapped. he leans in, his breath warm and sour against your face, one hand reaching out as he says something sleazy that you can barely hear over the pounding in your ears—

and then a voice cuts in from above, all easy humor. “y’know, i always thought this city’s trash problem was bad, but this is something else.”

your heart leaps in your chest at the small flicker of hope, that someone has the balls to try to rescue you. but as you—and this creep—turn, you find no evidence of another party present, only his mysterious presence. 

“who’s there?” the guy snarls, his grip tightening so much that you wince. “why don’t you get lost if you know what’s good for you—”

“dude, don’t you have any rizz?” the mysterious boy retorts.the stranger has a youthful voice, someone of your age.  “the way you have to resort to sexual harassment is just sad. you guys are always sooo predictable, you’re so gonna tell me to scram or something.”

the man scowls, hand leaving your arm in an effort to search for the stranger in the dark. “why don’t you mind your own business, punk—”

and he’s interrupted, because a shiny, silver something flings out in the darkness and lands on his face, sending his arms in a frenzy to uncover what it is. the man rips the sticky, silver webbing off his face with a growl, looking around wildly, his expression shifting from confusion to anger. his eyes dart through the dark alley, searching for the source of that cocky voice, but there’s nothing—just shadows and the faint flicker of a streetlamp somewhere down the block.

“who the hell are you?” he snaps, twisting his neck as if he could scare whoever’s hiding out there into the open. “show yourself, you bastard!”

a chuckle echoes from the darkness, bouncing off the brick walls. “wow, real tough guy, huh? but you should work on those anger issues. they’re, uh…a bit unbecoming.”

the man spins around, and another burst of webbing flies out from somewhere unseen, sticking to his shoulder this time. he yanks it off with a frustrated grunt, his head whipping from side to side as he tries to locate the stranger.

“you think this is funny?” he spits, voice raised in a mix of fear and fury.

“depends. do you?” the voice is closer now, almost like the stranger is right above you, yet no one’s there. “or is this just a big overreaction? all i did was suggest you rethink your approach. go to therapy or sum’.”

the man snarls, fists clenched, starting to look downright unhinged. “get down here and say that to my face, punk!”

“as you wish.”

with a soft thump, a figure drops from above, landing directly in front of the guy in a low crouch. in the dim light, all you see at first are the blue and black accents on the otherwise white suit, his head tilting up, illuminated just enough that his white, wide eyes glow with a certain playful menace. and then, your eyes widen as you gasp to yourself. 

you’ve seen him before.

okay, pause.

you’re a busy college student, one who stays entrenched in the bubble of upcoming exams, assignments, and problem sets that you don’t check the news often. in the off chance you do turn from your usual consumption of social media during your breaks to the news, you only have time to read the big headlines.

so you did read somewhere that in your university’s city of new york city, there was a masked menan—vigilante that had beat up a few guys near a shawarma joint or prevented some shootings at a nightclub. new york city was full of incompetent cops that were on the lookout for him (a/n acabbbbbb) since this guy was a vigilante, some kind of superhero slinging around on webs. some name—spiderman.

but before you could read more into the article, your soul almost left your body when you got a canvas notification saying your midterm was graded, so that was the end of that.

alright, pause over. back to now.

“hi!” spiderman chirps, giving him a friendly wave before ducking just as the man throws a punch. the swing goes wide, and spiderman straightens up with a disappointed sigh. “see, this is why i’m the one with the web powers. you’d hurt yourself with these moves.”

without warning, the man charges again, swinging in rapid succession, but each one misses as spiderman easily sidesteps, practically dancing around him. “oof, dude, how did you make it this far in life with reflexes like that?” he ducks another blow, slipping behind the guy to give him a light tap on the shoulder as he passes.

the man stumbles, eyes flashing with frustration, and lets out a roar, reaching down to pick up a loose brick from the alley floor. he raises it above his head, face twisted in a snarl.

“oh, so we’re improvising now?” spiderman quips, and before the man can bring the brick down, a strand of webbing shoots out, sticking to the brick and yanking it from his grasp. it flies off somewhere into the alley, landing with a dull clatter.

the guy stumbles forward, off balance, and spiderman takes the opportunity to web his feet to the ground, immobilizing him in place. the man struggles, pulling his legs, but he’s stuck fast.

“ever heard of boundaries?” spiderman asks, tilting his head with mock innocence. “or, like, self-restraint? you should look into it.”

the man glares, seething, still struggling against the webs. “you think you’re some kinda hero?” he sneers.

spiderman shrugs, glancing over at you, catching your gaze in a way that makes you feel both strangely comforted and seen. “nah, hero’s a big word. i’m just your friendly neighborhood guy with slightly above-average reflexes.”

with a frustrated yell, the man finally wrenches one arm free and makes a desperate lunge, his fist connecting with spiderman’s side. spiderman lets out a small grunt but only wobbles slightly before grinning. “okay, buddy, playtime’s over.”

before the man can even react, spiderman sends out another web, this time at his wrist, effectively pinning him to the alley wall. he struggles, face twisted in anger, but spiderman just raises a gloved hand to his lips as if hushing a child. then, in the lull that follows, you remember the thick quantum mechanics textbook in your bag. without thinking, you yank it out and, in a burst of adrenaline, swing it at the man’s head. the book lands with a solid thud, and he slumps, finally, into silence.

spiderman looks at the unconscious man, then at the textbook in your hand. he lets out a low whistle. “you know, i’ve always thought textbooks were a weapon of choice, but that’s next-level dedication.” that’s when you realize just how tall he is compared to you, and you can’t help your excitement when you realize that he’s here in the flesh.

“nice hit, by the wa—”

“it’s you!” you exclaim. 

“what?” he sputters, white eyes widening almost comically. “me? oh,” then he straightens up, “yea, yea. just your friendly neighborhood spiderman. rescuing pretty girls from creeps, kinda my thing. ” he shrugs.

you continue, excitedly, “right, you’re the one on the news—” you move your hand to point at him but quickly wince, the pain of the man’s grip catching up to you. 

he doesn’t miss the movement, eyes squinting at you. “hey, we’ll have to get you home. do you trust me?”

you look at him, clutching your arm in pain, and really take a moment to check him out. he’s saved you, he’s probably six feet tall, and his ass looks fantastic in his suit. at this point, you’re looking at him with heart eyes. but you can’t exactly tell him you want him to propose, so all you utter out is a “y-yeah. my dorm’s randall.”

he doesn't waste any time. with a quick nod, he hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close as he aims a webline up toward the buildings. “hold on tight, randall’s just a swing away,” he murmurs, his voice light but steady. his hand settles on your hip, and you can't stop the way your stomach flips at the contact.

before you can even process what’s happening, he launches the two of you into the air, the city blurring beneath your feet as you cling to him, fingers gripping the fabric of his suit for dear life. his arm stays solid around you, his grip somehow both gentle and strong. he lands lightly on the roof of your dorm, setting you down carefully like you’re something fragile. and he steps back, dusting his hands off in the most nonchalant way possible, like he didn’t just take you on the most exhilarating ride of your life.

“this is your stop,” he says, that signature, almost cocky smile playing in his voice.

“uh… yeah. thanks. for the rescue,” you manage, your voice a little shakier than you’d like. you don’t know if “thank you” is enough—it doesn’t even come close to covering what you feel.

but he just shrugs, taking a step back. “all in a day’s work,” he says. “or night’s work, i guess.” he pauses, giving you a quick once-over. “get some sleep, yeah?”

and just like that, he gives you a small, almost playful salute and vanishes, swinging off into the night as easily as he’d appeared, leaving you standing on the rooftop with your heart still racing.

back in your dorm room, you drop onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling as tonight’s events replay in your head: the alley, his voice cutting through the dark, that cocky smirk, the way he felt holding onto you as you soared over the city lights. a tiny part of you wonders if you imagined the whole thing—if maybe you’re just the victim of some wild, sleep-deprived hallucination.

but no, your arm still aches from where the creep grabbed you, and you can still feel the ghost of his hand on your waist, steady and reassuring. you bite your lip, a smile creeping onto your face despite yourself.

just before sleep finally claims you, you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all. “the city’s vigilante, huh?” you murmur, as if he’s somehow still listening.

the thought is wild, a bit surreal—and strangely comforting.

…

“one caffe americano!” you call out, reading the label on the cup before handing it over with a small nod. the customer takes it with a quick thanks, and you return to the counter, barely holding back a yawn. the events of last night flicker through your mind—a web-slinging hero, an alley, the lingering ache in your arm—and you shake it off. there’s no room for distractions. life as a college student means the grind never stops, especially on a morning shift right before class.

when your coworker finally arrives, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, grab your bag, and step out into the brisk morning air. the chill helps wake you up as you make your way across campus, hoping to catch up with your friends before the lecture starts. just outside the building, you spot utahime, sitting on a bench, waiting with her usual tired smile.

“hey, finally off the clock?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah, barely,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “i’m still running on fumes from last night. you guys save me a seat?”

