#trigger warning: that one scene | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thebarneschronicles · 5 months ago

Text

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit.

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.”

—

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader smut #bucky fanfic #sebastian stan

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fushitoru · 7 months ago

Text

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!!!

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