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writersdrug · 4 months ago

Note

I need the bartender Simon having to escape upstairs for a few minutes just to control the monster in his pants just because of a more direct provocation from the reader

I was saving this ask and I think this is the perfect moment after Simon sees reader in his shirt, no?

Warnings: NSFW, masturbation, sex toy, pining, daydreaming about p in v sex

He doesn't dare go up to his room - even after the bar is closed, after you and Johnny are both gone, after his tasks are complete. His mind has been scrambled ever since you came down in his shirt, looking like you'd just woken up from having a nap in his bed. He knew that wasn't the case, but it was so easy to pretend. You made it easy, looking like wearing his shirt was just your typical Friday outfit. If he tried hard enough, sitting at the bar after hours, sipping on an Old Fashioned- he could imagine you were up there right now, lying stomach-first in his bed, wearing his shirt, with "LT RIELY" on your back - you weren't objective, he certainly doesn't think of you like that - but having his claim on you aroused the most primal part inside him. If only you could see what you've done. Did you even know it?

Price comes lumbering down the stairs. Simon doesn't bother to look at him; he sits at the bar, his Old Fashioned long gone, with an empty whiskey glass and the mostly-full bottle next to him. He was hoping to replace the thought of you with drinking, but he didn't have the stomach for it.

"I'm plannin' to see if Garrick wants to join the team." Price says, shrugging on his jacket. "I know he wanted to be his own man, but we could use him. Our girl's made this place quite popular."

Simon wants to spit out the words he'd just heard. Our girl. Whose girl? John's? Soap's? The entire pub? It was his name on your back. Not Price. Not MacTavish. He was the one you came to with all those receipts, numbers scribbled in the margins, trusting him to help you ward them off. Sure, you have fun with everyone, asking them all for help - but you go to him the most easily, whenever you need to feel safe. Bad customers, bad situations - you looked to him. Didn't that mean anything to Price?

He doesn't respond to his captain, choosing to stare at his empty glass instead. Price looks at him quizzically.

"Feelin' alright, there?"

Simon grunts. "Long day."

Price knows he's bullshitting him. He knows exactly what this is about. He sighs, pulling his beanie on and tucking the money pouch into his jacket. "If you want 'er, Simon, tell me to back off. Can't read your mind."

That has him pursing his lips, grip tight around the sides of his glass. He would have punched John, was he any other man. He knows exactly what Simon's thinking, yet he makes him work for it. Typical. His pride and his jealousy are fighting tooth and nail against each other, but he can barely say a word.

Price stands there a moment, waiting for Simon to speak - but he doesn't even spare the owner a glance. Bastard's always punishing himself... he thinks, sighing again.

"Bright and early tomorrow, lad." He says, heading towards the kitchen. "Lights off when you're done here." He knows Simon's capable of closing, but he repeats it every night regardless.

"Sir."

Price stops, halfway through the kitchen door. He looks at Simon, who's now staring directly back at him. There's a look in his face, something that reminds him of Ghost - the reason he became his right-hand man.

"Respectfully..." he says slowly. "Back off."

Price almost finds it comical. Like an animal staking its claim, staring at its rival - except they’re not rivals. The only reason Simon is bothering to play his captain's game, asking for permission to have what Price would happily hand over, is because he's his superior. Even if they're all retired from the SAS, no one ever really dropped the dynamics of the team.

He smiles, nodding his head once. "Understood." He says, shoving himself through the kitchen door. "But hurry up and say somethin' to 'er. I'm sick of you losing your mind during the rush."

With that, Simon hears him leave through the back door. He stays there for a moment, his mind reeling - he feels both satisfied and angry at the same time. It was a bit humiliating to tell Price to leave you for himself - you don't belong to him. But that was a problem he was going to fix. You had his name on your back-

For Christ’s sake, he’s got to give it a rest. You wore his shirt, that was all. You wore it – with no bra. Bare. Naked underneath the 141’s insignia, under his title.

And that damn bra is still in his room.

He can’t take it anymore. He unscrews the whiskey bottle and takes a few swigs, before slamming it back onto the bar top. He leaves the bottle and the glass there as he gets up, making his way across the floor, up the stairs, passing the office, and continuing up to his studio flat.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary. If you’d gone snooping, you either did a good job of hiding the evidence, or you didn’t really rifle through too much. His bed was untouched, his books and items where he had put them last – he goes into his drawers, checking to see if you had gone through anything other than his shirts. Considering everything is still where it should be, he assumed not. Though you did leave a mess in his shirt drawer – you’d been digging around in there until you found his old SAS shirt. Did you mean to do that? Were you looking for something with his name on it, just to drive him insane?

He goes back into his top drawer, muttering a curse as he pushes the contents aside. His cock is pulsing in his pants as he grabs his pocket pussy, slamming the drawer shut and heading towards his bed. He doesn't want to draw this one out - this is nothing more than a wank, just to get you out of his head. He sits at the foot of his bed and unbuttons his jeans, pulling his hard length out of his briefs – it bounces up and slaps against his abdomen, precum already smeared across the tip. He’s been hard for hours now, trying not to cum in his pants at the thought of your tits rubbing against the inside of his shirt. Do you have small, pebbly nipples? Or ones that are soft and pliant? He growls as he smears the tip of his cock against the lips of the toy, rubbing up and down the slit. He sighs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. You’re there, rubbing your lips on his cock, your hand wrapped tightly around his shaft as you stare up at him, licking and kissing his tip like a good girl…

He scowls and opens his eyes, sitting upright – he sees your bra hanging off the back of his chair, and he nearly passes out form how quickly the blood rushes to his cock. Pink lace, delicate and kinda skimpy… and your shirt, crumpled on the seat of the chair. You’d forgotten to shove them into your bag before you left. Or did you do this on purpose?

He's reaching out before he realizes it, slowly standing up and heading towards the chair. He wants to grab your bra, rub his cock in it until he stains it with his thick cum – but something in the back of his mind keeps him from touching it. One, it’s purely you, and he doesn’t want to ruin that. Two, he’s trying to cum. Not to cum to you. He’s doing this to get rid of your image in his head.