“of course. nanami’s already inside,” she says, gesturing toward the building.

you sigh. “you won’t believe the things that happened last night.”

she gives you a look, in the traditional utahime protective-mother-hen type way. “what happened?”

you give her the rundown of what happened, the guy (who she bristles at, gives you a slap at your hand to tell you that you should’ve told her earlier, kento would’ve been able to beat his ass if she hadn’t gotten to it first) and how spiderman saved you. “i would give him what he’s missing,” you sigh, dreamily. 

utahime looks at you in a judgmental way. “and that’s all you got from this? for fucks sake, he’s a vigilante, you don’t know if he’s started to tail you or not. pooks, he could literally be dangerous. try to convince your boss to let someone else get your night shift.” as soon as you open your mouth to protest, she cuts you off immediately. “and no, i don’t give a fuck about your people pleaser tendenci—”

“we’ll revisit this conversation later.” you give her a sweet smile as you start to speed walk, door of the lecture hall of the 9am section of phys401: intro to quantum algorithms, falling in with the usual stream of students after you hear an irritated “yea, cause i’m gonna kill you otherwise.” the familiar chatter and echo of footsteps make the day feel almost normal, grounding you as you weave through the hall.

inside, you quickly spot kento’s shining, disney prince-like blonde hair, who has saved seats for the three of you near the middle of the hall, away from the ugly, smelly grad students who always crowd the front. he gives you a quick nod as you settle down beside him, flipping open your notebook. the reliable calm on his face helps ease the lingering jitters you hadn’t realized you were carrying.

“long night?” he asks, glancing at the dark circles under your eyes.

“you could say that,” you mumble, not quite ready to get into details. instead, you wave it off. “just work assignments, and getting jumped, the usual.”

nanami breaks into a series of shocked coughs, and you hurry to pat his back as he undeniably burns his tongue on the coffee he was taking a sip of. “what?”

his rather loud exclamation sets off stares from people sitting closer to you both, so you give utahime, who lets out a quiet groan as she’s settling into her seat beside you, a knowing look. “it’s a long story, i’ll tell it to you later.”

he reluctantly settles in after that, not because he has a choice but because yaga is starting to address the class by asking about the weekend and getting his usual blank stares in return until a voice you recognize as suguru geto’s is saying something to undeniably piss him off, but you don’t register quite what it is exactly because the door opens and any attention on geto is directed to the boy with white hair and blue eyes tiredly walking into class. 

he’s about ten minutes late to the lecture, which is already weird because he’s usually about 27 seconds late, not that you keep count. but also, normally gojo is the picture of confidence and cockyness, making some of the female grad students whisper things about him that you don’t think they should be for the five year gap between them and gojo. 

but today, he looks different—messy, unkempt, with shadows under his eyes and a weird angle to his torso, the way he walks, and the way his opposite hand is subconsciously hovering around his side.

your brows knit together as he heads to an empty seat rows behind you next to geto, ignoring the stares of half the room. it’s so out of character for him that you can’t help but wonder what’s going on. you shoot utahime a knowing look, and she stifles a laugh, barely managing to keep a straight face as she watches gojo slink to his seat. nanami’s usually impassive face exchanges a look with you as well before he turns his attention back to professor yaga’s opening remarks. gojo slides into the row behind you without a word, avoiding everyone’s gaze—or so you think, until you feel it.

as you attempt to listen to professor yaga, you can’t shake the sensation of eyes boring into the back of your head. you resist the urge to turn, telling yourself it’s probably nothing… except the feeling lingers, so strong that your pulse ticks up a notch.

“okay, now that we’re all here,” yaga says in a dry tone, barely able to hide his irritation as he glances pointedly in gojo’s direction, “let’s begin with today’s lecture on grover’s.”

professor yaga taps the board, and the projector switches to a set of slides titled quantum speed-up and the grover search algorithm. he launches into his explanation, voice clipped. “grover’s algorithm provides a quadratic speed-up for unstructured search problems, a notable advantage in quantum computing. but can anyone tell me why this isn’t considered an exponential improvement?”

you raise your hand, as does nanami. a subtle shift of movement in your peripheral vision draws your eye to gojo, who’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. yaga’s attention lands on nanami first, and he gives a succinct answer about how grover’s algorithm yields only a quadratic speed-up in terms of computational complexity. as he answers, you swear you catch gojo watching you, again, through the corner of your eye.

determined not to let him get under your skin, you lean over to whisper to nanami. “what’s with him today?”

nanami, still watching yaga, raises a brow. “maybe he finally realized that he can’t get by without skipping class today.”

utahime snickers quietly. “doubtful. more like he thinks it’s funny to waltz in whenever he likes and still ace every test.”

“exactly.” you sigh, drumming your pen against your notebook. gojo’s rare absences don’t even seem to faze most professors. and despite his unpredictable attendance, he’s always managed to stay miles ahead. today, though, something’s… different about him. like he’s made a life changing decision in the past 48 hours.

“moving on,” yaga says, pointing to the board where the next slide materializes. “the heart of grover’s algorithm lies in its use of an amplitude amplification technique, where we iterate a search oracle along with an inversion process. pay attention—this concept of iterative improvement will become key when we start covering variational quantum algorithms.”

as yaga delves deeper into amplitude amplification, you manage to focus, jotting down notes on the necessary steps in grover’s search. yet each time you settle into the lecture, you feel gojo’s gaze pricking at you. the first time you turn around, there’s nothing there—just him slouched, seemingly absorbed in whatever he’s staring at on the ceiling. but then, you sense it again and, on your second glance, you catch his blue eyes meeting yours, and he quickly looks away.

what’s his problem? you give him a questioning look, but he’s adamantly not looking at you, trying to look nonchalant as he’s pulling out his laptop. he might look like a student taking latexing notes of what yaga’s yapping about, but the way he’s using his mouse more than he is his keyboard tells you that he’s probably on papa’s freezeria instead.

you decide that you’re going to waste your time wondering how gojo’s brain functioned, so you instead focus back on the lecture. after all, you didn’t understand any of the lecture notes you took notes on before and what it said about the diffuser in the circuit. 

“now,” yaga’s voice sharpens, pulling you back into the room, “these iterations act as amplitude amplification steps, so pay close attention—especially those of you who have a habit of being late.” his eyes slide back to gojo, who remains oblivious, leaning back with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as the sound of his name brings him back to the lecture.

gojo doesn’t even look phased. instead, he raises a hand casually, like he’s about to ask a simple question. you can feel the anticipation ripple through the room—half the students are waiting to see if he’ll fumble, and the other half already know better.

“professor yaga,” he drawls, “don’t you think amplitude amplification is a bit of an oversimplification? the way it’s typically presented, you’d think grover’s algorithm was just… guessing with style.” he flashes an infuriatingly smug smile, drawing out the pause before continuing. “but we both know it’s more about quantum phase inversion, right? the oracle reflects about the mean state, iterating with a precision that isn’t just luck. or maybe that’s all too technical?” he leans back, feigning innocence.

the smugness in his tone makes something flare up in you, and before you can stop yourself, your hand shoots up.

“actually, gojo,” you interject, your voice louder than you intended, “calling it “guessing with style” is a very gross oversimplification. grover’s algorithm isn’t about intuition or luck. it’s about optimization. it’s not just about spotlighting a target like a rando guess, it’s more like rotating the probability in a controlled manner—with iterations—to amplify the correct solution. not just some quantum trick or guess.” you cross your arms, leaning back in your chair as you stare him down. “it’s not even that bad, compared to what we have classically.”

as soon as you spoke, it seems that the fight and mischievous look in gojo’s eyes fades, replacing it with something that shockingly looks like him being flustered as he averts your gaze, looks to the ceiling, and murmurs something like “yea, that’s basically most of quantum computing, desperately trying to prove we’re not just wasting our time” but yaga interrupts him, clearly a bit annoyed at the two know-it-alls that you and gojo were acting like. 

“now,” yaga says, shifting back to the lecture as if nothing happened (probably because he wasn’t paid enough to deal with this shit), “these iterations act as amplitude amplification steps, so pay close attention—especially those of you who have a habit of missing lectures.”

you’re just left confused as to why the conversation didn’t escalate like the typical academic rivals in movies, because you’ve definitely seen gojo bully some people who didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about instead of just blushing like some schoolgirl. regardless, you can’t help but notice the thrill that you felt, having finally argued with him, having been seen as someone worth arguing. you try to temper it as yaga continues onto the rest of the lecture.

…

“i can’t believe you’re making me go.” you tug at the hem of your white corset, paired with a matching skirt, still incredulous at how utahime managed to talk you into attending one of the infamous halloween frat parties. the night air is crisp against your exposed shoulders, and despite your complaints, you shiver more at the thought of wasting the next few hours among sweaty strangers than the actual cold.

utahime, walking beside you in a devil-red version of your outfit—complete with horns perched precariously on her head—looks far too satisfied with herself. she adjusts the horns with one hand, giving you a sidelong glance that practically drips with smugness.

“stop pouting,” she chides. “i’m not going to let you waste another night holed up in your room, buried in manhwa or quantum physics. i’m pretty sure there are cobwebs growing in your—”

“utahime,” you hiss, cutting her off with a mortified glance around.

“pussy,” she finishes, completely unbothered. “i’m going to find you a guy to hook up with. i’m not saying you have to go all the way, but flirting? kissing? maybe something more? very healthy. highly encouraged.”

your mouth falls open in protest, but before you can get a word in, she fixes you with a sharp glare, her dark eyes flashing with all the authority of a disappointed parent. “don’t even think about arguing with me. i swear, if you don’t at least try to enjoy this, i’ll make it my personal mission to find someone for you.”

“i can’t believe this,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “you’re supposed to be my friend, not my pimp.”

“oh, i’m your friend. that’s why i’m doing this. you’ll thank me when you’re sixty and not crying about how boring your college life was.”

“i’m not boring,” you counter. “i’m selective.”

“sure,” utahime drawls, clearly unconvinced. “and whatever weird sexual tension you’ve got going on with gojo doesn’t count.”

you scoff, stopping in your tracks to stare at her. “what tension? we’ve literally talked once this week. and that was the first time we had a conversation.”

she doesn’t respond, already scanning the scene ahead. the street of frat houses looms just ahead, glowing with gaudy orange lights strung up across balconies. the bass from the nearest party reverberates through the pavement underfoot. it’s already crowded, hordes of people shuffling in and out, laughing, shouting, and showcasing their half-baked halloween costumes.

you follow utahime’s gaze to the nearest house, packed with enough people to make the windows fog up. just the thought of squeezing into that humidity makes your stomach churn.

“looks crowded,” you mumble. “maybe we should—”

before you can suggest retreating, utahime grabs your wrist and practically drags you toward the house. “nope. you’re coming in. no backing out now.”

the moment you step inside, the smell hits you. sweat, stale beer, and an undercurrent of what you can only describe as frat-house musk. your nose wrinkles, and you instinctively recoil, pulling your arm free from utahime’s grasp.

“god, it smells like a gym locker in here,” you say, covering your nose.

utahime doesn’t seem fazed. she’s already scanning the room, her eyes landing on a beer pong table set up in the corner, surrounded by cheering students. “this is perfect!” she says, beaming.

“for what? contracting a fungal infection?” you mutter.

but she’s no longer listening, her focus shifting as a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a makeshift cowboy hat approaches her and then stops in front of both of you, his stare fully enthralled by utahime. “hey,” he says, a bit suavely, in the way that makes you inwardly roll your eyes because you know she’s going to eat it up. she likes it when they’re a little ugly, and this guy fits the bill. 

“hey,” and she giggles, making you have to physically fight the urge to puke, “what’s up?”

 they exchange a few words, and before you know it, she’s smiling in that way that tells you she’s found her entertainment for the night.

“go ahead,” you say dryly, waving her off. “i’ll just fend for myself.”

utahime starts to protest, but you’re already beelining for the kitchen, trying to get a drink that’s not too crazy to survive the night. it’s surprisingly less chaotic in the kitchen, though the counters are cluttered with half-empty bottles, red solo cups, and some questionable punch that looks radioactive. you scan the room, your eyes landing on a cupboard that might hold something simple—like water. a series of ding! ding! ding!’s go off in your mind as you find the pack of plastic water bottles. 

standing on your toes, you reach for the handle, but it’s just out of your grasp. you huff in frustration, shifting to get better leverage when a hand way bigger than yours suddenly appears above yours, effortlessly grabbing the item you were reaching for.

“let me get that for you.”

you turn to thank the person, the words dying on your lips when you see who it is.

gojo.

he’s standing impossibly close, his signature smirk firmly in place, but there’s something almost casual in the way he looks at you, as if this is the most normal interaction in the world. you swear you’re so close that you can see like the two open pores on his otherwise flawless skin, as his eyes inevitably drag themselves downwards to scan your outfit for the night—a shitty angel without wings and halo (you couldn’t be paid two shits to put in the effort; both of the top and skirt were utahime’s, anyways.) then, his eyes meet yours again, a bit of playfulness in them. 

“well, well,” he drawls, handing you the water bottle. “never thought i’d see you here.”

you take the bottle, trying to ignore the brush of his fingers against yours. “didn’t have much of a choice. utahime dragged me.”

his grin widens. “classic. let me guess—she’s off trying to find her soulmate at the beer pong table?”

“something like that,” you mumble, not wanting to give him the entire story. twisting the cap off the bottle,  you take a sip, hoping he’ll just leave you alone, but instead, he leans against the counter, looking entirely too comfortable.

“so,” he says, tilting his head, “i heard through the grapevine that you had a run-in with that spider-man guy this week.”

that makes you pause mid-gulp of water, instead coughing a bit as you try to swallow it down without basically drowning in kirkland signature natural spring water. you’ve only told like, three people outside of kento and iori, so you’re confused why he knows this information, but you continue on regardless. the memory of spider-man swinging in to save you flashes through your mind, and you can’t help but smile softly to yourself. “it was amazing. he’s—he’s incredible, honestly. the way he just swooped in and handled everything? so fast, so precise. he’s like a real-life superhero.”

you’re basically gushing to him, and you realize that a bit too late as you look at his face to gauge his reaction. he’s looking at you with a newfound interest, albeit a bit too conflicted to fully tease you about it when he says, “sounds like you’re smitten.”

“maybe i am,” you admit, laughing. “i mean, who wouldn’t be? he’s brave, he’s kind, and he doesn’t even stick around for the credit. it’s like he’s this selfless, untouchable figure.” you also kind of want to give him a sloppy toppy for saving you like that, but you spare gojo the details. 

“untouchable, huh?” gojo echoes, his tone turning a bit wry and…jealous? “sounds like someone’s got a crush.”

you roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted, and you think gojo can tell with the way you’re heating up and bashfully looking at the ground. “don’t be ridiculous.”

“i’m just saying,” he continues, leaning closer, “if that’s your type, you might want to raise your standards. superheroes are overrated.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and what, you’re not?”

he grins, that infuriatingly charming grin that makes you want to simultaneously punch him and laugh. “i’m better. i’m real.” he then puts his hands on the counter behind you, caging you between them until your knees are lightly brushing, and suddenly his face is so close that small little breaths from his nose are fanning across your face. “i can prove that to you.”

and you hate your body for being so…reactive and enthusiastic to his smooth-talking, face flushing. despite that, you try to put on an air of nonchalance. “god, you’re insufferable.”

“really?” he teases. his hand leaves the marble counter to hover at your hip, his hand subconsciously tracing your curves an inch above your skin. the motion, firm but tentative as if he’s waiting for you to give him the green light, makes you shiver as you subconsciously move your hips to finally have the skin-to-skin contact. and your skin sings in happiness as he draws circles into the area right below your skirt, even momentarily dipping just below, to which you realize that he’s treading very close to your panties, since your skirt’s really short.

"yea," you basically sigh, hating yourself for how breathy your voice sounds. 

it seems to have an effect on gojo because his eyes darken as he murmurs, "wastin' your time on that spiderman guy."

maybe it's the fact that it's late (you've been getting sub four hours of sleep this past week) or the lights in this humid frat bring a heady air, but all academic-rivalry-overshadowed-woman-in-stem history between you and gojo disappears in your brain as you rake your eyes up and down his torso and then look at him through your lashes. "who should i spend my time on instead?"

he gives you a little smile as he stares down at you, eyes raking over your face, catching at your lips and then going back up again to meet yours. “i don’t know, someone who’s as smart as you,” he murmurs.

“yea?” you laugh out breathlessly. your faces are so close that in normal circumstances, you would worry about how you both looked so close together, one hand on your thigh and the other splayed on your waist. “and how would you know how smart i am?”

satoru starts, lips coming closer and closer. “because i—”

but he’s interrupted, because you both hear a “satoru” and pull apart, breathing heavily as you both turn to look at the offender standing in the entrance of the kitchen: suguru geto, gojo’s best friend, looking more tired than anything as his eyes catch on you, then going to gojo with a pointed look. it’s not hard to figure out what was going on based on how disheveled you both look, your skirt crooked and his shirt crumbled, and your cheeks heat. before you can say anything, however, suguru sighs and says to gojo, “there’s a burglary happening nearby.” then, he turns but not before giving you a nod. “make sure to stay safe.”

he promptly leaves, leaving you confused standing there. was this such an emergency worth noting that he interrupted his best friend?

you try to seek the answer in gojo’s face, but he has this conflicted, annoyed countenance and you suddenly feel kinda of insecure because he’s raking his hand through his hair, staring painfully at the ceiling then at you. at the same time you utter out a “uh–” he says “i have to go.”

“oh.” you blink. a why brews on top of your tongue, but you temper it, reminding yourself that you’re not close to gojo like that. needless to say, you feel a little embarrassed as you watch him jog out of the kitchen with a little wave to you. you want to overanalyze gojo’s last look to you, the one that looked a bit like disappointment and yearning, but you shake it off, staring at the 16.9 oz plastic water bottle in your hand that you forgot about.

taking a sip, you cringe as you become more aware of your surroundings and the state you’re left in because of gojo. that your panties are a bit more sticky—you reach under your skirt to adjust them so they don’t stick to your crotch so much—and you’re hot all over. 

then reality comes crashing back. what the hell did you and gojo just do right now?

you groan out loud, banging your head against the fridge, but as you reel back, in your peripheral you see  someone there. your head shoots to see the guy who’s now looking at you with a weird expression as he undeniably waits for whatever freaking out you were doing to gain access to the fridge. 

“sorry,” you blurt out, and gather yourself to beeline for the exit. god, you needed to find utahime.