So, he goes for the next best thing. He grabs your shirt and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He lines himself up with his fleshlight and brings your shirt to his face; no wonder the drinks had turned it translucent, it was the thinnest fabric he had ever felt. Practically skin.

He presses it against his face and inhales: the scent of you, sweet, floral and spicy, fills his mind. It makes it all to easy to imagine that you’re sinking down onto his cock, and not that he’s stuffed it as far as he can into the toy. He groans, his eyelids fluttering shut as he pumps his hips once, then again… the tightness of the fleshlight slides over him easily, offering no resistance with the precum acting as a lube while he grinds up into it, heat knotting in his gut. The waist of his jeans hugs his thighs as he slowly and steadily pulses towards the ceiling, taking deep breaths of your scent.

He feels like an animal. Dirty, cheap, and desperate. He has to remind himself that it’s not about you, it’s about having a good wank and getting you out of his head. He drops your shirt on his chest and uses his free hand to cup his balls, groaning as he massages them. The schlick of the fleshlight around his dick is loud, the sensation borderline painful as he quickly fucks into it, curses spilling past his lips as he slams the thing down to the base of his length, catching on the Jacob’s ladder piercing on the underside, then back to the tip.

He shouldn’t, but he lets his mind slip elsewhere. What would you be doing? Would you have your hands on his chest, lips parted in a moan as you drop your hips onto his thighs, your cunt dripping and squeezing around his member…? What are you doing now? Are you still wearing his shirt? Are you lying back on your bed, playing with your breasts under the fabric and using your other hand to toy with your pussy? What do you sound like? Are you saying his name, or can you make any sound at all?

He falls back against the bed. “Fuck fuck fuck-“ he mumbles. He’s caught himself in a trap here – he can’t allow himself to indulge in the thought of you, begging him to take your hips and buck up into you – but it’s impossible to get you out of his head. Even if he could, he doesn’t think he’d be able to cum without you. He squeezes his fist around the fleshlight, groaning loudly from the pain, trying to drown out the sounds of your moans in his head… you’re always there, ever present, leaning over him and whimpering in his ear, need you, Simon, wanna cum on your cock, want it inside-

It's all too much for him, but not enough. He turns himself over, climbing up to his knees on the bed. He props himself up on his forearm, holding the fleshlight with his other hand as he ruts into it, stuffing his cock in as far as it will go, until the lips are smashed against the base. He pants and groans, mouth hanging open as he hovers over the bed; over you, holding one of your thighs up, touching his forehead against yours, watching as you’re covered in a layer of sweat, tits bouncing with each violent thrust of his hips. Both wrists secured above your head with one of his meaty hands, whimpers and whines spilling from your mouth as you struggle to remain coherent. Your cunt swallows him greedily, hugs him tightly, pulses around him, coaxes him to pound into you harder and harder, your walls twitching as slick gushes around him, your fingers digging into the back of his hand as you cry out his name, “Simon, Simon, Simon”-

He hisses through his teeth as his balls seize up, his abdomen going taut and his dick twitching in the toy. He rips the fleshlight off and grabs your shirt without a second thought, wrapping it tight around his cock and pumping it. “Gonna cum, gonna cum- fuck- oh, fuck-!” He mumbles to no one as his orgasm is ripped from him, hips canting repeatedly as cum spurts into the fabric of your shirt, leaking out around his thighs as he thrusts into it, thighs aching from the exertion. He bites into his hand and growls as he continues rutting, fighting through the overstimulation to chase what remains of his high – but he soon collapses on the bed, huffing and groaning into the mattress.

His orgasm fades slowly, his heart ramming against his ribcage and the fog clearing from his head. Realization sinks in as he’s hyper-aware of your shirt, still wrapped around his dick, now soaked in his cum. He'd have to wash it, now. Filthy doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels, but he doesn’t find it in him to care anymore. He rolls onto his side, clutching your shirt in his hand. Fuck. One quick tug was all this was supposed to be, and now, he’s picturing you lying across from him. Face flushed, lips swollen and eyes hazy, smiling at him and panting. Telling him you love him. He’d say it back a million times. Listening as you breathe, as you talk about your silly little ideas for the pub, for redecorating his room… craving the moment where you drag yourself closer to him and snuggle into his chest for the rest of the night.

He hasn’t gotten rid of you, like he hoped for. He’s only made it more clear: he wants you. He wants his life to be threaded with yours, he wants to wake up next to you, he wants you to change his routine, to pick up his broken pieces and make a mosaic – and he wants to be there when you need someone, he wants to give you everything you want and more, whether that’s a life up in the clouds or down here, in his arms, in his small bed and lackluster apartment. You’d make it better; you’d make anything better.

He sighs, slowly sitting up and on the edge of the bed. Price was right – he’s got to hurry up and say something to you, or else he’ll be drowned in his obsession. You’d either agree to take this fucked-up giant on a date and end his misery, or you’d reject him, and he could force you from his thoughts and replace you with misery. It’s worked before.

He pulls off his jeans and shirt and grabs the fleshlight, standing with a grunt and walking into his bathroom. He’s planning to clean the toy, but if he waits long enough, he might just be fucking it again in the shower.

#bartender ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost #ghost cod #call of duty #cod x reader

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joemama-2 · 1 month ago

Text

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 11.9k tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation a/n: dishin these chaps out series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

Himari is not having a good day.

First, her burgundy patent leather Saint Laurent Nano Sac De Jour bag is ruined by the help accidentally dropping it on the dirty sidewalk, she lost her favorite lipgloss, and finally, probably the worst of them all, her so-called “boyfriend” isn’t acting very boyfriendly. Sure, he took her out just last night for dinner, and sure he fucked her good when they got back to her place, but he left before she even woke up. Treating her like she’s just a dirty hooker. He’s barely even responding to her texts, letting his ringing go to voicemail. She’s confused, annoyed, and extremely infuriated. There’s no reason for him to be acting like this all of a sudden; she’s his girlfriend for crying out loud.

So why is he being so secretive and mysterious all of a sudden? Why is he almost acting like he doesn’t have a girlfriend?