…

the soft hum of a tv in the corner of satoru’s apartment provided the only sound, save for the faint rustle of suguru flipping through a textbook. the remnants of takeout—boxes of half-eaten pad thai and a pile of discarded chopsticks—littered the coffee table between them. satoru leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, staring at the ceiling like it held answers he hadn’t thought to ask yet. he held a small foam ball, tossing it up and catching it over and over. his mind, however, wasn’t focused on the ball but on you.

it was starting to feel like an obsession. he’d always been able to compartmentalize things—his studies, his friends, his other responsibilities. but you? you’d broken through the usual barriers in his head, wedging yourself firmly into every free thought he had.

“do you think she likes me?” he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

suguru glanced up from his book, his expression unreadable. “who, starbucks girl?”

satoru scoffed. “she’s not starbucks girl. she’s…” he trailed off, tapping his fingers against his knee. your name lingered on his tongue, oddly weighty in a way that felt almost unfamiliar.

suguru smirked. “oh, she’s got a name now? progress.”

“shut up.”

but he couldn’t shut his mind off, not when you kept taking up space in it. it wasn’t just that he’d noticed you now—really noticed you, for the first time. it was more than that.

satoru had always known who you were. you weren’t exactly easy to miss. in a program full of ugly guys who didn’t shower and loud personalities, you had carved out your niche by being the cold, unreachable one. the one who didn’t bother with group projects unless she had to, who barely engaged in conversations beyond what was strictly necessary. other guys in the program talked about you, of course. they always did.

“frigid,” they called you. “too serious. probably thinks she’s better than us.”

they weren’t entirely wrong. you were better than most of them, but not for the reasons they assumed. satoru had read your work—papers that brimmed with insights that most of their half-baked theories could only dream of. he could tell you put in the effort in your classes and research, while all the guys left shit-talking had to rely on their grad student mentors to be able to write a legible paper. for fucks sake, he doesn’t even thing anyone could code in qiskit or cirq like you could; he had skimmed your notes once, left them behind after a lecture, and found them meticulous and sharp before he turned them into the professor to return to you.

and yet, despite the brilliance you carried with you, you had never given him a second glance.

that day at starbucks, though.

satoru rolled his head to the side, gaze drifting toward the window. he hadn’t expected to see anyone at five in the morning, let alone you. he’d been desperate for answers then—he had spent his night staring at his hands, which had seemed to keep ejecting spider-like webs after he’d been horribly sick. he knew he shouldn’t have gone fooling around in new york’s subway tunnels at 3am with suguru and shoko, but after a seemingly-harmless spider had bit him, he had been reeling from the discovery of his newfound powers and grappling with the weight of what they meant ever since. 

and there you were, unlocking the starbucks, bleary-eyed but no less composed.

you’d handed him his coffee, not interested in him the entire time, and he remembered blurting something out—something ridiculous about fate or responsibility, his usual bravado faltering in the quiet of the moment. he had been spiraling, unsure of who he was anymore, and you’d said something.

what was it again?

“it doesn’t have to be ‘more’ all the time. sometimes just showing up is enough.”

the words had stayed with him, carved deep into the corners of his mind. you didn’t know it, but they had pulled him back from the edge that day. since then, he’d started noticing you in ways he hadn’t before.

the way you brushed your hair behind your ear when you were deep in thought. the furrow of your brow when you argued as respectfully as you could with a professor (gojo knew you were holding back, though, and the thought always made him smile to himself because if he wasn’t an idgafer he would be incensed like you at the idiotic teacher). the smile—rare, fleeting, but utterly disarming—that occasionally lit up your face when you talked to utahime or that guy you were too friendly around, nanami.

“you’re doing that thing again,” suguru said, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“what thing?” satoru asked, sitting up straighter.

“brooding. you’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”

“no.”

suguru arched an eyebrow. “you’re a terrible liar.”

satoru sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “fine. maybe i am. but it’s complicated.”

“how is it complicated?”

“she doesn’t like me,” satoru said, shrugging. “at least, not as me. she likes spider-man.”

suguru blinked, clearly unimpressed. “you’re being stupid bro.”

“i’m not being stupid,” satoru argued. “she thinks spider-man’s this amazing, selfless hero. she doesn’t know i’m just some guy who can’t even figure out how to flirt with her without making an ass of himself.”

suguru leaned back in his chair, regarding satoru with an almost pitying look. “so let me get this straight. you’re worried that she only likes spider-man, even though spider-man is you. like it’s some kind of split personality thing?”

“well, when you put it like that—”

“it sounds dumb,” suguru finished. “because it is dumb.”

satoru glared at him, but suguru only shrugged.  but how could he not think about you? even now, the memory of your voice—calm, steady, and unexpectedly warm—echoed in his head. you had this way of looking at him, like you were peeling back layers he didn’t even know he had. and that smile... he groaned inwardly. he wasn’t supposed to be so drawn to you, wasn’t supposed to imagine what it’d feel like to have you smile at him like that all the time.

“look,” suguru continued, “if you like her, shoot your shot. you’re already overthinking this, and you haven’t even done anything yet. what’s the worst that could happen? she says no?”

“or she laughs in my face,” satoru muttered.

“which would be deserved, honestly,” suguru said, smirking. “but seriously, you’ve got nothing to lose. and everything to gain.”

satoru didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the takeout boxes on the table. he wanted to believe suguru was right, but there was a small, stubborn part of him that wasn’t so sure.

because it wasn’t just about rejection, or even whether you liked him as satoru or spider-man. it was about what came after. if he let you in and something happened to you—if his double life brought danger to your doorstep—he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself.

but then there was suguru’s voice in his head, steady and persistent: you’ve got nothing to lose. and everything to gain.

…

amidst a week of endless projects upon projects and other miscellaneous assignments from your research group partners (since the grad students loved to pile their work on top of you, the helpless undergrad), you find yourself nursing a hot chocolate while on top of your dormitory building’s roof. 

you find sanctuary, coming on here for time to yourself whenever you find yourself stuck in a busy week. quiet, solitary, with a view of the city lights flickering like scattered fireflies. you hugged your cardigan tighter around your shoulders as you stepped onto the roof, your laptop tucked under one arm, a mug of tea precariously balanced in the other hand. the air was crisp, biting just enough to sting your cheeks.

setting your mug down on the ledge, you perched beside it, pulling up your knees and balancing the laptop precariously as you typed. the words on the screen blurred after a while, blending into the chaos in your mind. frustrated, you closed it with a snap and leaned your head back to gaze at the stars.

“rough night?”

you startled, spinning your head around so fast your tea nearly toppled. but you can’t find anyone, just the sound of soft footsteps landing somewhere not visible to you. 

“you scared the hell out of me,” you sighed, clutching your chest.

“sorry,” he said, though his tone didn’t sound all that apologetic. “didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“then maybe don’t sneak up on people like that,” you muttered, still trying to calm your racing heart.

he chuckled, and the sound was warmer than you’d expected. “noted. so, what’s got you out here at three in the morning? don’t tell me you’re pulling an all-nighter.”

you sighed, the initial shock fading into a dull thrum of shyness. “it’s not an all-nighter if the night isn’t over yet.” then, you squint at a random spot, pretending it’s him. “besides, why are you here? shouldn’t you be out stopping robberies or saving cats from trees?”

“done and done,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the ledge. “now i’m just enjoying the view.”

you turned your gaze back to the skyline, hoping the darkness hid the faint heat creeping up your neck. “so, what’s a guy like you doing on a random rooftop at three in the morning?”

“could ask you the same thing,” he countered.

you hesitated. for some reason, admitting the truth to him felt easier than admitting it to anyone else. “just…needed a break.”

“from?”

“everything,” you said, exhaling slowly. “classes. expectations. people.” you paused, then added with a faint smile, “not you, though. you’re an exception.”

“oh?” his voice lightened, carrying a hint of playful intrigue. “should i feel honored?”

“maybe,” you said. “it’s not every day you get to meet a real hero.” then, “okay, but why do you always hide in the dark?”

his voice is smug, meant to be playful. “it adds to the mystique?”

you pout. “what if i call the police?”

“it’s not like the cops can catch me anyways, baby. their shitty coffee and donut filled asses aren’t enough to keep up with me.”

you really try not to flush when he calls you that pet name. “is success getting to you?”

“what success? most i hear is everyone debating whether or not i should be experimented on.”

“really?” you teased. “that’s not what i saw on my for you page last time. there are girls out there who want you to sign their tits after you rescued that baby.”

then, you hear the soft thud of nimble feet dropping onto the ceiling and turn your head to see him in all his glory. he has a muscular figure highlighted in his white suit, blue and black lines traveling their way across his body. casually, he stretches and then drops down to the floor, sitting cross legged from across from you as if joining you in a regular gossip sesh. he puts his elbow on his knee and rests his head on his hand. “are you one of those girls?”

you laugh sheepishly, turning away as heat creeps up your face again and your heart hammers, because you can’t exactly tell him that, yes you’re absolutely enamored with him after he saved you that day and yes, you do indeed want him to sign your tits.

“you should do that more,” he said.

“what?” you look back at him, wide eyed in confusion. 

“laugh.”

the way he said it, low and almost reverent, made your cheeks heat. you busy yourself with toying with your cardigan, scooting yourself away from the edge and closer to him. “and you should stop being such a flirt,” you said, though there was no bite in your voice.

“can’t help it,” he said, leaning closer. “it’s kind of my thing.”

“is that right?”

“mm-hmm.” he paused, then added, “you know, there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“what?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.

“take my mask off.”

the words hit you like a gut punch, dissolving the playfulness that had filled the air seconds ago. you blinked up at him, searching his face—or at least what you could see of it—for any sign that this was some elaborate joke. but there was no hint of humor, no smirk tugging at his lips. he meant it.

your fingers hovered at your sides, hesitant. “are you sure?” the question came out soft, barely audible, but it felt like it echoed in the quiet night.

“never been more sure of anything,” he murmured, voice low and steady.

you swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. slowly, almost against your better judgment, you reached up, fingertips brushing the edge of his mask. the fabric felt smooth, warm under your touch, but your nerves were anything but.

with a deep breath, you peeled it back. bit by bit, his face came into view—a shock of white hair, impossibly sharp features, and finally, those eyes. those unmistakable, infuriatingly familiar blue eyes. your breath caught, and for a moment, the world tilted sideways.

“gojo?”

the name fell from your lips before you could stop it, unsteady and disbelieving. your mind raced, trying to piece together the impossible puzzle that had just landed in front of you.

he grinned—that grin, the one that always made you want to slap it off his face and yet somehow managed to disarm you every single time. “hey.”

“hey?” your voice cracked as you took a step back. “that’s all you have to say? hey?”

“would you prefer, ‘surprise’?” he quipped, his grin widening as though this was the most normal thing in the world.

you laughed, the sound a little hysterical but real, like you couldn’t contain the storm of emotions rushing through you. “surprised? you’ve been… you’ve been spider-man this whole time?” the words felt foreign on your tongue, like they didn’t belong in the same sentence as gojo satoru—the one you’d argued with in class, the one who had no problem making you want to tear your hair out. and yet here he was, standing in front of you, the last person you ever would have suspected to be the city’s most infamous masked hero.

gojo gave you that crooked grin, the same one he wore when he thought he had won—when he thought he had it all figured out. “i know. it’s a lot to take in.”

you stared at him, trying to make sense of it, but no amount of logic could bridge the gap between the gojo you knew—the guy who drove you up the wall in class and always had a cocky comeback—and the masked hero who had saved you and the one you had a crush on.

you didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or cry. 

you take a shaky breath in, still trying to process everything. “you... you saved me, gojo. you’ve been right there, all these times, and i had no idea it was you.”

“guess i’m just that good at keeping secrets,” he said, his tone playful, but there was something more there, something softer, that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. his eyes held a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability, maybe uncertainty.

the weight of the moment hung thick in the air between you, and for a long second, you didn’t know what to say. this revelation was like the ground beneath you had cracked wide open, and you were left staring into an abyss that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

finally, you shook your head, letting out a short breath. “this is insane.”

he didn’t seem bothered by your reaction, though his eyes darkened just slightly, the smirk still there, but with something a little more honest creeping into his expression. “yeah. but you’re handling it better than i thought. kinda thought you would faint, or something.”

the world had shifted, but somehow, with gojo now sitting in front of you like this, with the mask off and the man behind the myth revealed, it felt like the pieces were finally starting to fall into place. even if they didn’t make perfect sense yet.

and yet, something about his presence—his undeniable realness—felt oddly grounding. he wasn’t the invincible spider-man anymore. he was just gojo. the gojo who had somehow become more than just your academic rival, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit more than that.

something in gojo’s facial expression shifted to something a bit more hesitant, a little nervous as he stands and extend his arm out to you. softly, he asks, “do you trust me?”

“yes.” you took his hand, standing up as he flashes you a charming, yet mischievous grin, one so shit eating that you regret saying that. “why?”

“i’m taking you for a ride. consider it an apology for freaking you out earlier.”

you hesitated, looking between his outstretched hand and the city skyline just beyond your college campus. “i don’t think this is a good idea—”

“you trust me, don’t you?”

and somehow, against all logic, you realized that you did.

“fine,” you said, stepping closer to him to cling onto him. 

he pulls you closer, and as he does so, he cranes his neck down to meet your eyes, smiling giddy. “anywhere you wanna go?”

you think for a moment, but know immediately the place where you’d like to visit that’s open at this ungodly hour. “do you know that one shawarma joint—-”

before you can even finish, the wind whips around you as gojo slips his mask back on, pulls you closer to him, and uses his free hand—that is, the one that’s not clinging onto your firmly—to shoot a glistening web, one that you saw when he used it on the man who harassed you in the ally. it clings onto a nearby building, and then you’re off the ground, soaring through the air.

you let out a scream of terror against gojo’s chest, tightening your arms around him. you can feel a laugh rumble in his chest, a boyish chuckle as he peers down at you and shouts, “are you having fun?” 

“gojo,” you whine, burying your head into his chest further. despite your initial fear, exhilaration creeps its way into you as you the city blur, skyline jumping and dipping as gojo effortlessly swung you both around. 

when he finally stopped, landing gracefully on a secluded rooftop, you were breathless—not just from the ride but from the way he was looking at you.

“you good?” he laughed, panting from the exertion and tenderly using his hand to rake his hand through your  hair, which, you note out of embarrassment, must’ve been messed up from the wind passing through it.

“i hate that you made me dizzy, but yea, i’m good,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to open your camera, fixing your hair.

when you’re done, gojo looks at you with the manic buzz you can only have at 3am. “ready to get some shawarma?”

…

the streets were eerily quiet, the kind of silence only a city at 3am could have. just the two of you, your footsteps echoing against the pavement, the occasional glow of a streetlamp painting your path.

“okay, that shawarma was like, mid at best,” gojo walks alongside you. he’s thrown on a sweatshirt and gray sweatpants over his suit, walking alongside you on the street. your stomachs are full, and you suggested a walk to be able to digest the bigass bowl you both ate.

“nothing tastes better than something you’re eating when you’re supposed to be studying, instead,” you shot back, hiding your little smile as you cross your arms while strolling. the shift between you and gojo was so jarring that you’re still reeling at it, but what is 3am if not for big life changes?

“yea, that’s fair,” he sighs, crossing his hands behind his head as he continues strolling beside you.  “so,” he continues, “now that i’ve officially blown your mind with my secret identity and fed you some incredibly mid shawarma, what’s next? should i fly you to paris, or is that too cliché?”

you roll your eyes, but deep inside, you’re really biting back a grin. “relax, bugboy. maybe first let me recover from being swung like a human pendulum.”

gojo stopped walking, turning to face you with a playful glint in his eye. “you’re still thinking about that, huh? admit it—you loved it.”

you raised an eyebrow. “i screamed into your chest for a solid ten seconds. does that sound like love to you?”

he tilted his head, feigning deep thought. “i dunno. there’s a fine line between terror and thrill. and judging by how tightly you were holding onto me…”

“you’re insufferable,” you muttered, but your voice lacked bite.

“and yet, you’re still here.”

his words hung in the air, the playful edge softening into something quieter, more sincere. your steps faltered, and you looked up at him, the absurdity of the night fading into the background as your gaze held his.

“guess i’m curious,” you admitted.

“curious, huh?” he said, taking a step closer. “careful. curiosity killed the cat.”

without thinking, you blurted, “at least i’ve got a fifty-fifty shot, right?” the words barely left your mouth before the regret hit, your inner voice screaming at you for making a lame quantum mechanics joke at a time like this. schrödinger would be proud, you thought bitterly.

but then gojo laughed—not the teasing, obnoxious kind of laugh or the weird look you’d expect, but a genuine, boyish chuckle that reached his eyes. he smiled at you, soft and unguarded, and suddenly, the space between you seemed to shrink.

the flickering streetlamp cast a warm, uneven glow over the two of you. in that moment, the sprawling city felt impossibly small, narrowed down to just him and the pounding of your heart in your ears.

gojo reached up, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. “you know,” he murmured, his voice low, “i’ve been wanting to do this for a while now.”

your breath hitched, heart thundering in your chest. “do what?”

“this.”

before you could respond, he closed the space between you, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was somehow both soft, yet electrifying. for a moment, time seemed to stop, the city around you fading into nothing as the warmth of his touch anchored you in the moment.

when he finally pulled back, his grin was back in full force. “so, was that better or worse than shawarma?”

you blinked at him, still trying to find your footing in the aftermath of what just happened. an immediate feeling of bashfulness crept over you because not only did you just kiss spiderman, you just kissed gojo. there are girls who would kill to be in your position, and that makes you flustered as you turn your head away from him so you don’t have to make eye contact. “i hate you,” you mumble half heartedly, cheeks burning.

gojo doesn’t let you off so easily. his thumb brushes gently along your chin, coaxing your face back toward his. his touch is warm, deliberate, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“oh my god,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “are you embarrassed? you’re so cute.”

when the warmth of his hand leaves your chin, you open your eyes, shocked as you find out that he’s nowhere to be seen. you call out a tentative, “gojo?” 

somewhere behind you, to the left, comes out a muffled shout. “i’m here!” you whip around, your brows furrowing as you follow the direction of his voice. it’s coming from an alley just off the street, dark and bathed in shadows.

“seriously?” you mutter under your breath, your annoyance half-hearted, making your way toward the sound. you find yourself at the mouth of the alley, the dim glow of a distant lamp barely illuminating his silhouette.

gojo’s perched on the side of the wall like it’s the most natural thing in the world, one leg propped up, his mask pulled halfway up to reveal that damn smirk. “you’re slow,” he teases, his tone light and infuriatingly smug.