The sound of her red bottom heels pacing her living room is the only thing heard in the spacious environment. Biting her French-tipped thumbnail, eyes flickering to her cell phone that lays face up on the glass coffee table constantly. She has a right to act this way, she thinks to herself. Did she do something wrong? Did she make him mad? The sharp click of her red-bottom heels echoes through the pristine silence of her living room, the noise rhythmic but erratic as her thoughts spiral. Himari continues to gnaw on her perfectly manicured French-tipped nail, her polished demeanor crumbling bit by bit. As she keeps looking back at her phone, it’s like a silent challenge she can’t seem to ignore. The empty screen glares back at her, fueling her growing anxiety. She’s his girlfriend, after all. What could she have said wrong? She doesn’t remember doing anything to upset him.

Her mind races, replaying every interaction over the past few days. The dinner last night, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The fleeting moments of silence during their conversations, like he was somewhere else entirely. And this morning—no note, no text, no explanation. Just...nothing. She takes a seat and her nails dig into the leather armrest of her designer couch. Glaring at her phone again, willing it to light up with his name. But of course, the screen remains stubbornly dark.

No. This isn’t her fault. Satoru is the one being distant and evasive. He’s the one shutting her out. This is not her fault. Her heel taps against the floor, her frustration bubbling over. Maybe he’s testing her, she reasons. Trying to see if she’ll chase him. What a bastard.

Her jaw tightens, her perfectly sculpted features twisted in a mixture of anger and determination. Twirling a piece of her long, lusciously healthy caramel hair. No, she decides, she won’t let him get away with this. She’s not some woman he can keep on the sidelines, only to toss a crumb of attention whenever it suits him. If Satoru thinks she’ll just sit here and wait, he’s gravely mistaken. She’s Himari Nakamura for god’s sake, her parents own Tenka Couture—one of the most, if not the most sought out and luxurious fashion brand in all of Japan.

She grabs her phone and scrolls through her contacts, pausing at his name. Her thumb hovers over the call button, but instead, she opts for something more pointed—a text, again.

We need to talk. Don’t keep me waiting.

The message is curt, sharp, and dripping with the subtle implication that she’s losing patience. Tossing the phone back on the table, she exhales sharply, her chest rising and falling as she tries to reel in her emotions. But it’s no use. The uncertainty, the rejection—it’s eating her alive.

Himari’s gaze flickers to the ornate mirror hanging on the far wall, her reflection staring back at her with a mix of vulnerability and fury. She’s not used to feeling like this—out of control, discarded. Satoru has always been the one to chase, to charm, to reassure her of her place in his life.

So why now? Why does it feel like he’s slipping through her fingers?

A sudden, dark thought creeps into her mind, unbidden but insistent. What if there’s someone else?

Her stomach churns, the idea sending a fresh wave of anger coursing through her veins. No. That can’t be it. Satoru wouldn’t dare. Would he? The phone buzzes, jolting her from her spiraling thoughts. Her heart leaps, but when she sees the name on the screen, her hope evaporates.

It’s not Satoru. It’s his mother. She stares at the screen, her thumb hesitating over the answer button. What could she possibly want? She finally concedes, pushing her hair over her shoulder, and smiling. “Hello, Mrs. Gojo. What a pleasure to speak to you again.” She greets the older woman on the phone with a wave of politeness.

“Ah, yes. Himari, are you busy right now?” Satoru’s mother, Akane Gojo, replies back. Her aged voice mixed with a hint of reluctance that makes Himari want to call her a bitch. She doesn’t—she’ll never. She’s not that idiotic.

“No, ma’am. I’m not, may I ask why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you happened to know where my son is. My husband has been trying to get a hold of him all day and he isn’t answering. Is he with you?”

So, he’s not with his parents either. That’s even more shady. Just what the hell is he up to? “No, actually, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since yesterday. I was starting to get a little worried.”

Himari hears the other woman sighing over the phone, muttering something about how her son is a headache. "Well," Akane begins again, her tone sharp with a tinge of frustration, "if you do hear from him, could you tell him to stop avoiding his family? It's unlike him to ignore us like this."

"Of course, ma'am. I'll let him know as soon as I can." Himari’s voice is syrupy sweet, masking her own irritation.

"Good. Thank you, dear." There's a beat of silence before Akane continues, her tone shifting to something more pointed. "And, Himari, I hope you understand how important Satoru's family obligations are. It’s important he doesn’t forget that."

Himari freezes for a moment, the subtle jab not lost on her. "Of course, ma'am," she replies smoothly, though her grip tightens on the phone. The call ends, leaving Himari staring at the blank screen, her mind racing. Family obligations. Avoiding his parents. Acting strange. All of it points to one undeniable truth: Satoru is hiding something. Her nails drum against the glass coffee table as she processes Akane's words. For a moment, she considers whether Satoru’s mysterious behavior has to do with the Gojo Group’s business dealings. But no, he’s always managed to balance that side of his life without much issue.

This time, it feels...personal almost. She stands abruptly, pacing the length of her living room once more. If his own mother doesn’t know where he is, then who does?

Satoru, the wealthy, trust fund man that he is, has multiple places he calls homes. It’s proof of the fact that he has money, lots of it—more than what he knows what to do with. There’s the high-rise penthouse, where most people will find him. Next, the Next, the sprawling countryside estate nestled just outside the city—a retreat designed for privacy, complete with lush gardens, a pristine pool, and the kind of modern architecture that graces the covers of luxury magazines. This place, he rarely visits, but it’s there, waiting for him whenever he craves solitude away from the chaos of his social and family obligations. Then there’s the minimalist townhouse downtown, a sleek and understated property he keeps for the sake of convenience. Its location near the financial district makes it the perfect spot for impromptu meetings or when he wants to blend into the hustle and bustle of the city without drawing too much attention.

And finally, there’s the seaside villa. A true gem perched on a cliff with an uninterrupted view of the ocean. It's a home reserved for moments when life feels particularly overwhelming, a place where he can lose himself in the sound of the waves crashing below and the horizon stretching endlessly before him. Each property represents a different facet of his life: the penthouse for the public figure, the estate for the privileged heir, the townhouse for the businessman, and the villa for the man who sometimes just wants to escape it all.

Despite all these homes, none of them feel like home.

Lately, though, he’s been spending more time in places that aren’t tied to his wealth—places like a run-down apartment complex on the other side of town. It’s jarring, even for him, to walk through the cracked pavement and hear the hum of buzzing fluorescent lights in the lobby. But that’s where she is. Where they are.

After seeing that place for the first time a few days ago, he automatically felt uneasy—maybe even disgusted. That is not the kind of place he wants his son being raised, where he wants you living. It’s a place for the unsavory group of people. Sure, it’s a little thoughtless of him to think these things because everyone has different situations, like you for example. But as stated before, he’s a spoiled brat to the core. So while he didn’t outwardly show it (at least he thinks so), Satoru hates the place you and his son call home.

He’s brewing in these thoughts in his villa. Sitting on the white lawn chair, watching the pearly waves hit the shore and back. His phone’s on silent, taking pleasure in his solitude. For a second, he entertains the brief thought of being with his son and you instead. He can imagine the smile that grows on his face, watching the pretty sight in front of him. He can almost picture it clearly: the sight of you two laughing, Koji’s excited chatter, and the way your eyes soften when you look at him. It’s a nice thought, but he quickly dismisses it. You’ve made your choices, his choices for him.

Still, the image lingers in his mind. Koji, smiling up at him, full of admiration. You, guarded yet warm, offering him a smile that could mean more if he allowed himself to lean into it. The waves crash again, louder this time, and Satoru snaps out of his reverie. His fingers twitch at the side of his chair, but he doesn’t reach for his phone. Instead, he forces himself to stay present. The world he’s created for himself is simpler when it’s just him. No obligations, no questions he doesn’t want to answer. But that image of you and Koji is still there, in the back of his mind.

He doesn’t know why, sure he can imagine himself being with his son. But you too? The woman who lied behind his back for years, the woman who he doesn’t know would’ve ever told him if his best friend didn’t run into you? He sighs, a frustration that isn’t entirely his own settling in his chest. The villa’s quiet, but his thoughts are anything but. He looks out over the horizon, trying to push the feelings away, but they remain, a constant whisper in the back of his mind. What if things could be different?

But there’s no going back now. The phone buzzes again, but this time, he ignores it. He can’t afford to entertain any distractions—not now. The solitude feels safer, at least for now. He’ll drive back in a few hours, but for now, he likes it here.

“You look like you’d be a good mom.”

You falter, hands pausing around the pot of hyacinths. Giving your boyfriend a weird look, one of confusion and small disbelief. “Hah, what?”

He simply shrugs, watching you go back to fixing the displays of flowers. He’s half tempted to spout some cheesy line about how you’re prettier than the plants, but he’s already done that five times today. He watches you with that signature grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. “What? It’s true,” he says with a shrug, his pale blue eyes sparkling with amusement.“Yeah, you know—you got those like, instinctual mother thingies.”

“What even makes you say that?” You huff.

“I’ve seen you with kids.”

“And?”

“Andddd,” he drags the words out, dramatically rolling his eyes. “I like it, looks good.”

You can’t help but snort, shaking your head at his ridiculousness. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No, really,” he insists, his tone softening just enough to make you glance up at him again. “You’re kind, patient—except with me, obviously—and you care. It’s cute.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. “You’re so weird to even be thinking about that right now.”

“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer and brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “But I’m not wrong.” For a moment, his words hang in the air, and you find yourself wondering what it might mean—if he’s just teasing, or if he’s thinking about something more. The thought makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t quite name.

“You’re really something, Gojo,” you mutter, shaking your head as you turn back to the flowers, hoping he doesn’t notice the faint warmth creeping up your cheeks. “We’re nineteen and you’re immature.”

“Something amazing, obviously,” he replies without missing a beat, his grin widening. And just like that, the moment lightens, though his words linger in the back of your mind long after he’s stopped teasing. “And I’m not immature—at least not too much.”

You hum, rolling your eyes. “Debatable.”

He leans on the counter again, his head tilted as he watches you with that annoyingly familiar mix of mischief and curiosity. “Debatable? Come on. I’m the perfect blend of maturity and charm. Like... the top-tier boyfriend package.”

“Top-tier, huh?” you say dryly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. “Is that what you call forgetting our coffee date last week?”

“That was one time!” he protests, holding up a hand like he’s pleading his case in court. “And I made up for it, didn’t I? Flowers and donuts. And sex.”

“Uh-huh, right, right.” You dismissively respond.

“You know, someday you’re going to look back at nineteen-year-old me and think, ‘Wow, I was so lucky to date this guy.’”

“Or I’ll think, ‘What was I thinking?’” you counter, though your smile gives you away.

Satoru laughs, his hand brushing against yours for just a moment as he reaches for the pot of hyacinths. “Nah, you’ll think, ‘Man, this guy’s been stealing my heart since day one.’”

You roll your eyes again, but the warmth in your chest lingers. Even if you won’t admit it, a small part of you wonders if he’s right.

You sigh this time, brushing your hand over the petals of the purple hyacinth. Its fragrance fills the space between you two, sweet and heavy, like the weight of the moment you’re trying to ignore. “You’re way too confident, you know that?”

“I prefer the term self-assured,” Satoru counters, but there’s something softer in his tone now. Less teasing, more genuine. He leans a little closer, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to memorize this moment. “And hey, don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Your fingers are still against the stem, and for just a second, the air shifts. His words hang between you like a thread, fragile and thin, threatening to snap. “You’re exhausting, Gojo,” you murmur, your voice quieter this time. But there’s no bite to your words, only a faint ache you can’t quite name.

“And yet, you keep me around,” he says softly, his grin faltering into something smaller, more vulnerable. His hand brushes against yours again, deliberate this time, and your breath catches. His longer fingers interlacing with your own, bringing the back of your hand up to plant one kiss, then another, and another to your skin—slowly making his way up your arm.

“Sometimes I wonder why,” you admit, a half-hearted laugh escaping you as you shake your head. The pot in your hands feels heavier than it should, your grip tightening just slightly. Reveling in the warm feeling of his lips, a small breath of air leaving you.

He doesn’t answer right away, and when you glance up at him, you find his gaze steady on yours. There’s no mischief now, no playful grin. Just him. Just Satoru. “Maybe it’s because we fit,” he says finally, his voice almost a whisper. “Even if it’s messy or complicated... it feels like it’s supposed to be this way.” His lips are now on your shoulder, marking up to your neck; to which he spends extra time at.