“what are you doing?” you ask, crossing your arms.

he gestures toward himself. “you came looking for me, didn’t you?”

you roll your eyes, stepping closer despite yourself. “what, did you think i’d just leave you lurking in some alley like a creepy insect?”

“well,” he says, shooting a web to stick on the bottom of some stairs of one of the buildings to hang upside down, “you could’ve left, but i had a feeling you wouldn’t.”

before you could retort, he shoots his web closer to something on top of you, now dangling upside down yet again but his proximity even closer, stealing the air from your lungs. his fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering just long enough to make your knees feel unsteady.

“so,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “are we doing this again, or are you gonna keep pretending you hate me?”

your heart stutters, but before you can overthink it, you pull his mask down even further to uncover more of his lips, and you join them together—this time, softer, slower, as if savoring the moment. you grab at his chin to pull him closer to you, you both sighing into the kiss, and then smiling giddily each time you pull back, only to come back in.

and just like that, you start to fall into…something with not only the vigilante that’s swinging around new york, but also gojo satoru, your long-time rival.

…

when satoru swings by your dorm next, he doesn’t expect his heart to lurch so much at the view of you so cozy.

it’s undeniable; you and satoru have been dancing around each other. you’re not exactly a hook-up to each other—you two haven’t had sex—but you’re not exactly girlfriend and boyfriend. and it’s not something casual, either. he doesn’t reveal that he’s spiderman just to get into girls’ pants. 

you’ve both developed a sort of rapport, he supposes. it’s been stolen glances during phys401 and late nights spent talking or, occasionally, making out. you’ve even started to nurse his wounds, if he ever shows up with bruises and blood matting his suit. one of the perks of you having a single. 

he’s even fallen asleep overnight, especially on friday nights when he doesn’t have lecture in the morning. some of his things, like some spare equipment and suits, have even found their way into your closet. 

you’re both on a dangerous roller coaster, and satoru is closing his eyes on the fall down. 

but right now, he’s perched outside your window like a creep. you’re sitting on your bed, cross-legged and squinting at something on your laptop, and satoru smiles to himself as he sees your tank top and shorts and just how homey you look. you probably know satoru is coming, but you’re so comfortable around him that it makes his heart ache. he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t stop.

satoru lightly taps on your window, his knuckle brushing against the glass softly, not wanting to startle you. you glance up, catching sight of him, and there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips.

you get up, and satoru follows the movement of your bare legs with his eyes as you slide the window open. “you know, most people knock on doors like normal humans,” you say.

“i like to keep things interesting,” he shoots back, climbing in effortlessly. the faint chill from the night clings to him, and his hair is slightly disheveled from the wind.

he glances around your room, catching sight of your scattered notes and the distinct look of frustration etched across your face. “what’s got you looking so miserable?”

“phys401,” you reply with a resigned sigh, flopping back onto your bed. “this problem set is impossible.”

satoru smirks, peeling off his gloves and mask and plopping down beside you. “let me see.”

acquiescing, you hand over your notebook, watching as he scans your work with intent, eyebrows scrunching as he tries to understand the statement to prove. he makes a few thoughtful noises, before grabbing a pen and scribbling something down. “here,” he says after a moment, “you’re overcomplicating this step. instead of doing the tensor product you did, you could just make this zero by taking an inner product, since they’re orthogonal states. the rest will fall into place.”

you squint at his messy, rushed handwriting, and sure enough, the proof seems to come together. “how are you so good at this?” 

“physics prodigy, remember?” he teases, leaning back on his hands as he lays down on your bed.

“thanks for the help,” you say softly, your eyes lingering on him a beat too long. he’s kind of dreamy, you think. the moonlight filters across your window, giving his platinum hair a sheen as his cerulean eyes look into yours with kindness. 

his smirk fades, replaced by something softer, something unspoken. “anytime.” he then makes a show of stretching out his limbs, purposely bumping into you with one eye open smugly to observe your reaction, to which you glare at him. he spots your notebook, picks it up, and flips through it. “you know, for someone who complains so much about phys401, you’re not half bad at it,” he teases, scribbling something in the margin of your notes by grabbing a stray pen next to him.  

you roll your eyes, shifting so you’re cross-legged on the bed, facing him. “not all of us are physics prodigies, satoru. some of us actually have to work hard.”  

he chuckles, handing the notebook back to you. “hard work is overrated when you can just charm your way through everything.”  

you snort and joke, “if charm was all it took, i’d have aced the midterm.”  

there’s a beat of silence as you glance down at his notes. he’s corrected a mistake you hadn’t even noticed, and his scrawled proof flows so effortlessly it makes you a little envious. “how do you do that?” you ask, more to yourself than him.  

“do what?”  

“make it look so… easy,” you say, frowning slightly. “everything. physics, life, swinging through the city.”  

satoru leans back on his palms, his smirk softening. “trust me, it’s not as easy as it looks.”  

you glance up at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone. “what do you mean?”  

he shrugs, but there’s something vulnerable in the way his gaze flickers away from yours. “i mean, everyone sees the guy with the jokes and the perfect test scores, but no one sees the late nights or the bruises.” he gestures vaguely to his chest, where you know the bruises from his spider-man escapades hide. “guess i’m just good at pretending.”  

you sit with his words, the weight of them settling between you. “you don’t have to pretend with me, you know,” you say softly.  

his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the mask—the real one—drops. “i know,” he says, just as softly.  

the air between you feels heavier, like the world has shrunk to just the two of you. you’re hyper-aware of how close he is, the faint smell of the night clinging to him, the way his knee brushes against yours.  

“thanks,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “for letting me be here. for…” he trails off, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up.  

your breath catches. “satoru…”  

“yeah?” he says, leaning in slightly, his voice lower now.  

“i…” you trail off, not even sure what you were going to say.  

he leans closer, and it feels like everything around you stills. his hand finds its way to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “can i?” he asks, his voice barely audible.  

you nod, and then his lips are on yours.  

the kiss starts tentative, almost shy, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. it deepens, his hand sliding to your waist as you pull him closer. the tension that had been building for weeks—months, maybe—finally snaps, leaving nothing but heat and want in its wake.  

his weight presses you back into the bed, and you can feel his heart racing against yours as he pins you to the bed, now on top of you. his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and as his thumb traces shapes into your circle and closer to more sensitive areas, a sigh escapes you.  

that’s when he freezes.  

he pulls back, his breathing uneven, his eyes wide and filled with something like fear. “we can’t,” he says, his voice hoarse.  

your heart drops into your chest.

“why not?” you ask, trying to catch your breath.  

“because,” he says, sitting up and running a hand through his hair and he’s heaving. “because i’m spider-man, and you—” he breaks off, looking anywhere but at you. “you deserve better than this. better than me.”  

you sit up, pulling your shirt back into place and looking at him, hurt. “that’s not your call to make, satoru.”  

“i’m trying to protect you!” he says, his voice rising in agitation. he sits back onto his heels, raking a hand through his hair as he looks at the ceiling, as if in pain.

you can’t believe him. his self-righteousness irritates you to no end, especially after you’ve bared your soul, and now your body to him, something you considered intimate. you feel conflicted—whatever you had, it didn’t have a label. but that didn’t mean that you didn’t want that to be true. badly.

“and who asked you to?” you snap back. “i’m not some damsel in distress who needs saving.”  

“i know that,” he says, his tone softening. “but if something happened to you because of me…” he shakes his head. “i couldn’t live with that.”  

the anger bubbling in your chest boils over, and you snap. “so what? you’re just going to walk away? after everything?”  

he stands, his expression pained. “i’m sorry,” he says, heading for the window.  

“don’t you dare apologize,” you say, your voice trembling as you stand by the foot of your bed, hating how your eyes brim with tears. “if you leave, don’t bother coming back.”  

he pauses, his hand on the window frame, before glancing back at you. “i’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time, before slipping out into the night.  

the window clicks shut behind him, and you’re left alone in the silence, the ache in your chest threatening to swallow you whole. 

…

the whir of the espresso machine and the gentle hum of background music fill the mostly empty starbucks, the occasional customer wandering in like clockwork. it’s a quiet shift, the kind you’d usually relish—except today, the quiet only makes the knot in your chest tighten.

you’re stationed behind the counter, staring blankly at the milk steamer as it hisses, lost in your thoughts. that is, until utahime’s voice breaks through.

“alright, spill,” she says, leaning her elbows on the counter beside you.

you glance at her, eyebrows raised. “spill what?”

utahime rolls her eyes, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “oh, please. you look like someone stole your favorite pen and broke it in half. what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you lie, turning back to the steamer. “i’m fine.”

utahime’s skeptical gaze bores into you. “you’re a terrible liar. nanami, back me up.”

from his spot at a nearby table, nanami looks up from his book, his sharp eyes narrowing as they lock onto you. “it’s boy trouble,” he says flatly, like he’s solving an equation.

your head snaps toward him, a glare already forming. “excuse me?”

“it’s obvious,” he says, setting his book down and regarding you with his usual piercing gaze. “you’re distracted, you look upset—it’s boy trouble.”

utahime perks up, leaning closer. “wait, is he right? is this about a guy?”

you let out a groan, leaning your elbows on the counter. “can you two not gang up on me right now?”

“so it is a guy,” utahime says, her tone turning smug.

“i didn’t say that,” you retort, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.

nanami raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your deflection. “you might as well just tell us. it’s not like we’re going to let it go.”

you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “fine. it’s… someone i liked. someone i thought liked me too. but he freaked out and said it was too…dangerous to keep going.”

utahime frowns, her curiosity replaced by concern while kento snorts. “dangerous? what does that even mean?”

“that’s what i’d like to know,” you say bitterly, the frustration bubbling up as you speak. “he acts like he cares, but the second things get serious, he bolts. like i’m some fragile thing that can’t handle it.”

nanami leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “he might not be scared of you. he could be scared of what it means for him. of responsibility and commitment. some people run when they feel too much.”

utahime nods, her hand resting gently on your arm. “whatever his problem is, it’s not fair to you. if he can’t get it together, that’s on him, not you.”

you glance between them, the weight of their words settling in your chest. “i know that,” you say quietly. “it just… sucks.”

“of course it does,” utahime says, her voice soft but firm. “but you’re not the problem here. don’t let him make you think you are.”

nanami picks up his book again but pauses before opening it. “and don’t let him live rent-free in your head. if he can’t see what he’s giving up, that’s his loss.”

their support feels grounding, like a steady hand in the middle of a storm. you manage a small smile, nodding. “thanks, guys.”

“anytime,” utahime says, flashing you a reassuring grin. nanami simply nods, returning to his book but keeping an eye on you like always. for the first time all week since gojo left your room, the heaviness in your chest feels a little lighter.

…

the knock at your window is faint, almost timid, but it jolts you out of your daze. you sit up in bed, your heart pounding as your eyes dart toward the window. it’s late—so late it’s early—and for a moment, you think you imagined it. you hate to admit it, but because of your boy troubles you haven’t been able to sleep all week. you’re also no stranger to imagining ants crawling up your body or phantom noises, so you adjust in your bed, trying to go back to sleep.

then it comes again, a little louder this time.

you throw off the blanket and pad over, the chill of the floor biting at your bare feet. when you pull the curtain aside, your breath catches.

satoru.

he’s crouched outside, his suit torn in places and soaked with blood. his head lolls slightly, like he’s barely holding himself up, and when he lifts his gaze to meet yours, it’s tired and pleading.

you don’t think—there’s no time for that. you unlatch the window and shove it open, reaching out to help him inside. “satoru, oh my god,” you breathe, your voice shaking.

“hey,” he mutters, his grin weak but still so unmistakably him. “sorry for the mess.”

“shut up,” you snap, guiding him onto your bed and setting him down with gentle hands, ones that contrast your tone with him. “what the hell happened?”

“nothing i couldn’t handle,” he says, wincing as he tries to sit up straighter and flashes you a sheepish smile. “you should see the other guy.”

“you’re bleeding everywhere, satoru. you clearly didn’t handle it.” you grab your first aid kit from under the bed and yank it open, your hands trembling.

“i’ve had worse,” he murmurs, but his bravado is thin, cracking at the edges.

“stop talking,” you say, your voice trembling and cracking. “just—just stop.”

for once, you thank the gods that he listens.

you work quickly, cutting away the shredded fabric of his suit and cleaning the worst of the wounds. it’s not pretty—his torso is littered with bruises and gashes, the kind that make your stomach turn—but you keep your focus.

when you press a disinfectant-soaked pad to a particularly deep cut, he hisses, his hand flying to grab your wrist.

“sorry,” you whisper, glancing up at him with a tender look in your eyes. his expression matches yours, and your faces are so close to each other that you can’t bear it anymore, going back to your work.

his fingers loosen but don’t let go, his grip warm and grounding. “you’re good at this,” he says softly, his voice rough.

“yeah, well,” you mutter, ducking your head to avoid his gaze. “you’ve given me plenty of practice.”

the silence stretches as you finish bandaging him up. when you’re done, you sit back, your hands still trembling as you place them in your lap. “you’re an idiot,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

he laughs, soft and hoarse. “yeah. i get that a lot from this girl i know.”

you look up at him, and the weight of everything—his injuries, his secret, the distance he tried to put between you—crashes over you. “you can’t keep doing this, satoru. you can’t keep pushing me away just to show up like this.”

his smile fades, replaced by something raw and unguarded. “i know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “i know, but…”

“but what?” you demand, your voice cracking. “you’re spider-man? you think that’s an excuse to keep shutting me out?”

“it’s not an excuse,” he says, running a hand through his messy hair, matted with even more blood. his or someone else’s, you’re not sure. “it’s a reason. i don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

“you think i’m not already hurting?” you snap, the anger bubbling to the surface yet again. “you think it doesn’t kill me to see you like this and know i can’t do anything to stop it?”

his eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks like a little boy, lost and unsure. it is then that it hits you that he’s just twenty. a college student, not someone who’s wanted by the cia or someone who’s battled terrorists. for fucks sake, he can’t even legally drink. 

and your heart can’t help but melt as he says, “i just… i don’t want to lose you.”

“then stop trying to,” you say, your voice softer now. “stop pretending like you’re protecting me by keeping me at arm’s length. let me in, satoru.”

he stares at you, his breath hitching like he’s holding back a thousand words. then, in a rush, he closes the distance between you, his hands cradling your face as he presses his forehead to yours.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “i’m so sorry.”

you exhale shakily, your hands finding their way to his wrists. “just stop being an idiot, okay? stop trying to do this alone.”

he nods, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “i promise,” he says, and for the first time, you believe him.

…

a cramp gripping satoru’s entire leg is what wakes him up. 

he winces in memory of the injury; one of those stupid terrorists had too good of an aim, grazing his leg while he was mid-air. it hurts like a bitch now, and he moves to lay on his back, until something stops him. roses.

he looks, bleary eyed, to you. the floral scent coming from you, making him dizzy. his body cocooning yours. 

you both unconsciously moved in your sleep so that you were spooning, your fragrant hair, soft from shampooing, tickling his throat with your ass in his crotch.

nestled right against his morning wood.

good fucking lord, he groans to himself, then starts to panic because if you wake up and realize he had a raging hard-on while you were sleeping, you would definitely think he was a creep. he’s already on thin fucking ice. so naturally, he starts to recite the star spangled banner while trying to will his boner away.

oh, say can you see—

to no avail, because you huff softly in your sleep, soft and warm body unconsciously leaning back to grind your ass against his lap, turning his dick to steel.

“oh, fuck,” he curses out loud, using his hand to cover the lower half of his face and clench his eyes shut. you feel so sweet, innocently adjusting while he can’t even control his lust for you.

but once the grind seems to continue for a bit too long, more than what can be chalked up as adjusting in your sleep, he peers down at you. you’re awake. 

and because satoru’s selfish, his hands creep up your tank top, settling on your bare stomach, where he knew you were ticklish. as a result, you wiggle, and he uses this opportunity to pull you even closer to him, right up against him. 

“baby,” he says, making his voice all deep and sighs on purpose, just to be unfair to you. “is this okay?”

you whine, and he settles his face in your hair, the strands of it tickling his skin as he inhales in the scent of you. “i thought it was a dream.”

he smiles into your hair. you make him feel like sunshine incarnate, and the rush he’s getting right now is akin to the one he gets jumping off the empire state building. “no, this is very real.”

“hm,” and you continue to drag your ass into him, murmuring in a soft voice that makes him want to take you right there and then, “it still feels like a dream. like you’re not real, right now.”

oh, what he would do to make you say his name in that same voice; he wants to whisper all the things he wants to do to you right now. “i know, baby. you feel like a dream.” his hands continue to slide up and up your torso, groaning at your sharp intake as he gently fondles the softness of your breasts. 

you overwhelm his senses, teasing him, and when you let out a whine of his name, satoru snaps.

“i’m going to make you feel good right now. tell me if it’s a fucking dream,” he grits out, ignoring whatever cramps that were screaming at him to get on top of you. 

you gasp out a “satoru,” wriggling in his grasp, and he can’t take it anymore. he brings up one of his hands. shoots a web that lands right on your left hand. then your right hand.

satoru just tied you up using his webs.

you look at him in whatever version of shock you can muster in your tired state. “satoru, what the—” but you’re muffled, because he’s kissing you, hard, roving his hands up and down your body and grabbing whatever he can as if he’s devouring you while making out with you.

“do you know,” and his eyes flash dangerously while looking down at yours, “how you’ve teased me with these shorts?” his hands trails down to the waistband of the offending piece of clothing, pulling it to make it snap against your skin. you jump, looking at satoru desperately, who’s left you bare at his mercy, subject to his super human strength as he grabs your shorts with both his hands again. “every fucking time i’ve sneaked up in to your room, it’s been so hard to not fuck you senseless in these flimsy things. it’s only fair you pay the price, right baby?”

it’s not like you have anything to answer him with, having lost all brain cells being fucked out like this. he pulls them down, and if he had laser vision, he would have stared through your panties long ago, eyes fixated on the crotch that was nearly translucent with the amount of slick going through it. burying his face right in between your thighs, he noses at your cunt before groaning. then, he uses his teeth to grab onto the middle and pull. until your pussy is bare to him.