Your chest tightens, and you quickly look back at the flowers, pretending to adjust the display again. “You’re talking like we’re some kind of fairytale, Satoru.” Your hand lets go of the pot, settling it back on its shelf. Cheeks beginning to heat up and you do your best to hold in the pathetic mewl that threatens to leave your mouth when he sucks just a little too sharp.

“Maybe we are,” he replies without hesitation, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes your heart ache. But fairytales don’t last, you think, the thought clawing at the edges of your mind like a dark shadow. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you force a small laugh, pushing the heaviness aside.

“You’re too much,” you murmur, shaking your head again, eyes closing shut.

Satoru watches you for a long moment before leaning up to your ear. You feel his grin returning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Maybe. But you love me anyway.”

You don’t respond, but the silence that follows feels louder than it should. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this moment—this version of you and him—is fleeting. Like the flowers in the pot before you, it’s beautiful, but it won’t last forever, especially with how…different you two are. You don’t tell him that, though. Instead, you smile faintly, keeping your eyes on the flowers, and let the moment linger just a little longer. Letting him continue to worship your skin in kisses, reaching your lips in a magnetizing way that always leaves you begging for more. It’s your own way of letting yourself bask in the simplicity and intimacy of one another, pushing back the brutal thought that this could all change.

Preparing yourself for the worst, the inevitable because you’re too afraid to admit to yourself that you’re already playing a dangerous game, already biting off more than you can chew.

The weight of your unspoken fears settles heavily in your chest, threatening to suffocate the fragile warmth between you. Still, you cling to it—this fleeting moment of love—as if holding on tightly enough might make it last. Satoru reaches out again with his other hand, his fingers ghosting over yours, but this time it feels different. Less playful, more deliberate, like he knows something you’re too scared to confront. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, a reminder that he’s here now, that you’re here now.

But for how long?

You glance up at him, catching the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips twitch as though he’s searching for the right words. Or maybe he’s feeling the same quiet dread you are, that bitter knowledge that life has a way of pulling things apart, no matter how tightly you try to hold them together.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. His teasing bravado is gone, leaving only raw sincerity behind.

You force a smile, one you know doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

“About?” he presses gently, his gaze unwavering, his thumb moving across your cheekbone gently.

“Nothing,” you lie, your fingers brushing over the petals again, grounding yourself in their softness. “It’s nothing.” Satoru doesn’t believe you, you can tell by the way his eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he leans back, his shoulders relaxing as he shifts the conversation.

“Y’know,” he begins, his grin returning, though softer now, “if you ever get tired of the flowers, I’m always available for career advice. I’m an excellent life coach.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound thin but authentic. “Yeah? What’s your first piece of advice?”

“Marry rich,” he quips, winking, but the joke falls a little flat. “Meaning me, baby,” he adds, bringing you close by an arm to your shoulders, kissing your temple. You shake your head, but the laughter fades too quickly, leaving you both in the quiet again. The thought returns, sharper now, that this could all slip through your fingers.

And maybe that’s why you let yourself lean into him just a little more, let the edge of your shoulder brush against his. It’s why you kiss him back when he leans back into your lips. It’s not much, but it’s your way of holding onto this moment, even as the inevitability of its end looms over you like a storm cloud. Because deep down, you already know the truth: you’re playing with fire, and it’s only a matter of time before the flames consume you.

You already know a man like Satoru Gojo would never stay with someone like you.

You jolt upright at the sound of your blaring, very annoying alarm. Quickly turning it off, you give yourself a moment to blanky stare at your sheets. Rubbing your eyes. Were you really just dreaming about that? Or no, it wasn’t a dream—but a memory. A distinct, longing feeling begins to pool in your gut. The kind that makes you feel numb and unresponsive, the kind you get when you just dream about some mystery man you fell in love with but can’t remember his face. You shake your head, trying to push the feeling away as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The room feels colder than usual, the early morning light barely filtering through the curtains. It’s a struggle to move, the weight of that memory—no, that ghost of a feeling—pressing down on you.

Satoru.

What once was.

The way your chest tightens, the ache that feels both familiar and unwelcome, tells you everything. You can almost hear his voice, playful and warm, teasing you like he always used to. You can almost feel his touch, fleeting but deliberate, like he was trying to leave a mark without you noticing.

God, why now? For what reason? You’ve long been over him, haven’t you? No doubt he has, considering he’s more than likely dating someone right now. You wonder when—or if—he’ll tell you. He has to, right? Because if this woman will possibly be around your son in the future, you have to know who she is, just like she has to know who you are. And if she and Satoru perhaps get married in the fu—

You quickly stop your train of thought.

You run a hand through your hair, trying to shake it off. There’s no time for this. You have too much on your plate to sit here drowning in nostalgia. The rent. Koji. Work. Life doesn’t pause just because your subconscious decided to dig up a piece of your past you’ve tried to bury. But the feeling lingers, refusing to let go. You stumble into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face in the hopes that it’ll snap you out of it. For a second, it works. The chill jolts you awake, and you grip the edges of the sink, staring at your reflection.

“You’re fine,” you mutter under your breath. “It’s just a memory.” But your reflection doesn’t look very convinced.

Busying yourself with your other life and mom responsibilities proves to work, the thought of your dream this morning and Satoru in general being pushed to the back burner. You rather it be this way, it’s easier to function.

“I’ll probably be a little late to pick you up from school today, Koji.” You tell your son, hand clutching his as you make the way to his school. The morning is colder, having dressed him in a puffy jacket, a beanie, scarf, and cute mittens you crocheted when you had the passion.

He looks up at you, bottom lip jutting out into a frown. “Why?”

You sigh, not sure how to explicitly explain that you’ll be putting in an extra hour today at the cafe so you can scrounge up as much money as you can for the money due this Friday—in two days from now. It really feels impossible, but you’ll find a way. “Mama has to work a little longer today, I’m sorry.”

Koji’s frown deepens, his small brows furrowing as he kicks a pebble along the sidewalk. "It's okay, Mama. I can wait." His words are simple, but the way he says them—the way he tries to be understanding beyond his years—makes your heart ache. You hate this. Hate that he even has to think like this. He should be carefree, worrying about which dinosaur to play with or what snack he’ll get after school. Not whether his mama is working herself into the ground.