“oh, fuck you’re so pretty,” he curses, lapping at your sweetness. his tongue roves up and down your folds, and if your hands could, they would be pulling at his hair solely because you were so sensitive. but you were trapped, thighs gripped in his strong hands and your arms trapped by his ultra-strong webs. “my good girl.”

then, you feel pressure at your opening. “sato—” you squeal but are immediately interrupted by your own moan as he curls his long, thick fingers, eyes observing your every movement as you squirm, electric shocks running up and down your body as he hits your spot dead-on.

and he notices, because the motherfucker chuckles. “oh, so that’s the spot, huh?” he purrs, visibly pleased as he memorizes it and abuses it, hitting it with every stroke. you barely notice him add one finger, add two fingers as he starts to suck on your clit. overwhelmed with pleasure, you’re only brought back to reality when he rips all contact away from you.

“what—” you mumble mindlessly, until you see what he’s doing. he pulls his sweatpants down. and he’s not wearing boxers, so you drool when his cock springs out, leaking copiously and hard. without taking his eyes off you, he pumps it to its fullest length, and you’re just staring in awe at its sheer length.

“what’re you looking at, baby?” he teases, using his hand to wiggle his cock in front of your face to mock you. “want it so bad, isn’t that right?”

you glare at him half-heartedly, but whine regardless. “just put it in, gojo.”

“oh,” and he flashes you a smile that makes a big danger sign in red flash across your mind. “it’s gojo, now is it?”

 “satoru,” there are tears brimming in the corner of your eyes, the ones that make satoru even more aroused at your want, “please. i need it.”

a boyish grin and a forehead kiss that has you reeling at his duality. “anything for my woman in stem.” with that, he pushes in, both of your eyes rolling back as his cock is engulfed by your gummy walls. soon after, he starts thrusting, desperation fueling both of you as you cross your legs behind gojo’s back, the deeper angle making his thighs shake while fucking into you. 

he grabs your face, gives you a tender kiss. “fuck, i love this pussy. so sweet for me.” 

you give him a wanton moan in return as he continues to thrust deep, tender strokes into you. “satoru, ‘m not gonna last long.” with the amount of foreplay he’s done alongside how sensitive you are, you’re steadily reaching your orgasm already, and with the way satoru’s now tightly gripping the sheets beside you while thrusting inside you, he is too.

wet squelching noises echoes across the room, and you know the neighbors can hear the obscene plap! plap! plap! coming from skin meeting skin, your hips against his. he buries his face into your neck, panting at your ear until he uses his hand to wrench your face towards his.

“i love you,” he groans, forcing your eyes to meet his. “i love you forever and will do so. so you can’t break my heart,” and he’s desperately thrusting again, “and you can’t leave me. please.”

at his confession, you break, back arching as you also squeal out a iloveyou while gasping loudly, hips rolling to rise against his as he fucks you through your orgasm. quickly, his thrusts veer into overstimulation and you whine. “toru.” he takes one look at your state—face impossibly flushed, hands tied, and pussy absolutely engulfing his cock, and his orgasm hits him like a truck, making him gasp and bend and break as he goes to heaven and back with the aftershocks of your orgasm making your pussy clench around him so beautifully. his cum enters you in hot spurts, making you exhale sharply at the feeling as he comes down from his orgasm, collapsing next to you.

for a few minutes, heavy breathing fills the room, both of you catching your breaths. until satoru breaks the silence. “so, what’s it like to fuck a superhero?”

you take one look at him—all smug and propped up on his elbow—and spidey sense be damned as you try grab a pillow. key word is try because you’re then wrenched back with a reminder that you’re still bound. “satoru,” and you give him a sickly sweet smile, the one that he knows means he’s in trouble, “when are these going to dissolve?”

and satoru pretends to be deep in thought, but you can see him trying to inch off the bed slowly, as if to escape your wrath after his answer. “uhm…maybe five hours?”

if it weren’t for the damn spidey sense that he had, he wouldn’t have been able to escape the swing of your legs as you looked at him murderously. “satoru gojo you will unhand me from these webs this instant—-“

“i don’t know,” he shrugs, shit eating grin in his face. “you look kinda sexy in bed like this. mad at me.” but when your eyes flash with anger, he hiccups nervously, telltale of the fact he won’t mess with you.

“i hate you,” you groan out, pouting like a petulant child while you glare at the ceiling.

 satoru comes close to you to bend at his waist and give you a forehead kiss. “no, you don’t.” 

you give him a pointed glare, telling him not to be testy. “clean me up. now.”

at your expression, his eyes widen in fear and he salutes. “anything for you, ma’am.”

at his retreating form, you giggle and sigh to yourself. you never would’ve known that spider-man would be the one fetching a clean up rag for you after fucking the shit out of you, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

when satoru comes back, he cleans you up, tenderly, as if he is afraid that you will break. you’re a little drowsy when he returns to you, but he doesn’t dare try to wake you up when he hears little breaths from your nose indicating you’ve fallen asleep. after he finishes his job, he admires your features.

satoru lingers for a moment, his gaze softening as he watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest. the weight of his responsibilities presses on him, as it always does, but tonight, it feels heavier—like a tether pulling him between the life he’s chosen and the life he craves.

you, so peaceful in sleep, represent something fragile, something precious. and that terrifies him. because what if he fails? what if the cost of being spider-man is losing the one thing that feels real?

still, he knows he can’t walk away—not from this city, not from you. with a deep breath, he leans down and presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead, a silent promise lingering in his chest.

“i’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs, barely audible. “no matter what.”

instead of leaving, satoru settles down beside you, careful not to disturb your rest. the city can wait, just for a little while. for now, he wraps an arm around you, grounding himself in the warmth of your presence. as your breathing evens out against him, he lets his own eyes drift shut, the weight of his responsibilities momentarily lifting. today, he chooses to stay.

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist | spiderman!gojo masterlist

a/n ok if you're ever curious what being fucked in the ass with a wooden dildo no lube is like, just try to write this fic or any longfic. it's 4am, this a/n is short and unintelligble just like most of this fic but it's been a journey, im very sentimental because of this fic and i hope you guys like it. ok im going to pass out so pls ignore all typos xoxo but please flood my inbox im excited to see yalls reactions when i wake up

plspls pls comment and reblog!!!

TAGLIST

@sugoroo @ryutotsukai0824 @sharkubi @lisvanrouge @mxlktae

@samisfunky @achbbys000 @xd3pr3ss3dx @jottositto @cheescakebroom

@r0ckst4rjk @callmeagardengnome @rottmntrulesall @blankwashed @sindulgent666

@honeynanamin @obsessgurlll @starrnai @herefor-tojis-tits @ramonathinks

@creamflix

[succubusvalentine]

Simon Riley who plays dirty. CW : threesome(?), technically cheating but no angst, pussy slap, mentions of masturbation.

Simon hates it when you touch yourself when he's away.

He knows you can't bring yourself the same pleasure he can. So he makes it a rule. No touching yourself unless he's present and has given you permission.

And it goes well for a while. You touch yourself a few times when you aren't supposed to, causing Simon to punish you. Which he enjoys more than he should.

Until you frustratingly become such a good girl, you refuse to touch yourself when Simon's away.

Simon tries everything to get you to fold, he sends you dirty texts, voice messages of him moaning as he stroked his cock, even videos of him stroking his cock. But nothing made you break.

So, he had to bring Johnny into the mix.

It wasn't unusual for Johnny to come by the apartment when Simon was away. Nor was his usual flirtatious personality.

But finding yourself on the couch underneath the scotsman was definitely unusual.

Your mind was mush, eyes rolling back. Johnny had you folded in half, one knee against your chest, the other leg being held over his shoulder.

"She tight as you thought, Johnny?" The familiar gravel of your boyfriend's voice spoke as he dropped his duffel bag by the door.

Your eyes snapped to Simon, your mouth opening to beg for his forgiveness, but whatever you were going to say dissolved into a whorish moan.

"S'fucking tight, LT. Why'd you have to keep 'er from me f'so long?" Johnny groaned.

"You know the rules, lovie. No touching yourself. Think that you could find a loophole by letting Johnny touch you instead?" Simon asked with a sadistic grin. Reaching between you and Johnny, pinching and rubbing at your clit.

"Hah~No! 'm sorry Si!" you beg, tears in your eyes a mix of guilt and pleasure.

"Shhh, no crying, lovie. Johnny's just trying to make you feel good while I was away. He was just taking care of my pet f'me" Simon chuckled, wiping away a stray tear.

You seem to realise that Simon and Johnny were in this together. That Simon wasn't mad at you.

Johnny leaned down and licked a tear off your cheek, growling low in his chest.

"C'mon mutt, you talked such a big game. Make her come like you told me you would" Simon demanded. Johnny nodded, his brows furrowed.

"come f'me Bonnie, come on. Come on my cock" Johnny moaned, pulling your hips flush against his own as he came deep inside you. Hot ropes coating your insides.

You nodded desperately, mouth dropping open and eyes rolling back as you orgasm. A scream of pleasure being ripped from your throat.

You pant and whine weakly as Johnny pulled out. Your eyes snapping open when you feel a harsh slap on your oversensitive cunt. Simon grinning down at you, fishing his cock from his jeans.

"No where near done yet, lovie"

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

just so everyone knows, requests are open! I get stuck for ideas sometimes, so I'd love to hear some of your guys' ideas!

[deathfavor]

the toddler has left i am FREE

[thefandomexpert]

alright i’ll say it. i don’t hate the new netflix atla