You’re feeling extreme guilt again. Wondering and worrying that you’re making him grow up too fast. But tons of kids stay a bit later at school when waiting for their parents to pick them up, don’t they? You force a smile, squeezing his hand gently. "Thank you, baby. You're such a good boy."

His face lights up at the praise—as always. He starts talking about what he’s looking forward to in class today. You nod and hum along as he chatters, trying to match his energy, but your mind is already elsewhere. Two days.

You’re running out of time, and no matter how many hours you squeeze into the day, it doesn’t feel like enough. You’ve thought about asking for help, swallowing your pride just this once, but the options are limited. The last thing you want is to open that door with Satoru, and there’s no one else who can offer the kind of money you need.

By the time you reach the school gates, you’re exhausted—mentally more than physically. Kneeling to adjust Koji’s scarf and beanie, you kiss his cheek and give him your warmest smile. "I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? I promise. I love you."

"Okay, Mama. I love you too," he says, his grin wide and trusting as he hugs you tightly before running off to join his classmates. You stand there for a moment, watching him go, before turning and heading toward the café. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of your reality pressing down on you.

Two days. And not a second to waste.

But just because things never seem to go right for you, Mr. Ito comes out from the classroom, standing by his door. “Oh, Ms. Y/N? Good morning.”

Jesus Christ, can he just take a fucking hint. You’re literally walking away. However, you put on a facade of politeness and turn around to face him, holding back a scowl at his ever-present smile. “Good morning, Mr. Ito.”

He spares a quick glance into his growing room of children before stepping away and closer to you. Instinctively, you take a small one back. “How are you today?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s good to hear,” he nods, clasping his hands behind his back. His eyes do a quick scan of you, and you could almost swear you see his smile widen—like he’s appreciating the sight. Dirty bastard.

You suppress a shudder, keeping your expression neutral. This obviously isn’t the first time Mr. Ito has made you uncomfortable, but you’ve learned to play nice for Koji’s sake. After all, the last thing you want is to make things awkward between your son and his teacher. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ito, but I really need to get to work,” you say, shifting your weight to one foot, hoping he gets the hint.

“Oh, of course,” he replies, though he doesn’t move away. “I just wanted to tell you how impressed I am with Koji’s improvement with his behavior. He’s such a bright boy, and so polite too. A testament to your parenting, I’m sure.”

There’s something about the way he says it—too smooth, too rehearsed—that makes your stomach churn. You force a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you. Koji works very hard.”

“Yes, well, if you ever need to discuss his progress or anything else, my door is always open. Even outside of school hours,” he adds, his tone far too suggestive for your liking.

Didn’t he already say this line before? Your grip tightens on your bag, but you keep your composure. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Ito. Have a good day.” Before he can respond, you turn on your heel and walk away, heart pounding. The nerve of that man. You’d always sensed something was off about him, but lately, he’s been crossing more lines, and you’re starting to feel trapped.

It’s not like you can pull Koji out of the school—this is the best option you can afford right now. And confronting Mr. Ito? That could easily backfire, making Koji’s time in class unbearable. As you walk to work, the weight of your problems feels heavier than ever. The looming eviction notice, the landlord’s constant pressure, and now, Mr. Ito’s thinly veiled advances.

Two days.

You shake your head, forcing yourself to focus. You don’t have time to worry about Mr. Ito or anything else. Right now, all that matters is making it to Friday.

“Did you yell at her?” is the first thing Suguru asks. After not seeing his best friend for a week, Satoru would’ve thought he’d have something else to say. However, he can imagine he just wants to get down to the point after he sent the black-haired man a message about seeing you for the first time again.

“No, I didn’t.” Satoru cooly responds, finger tapping along the glass rim of his overly sugar-infested coffee. Suguru takes a seat across from him, giving his friend an analytical glare. Satoru’s dining room, save for the weird tension of words having yet to be spoken.

Suguru leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. "So, what did you do then? Stare at her like a creep?"

Satoru's lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s no humor in it. "I talked to her, obviously."

"Obviously," Suguru repeats, the sarcasm thick. He glances at the untouched plate of food in front of him. "And how’d that go?"

Satoru shrugs, the motion too nonchalant to be genuine. “She was...surprised. And emotional, but I can’t really blame her for that.”

"Emotional, huh?" Suguru raises a brow. “Did she apologize?”

Satoru nods.

"I’m guessing you didn’t hold back."

"Why should I have?" Satoru snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. "She’s lucky I didn’t do worse, she honestly deserves every single fucking thing I told her, and more.”

Suguru doesn’t flinch at the outburst. Instead, he lets the words hang in the air, his silence more pointed than anything he could’ve said. Satoru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t yell at her, okay? I barely even argued. I just...listened and answered.”

"And what did she say?"

Satoru hesitates, his eyes drifting to the cityscape visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. “She told me why she kept it a secret, how she felt, and whatever.” Satoru's jaw clenches, the memory of seeing you cry filling him with dread—like it used to way back then. He’s surprised he was that receptive to it, especially that quickly. Luckily, he held back the almost innate urge to bring you into your arms and comfort you. Because again, you don’t deserve his comfort right now.

Suguru pauses, letting his own curiosity win over. “Well…why did she do it?”

There’s a moment of still quietness while Satoru thinks over the other man’s question. Satoru’s gaze remains fixed on the cityscape, the towering buildings blurring as his thoughts churn. His chest feels tight, a cocktail of emotions he doesn’t have the energy to name swirling in his gut. Anger, hurt, guilt—they’re all there, fighting for dominance. “She didn’t give me a chance,” Satoru mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “She decided for me. Like I didn’t deserve to know. Like I wouldn’t have...tried.” He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. He’s never been good at this—this vulnerable, messy part of himself. The part that cares too much, that aches too deeply. “I’m angry,” he finally admits, his fingers drumming against the table. “I’m so fucking angry at her for thinking so little of me. But at the same time... I…I think I get it. It was the rejection she was scared of, the first failed attempt, she didn’t want Koji growing up like me, she…she didn’t think I was ready, either. She said she was trying to protect us all.” His words are low and hushed, even reciting them making him feel as if he needs to spill his guts. “She doesn’t deserve it, she doesn’t deserve my understanding, my empathy for her, she…she doesn’t deserve anything. I shouldn’t feel bad for her, I shouldn’t. But I do for some fucking reason, and it’s making me so fucking confused.”

Suguru doesn’t interrupt, letting him vent. Satoru’s words come faster now, spilling out like a dam breaking. “And now, I’m just...stuck. Stuck between being pissed off at her and hating myself for thinking she’s right.” He runs a hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots as if the pain will ground him. “Because she was right, wasn’t she? I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. I would’ve run. I would’ve hurt her in ways she didn’t deserve.”

The admission tastes bitter on his tongue, and for once, Satoru doesn’t try to mask it with bravado or a joke. “But now,” he continues, his voice softer, tinged with something vulnerable, “I just keep thinking about Koji. About all the time I lost. About how I don’t even know how to be a dad, let alone his dad.”

Suguru leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to be his dad?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. His thoughts drift to Koji’s small, curious eyes, the way the boy had looked at him with a mix of wonder and wariness. The way they got along so well, so quickly. The way the boy was so excited to teach his dad about dinosaurs, to play with him, to his infectious laugh when Satoru lifted him high up in the air. “I don’t know how to,” Satoru finally admits, his voice breaking slightly. “But I want to try.”

Suguru nods slowly, his gaze steady. “Then that’s a start.”

Satoru exhales, the weight on his chest lifting just slightly. But even as the conversation eases, the storm in his mind rages on. Because no matter how much he wants to move forward, the shadows of the past—and the fear of screwing up—loom large. And the fact that he doesn’t know how he can get resolve things with you. How is he just supposed to co-parent and see your face so casually after what you did?

Is he supposed to just remain cordial? Closed off? Or should he try to fix things?

But what things even need fixing, there’s nothing between you two. There’s no “them” anymore. There hasn’t been for years. And if there were, shouldn’t that be your job? This entire situation is your fault. You should be the one begging on your knees for forgiveness, you should be groveling for the fact that you kept his son a secret. He’s justified, isn’t he? In being cold? Closed off? In letting you feel every ounce of the pain you caused him?

The bitterness twists in his chest, a dark, venomous thing that urges him to lash out, to make you feel as helpless and raw as he does. For a fleeting, horrifying moment, the thought slithers in: You should be the one who’s grateful that he didn’t do anything extreme like try to take Koji away from yo–

What the hell are you saying?

He feels convicted suddenly, wanting to punch himself for even daring to think such an evil thing. Is he that angry? Petty? Does he want to get back at you that bad that he’d threaten to take away your kid from you? The thought makes his stomach churn, the self-loathing hitting him like a punch to the gut. His grip on the edge of the table tightens, knuckles whitening. He’s not that kind of person. He’s not that cruel. No matter how angry, how hurt he feels, he couldn’t do something so vile.

He’s just not. But he just feels so conflicted and…unsure about everything.

But the anger doesn’t vanish—it just twists into something deeper, more insidious. He feels so troubled, so lost in the storm of emotions that he can’t tell which way is up anymore. And yet... amidst all that chaos, there’s another image. One that keeps replaying in his head like a stubborn melody.

Because he could see it—see how your eyes lit up with a motherly joy after Koji called your name for attention, how you smiled instinctually when seeing your son, how your voice softened so perfectly it practically pulled him in too. He sees the way your face relaxed when Koji tugged at your sleeve, the way your whole being seemed to light up just from hearing his voice. The joy, the pride, the pure, unfiltered love that radiated from you—so natural, so raw, it made him pause.

And for a split second, Satoru forgot the anger, the betrayal, the hurt. He only saw you. You, as a mother. You, as Koji’s mother. Somewhere in the muddled mess of his thoughts, an ache blooms. Not just for the time he lost with Koji, but for the life he lost with you. Because no matter how hard he tries to deny it, part of him still remembers the way you used to smile at him like that. And the other part of him wonders if he’ll ever see it again.

The war in Satoru’s mind is relentless, his thoughts ricocheting between anger and guilt, blame, understanding, and even longing. Every time he tries to land on a conclusion, another surge of emotions pulls him in a different direction.

Satoru clenches his jaw, his finger now still against the coffee glass. “I didn’t know about Koji.”

“No, but you knew about her.”

The words hit harder than Satoru wants to admit. He doesn’t respond, and Suguru doesn’t push, though the weight of his stare lingers. After a moment, Suguru sighs. “Look, man. If you’re serious about making things right, about stepping up and being a father, you can’t go back. Sure, you just met the boy, but it’s up to you and her to make sure you make up for the time you lost with him—to create even more memories with him. You have to prove you’ll be there for him.”

Satoru looks up at him, his eyes shadowed with something Suguru rarely sees in his best friend—doubt. “And if it’s too late?”

Suguru gives him a small, sad smile. “Then you make sure it’s not.”

It’s around nine at night, the convenience store’s ambience slowly drifting you into a sleepy state before you catch your head upright. It sucks having to force yourself to stay awake, already on your third cup of coffee today with two espresso shots. At this rate, you don’t know if you’ll be able to sleep, but it’s better that than not getting through your days at work. If anything, you can try melatonin again, even if that is just a blatant scam.

Scrolling on your phone through Indeed, Zip Recruiter, and LinkedIn. You hate seeing the same few jobs that say they’re hiring, but ghost you. Or the jobs that you seem completely too unqualified for that it makes you self-concsious. You’re aware you didn’t finish college, very aware. A part at you constantly eats away at your soul, mind running to the loud thoughts of “what if”. What if you finished college? What if you didn’t have Koji? You quickly push that idea away, feeling mad at yourself. You wonder if it’s bad of you to think about never being a mother—if other parents do that too.

It’s just a simple thought. You don’t regret Koji, you never could or would. Still, you can’t stop thinking at time about how life would be if you had a child later on in life. If you had a stable job, life, everything. Would things be better—different? Would Koji have been happier?

The thoughts gnaw at the edges of your mind as you sip from the coffee cup, the bitter liquid doing little to soothe the ache growing in your chest. The sinfulness hits you almost immediately, sharp and unforgiving. It feels wrong to even entertain the idea of a life without Koji, like some kind of betrayal to the tiny, beautiful soul who depends on you.

But you’re tired—so, so tired. And sometimes, when the weight of it all feels like too much to bear, those questions creep in, uninvited and insidious. They don’t mean you love Koji any less. You know that. Still, the mere existence of the thoughts makes you feel like a failure, like you’re not doing enough or being enough. You scroll through the endless job listings again, each rejection or impossibility hammering another nail into the coffin of your hope. A lump forms in your throat as you stare at the screen. Your hands tremble slightly, whether from exhaustion or the overwhelming sense of inadequacy, you’re not sure.

Again, you shake your head, forcing the thoughts away, but they linger like a shadow you can’t quite shake. Koji’s smile flashes in your mind, bright and pure, his laughter echoing in your memory. He’s your light, your anchor in the chaos. No matter how hard things get, you always find your way back to him. But even as you remind yourself of that, the doubts creep back in. Are you enough for him? Are you giving him the life he deserves? You hate that your answer feels so uncertain.

The soft hum of the convenience store's fluorescent lights pulls you back to the present. You set your phone down, closing your eyes for a moment as you press your palms against your forehead. You want to cry but know you can’t afford the luxury of breaking down, not here, not now.

The truth is, no matter how much you love Koji, you feel like you’re drowning. You’re just too good at treading water, keeping your head barely above the surface, to let anyone notice.

And so, you lose focus on your phone and exist in the present. You can’t change the past, but you can change your now, and your future. That starts with working hard, harder than you ever thought you could. The people who rise to the top, the people like Satoru, they fight for what they have. It’s a dog eat dog world out here, and you’d be damned if you let someone else best you.

You’re the ruler in your own life, not Satoru, not money, not evictions, nothing. It’s you. It’ll always be you. You’ve been working since you were fourteen, practically emancipated because your own sorry excuse of parents couldn’t have been more bothered.

That’s another thing that’s your driving force. Just like how you didn’t want Koji to grow up like Satoru, you didn’t want him to grow up like how you did either. You would never—ever—be like them. You pledged that, took an oath. Sure, things aren’t looking very good right now. But you’re strong, resilient, smart. You will get through this. For Koji, and for yourself.

Hard workers get what they worked for. You’ll be there soon. Patience is a virtue, and slow and steady wins the race.

Almost two hours have passed, once again putting in an extra hour. Right in the middle of ringing up some drunken college girls who came in for snacks, your phone in front of the register rings. You look down, it displays a number you know by heart. Mumbling a ‘have a good night’ to the girls who stumble their way out, you take the liberty to answer; not before you take a deep breath in, however.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Um…hey. Can I help you?”

“I’m coming over tomorrow.”

You pause for a moment, the phone pressed tightly to your ear as Satoru's words register. It takes a second too long for you to find your voice again, the casual confidence in his tone throwing you off balance. “Tomorrow?” you repeat, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden swirl of emotions his call stirs. “Okay, why?”

He scoffs. “Because I want to see him,” Satoru says simply, as if his answer explains everything.

Your lips purse, a mix of frustration and anxiety bubbling to the surface. “Satoru, it’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple,” he interrupts, his voice calm but laced with a sharp edge. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. I’m not waiting any longer, I want to see my son.”

Your grip tightens on the phone as your free hand balls into a fist at your side. The words you want to say die in your throat, the late hour and your sheer exhaustion making it hard to form a coherent argument. “I…I–I have work tomorrow, he has school.”

“So I’ll come over when he’s out of school,” he counters, his tone softening slightly but still resolute. “Look, I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to see my son. We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

You glance around the empty store, the harsh fluorescent lights casting long shadows. The reality of the situation presses down on you, the fact that this is something you’ll have to get used to, have to allow. Because he deserves it. “Fine,” you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. “He’s off at 2:30, we get home around 2:40, you can be there by that time.”

“I’ll text before I get there,” he promises, though the nonchalant way he says it doesn’t do much to ease your questionable nerves. “See you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, leaving you standing there in the dim light of the convenience store, the phone still pressed to your ear. Tomorrow. You set the phone down, your hands trembling slightly, unsure as to why. It’s just the fatigue. Or maybe it’s the fact that Satoru is officially back in your life, his face will be a regular occurrence now.

He’s here for Koji. That’s all. Don’t look into it.

When you slug back home, the first thing you do—after paying Sana—is count your money. Mr. Sato needs around four thousand dollars, you’re still fucking short.

“Nine-hundred.”

“Thousand.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

A thousand short, plus another hundred for the utilities. And he needs it by Friday. It’s Wednesday.

On a scale from one to ten of how screwed you are, you’d give yourself an eleven. It’s hard to even admit that to yourself, feeling your hot tears wet the green paper in frustration. Gritting your teeth so hard you can hear the creaking of your muscles in your ears, a ringing noise following after. You sit there, staring at the bills fanned out on the table like they’re mocking you. The tears won’t stop, blurring the numbers, but you know them by heart. A thousand short for rent, a hundred for utilities, and nothing left for groceries or the babysitter fees piling up in the back of your mind.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave. The frustration spills over, hot and suffocating, as you swipe the money off the table in a fit of anger. The bills scatter across the floor like fallen leaves, and for a moment, you just sit there, trembling in the silence. “Goddamn it,” you mutter under your breath, clutching your head as if that’ll stop the spiral of thoughts. You can feel the panic rising, the way it always does when you’re this close to breaking. How are you supposed to keep everything together when the universe seems hell-bent on tearing it apart? You can already feel your migraine coming back like an old friend, feeling its twisting and pulling on your brain.

Koji’s soft footsteps break through the haze, his small voice pulling you back to reality. “Mama?”

You hastily wipe at your face, trying to compose yourself as you turn toward him. He’s standing in the doorway, clutching his favorite stuffed animal—a tattered little bear you bought second-hand years ago. His big eyes are filled with concern, and it breaks your heart even more. “Hey, baby,” you say, forcing a smile you don’t feel. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head, padding over to you and climbing onto your lap without a word. His tiny arms wrap around your waist, and for a moment, the world doesn’t feel as heavy. You stroke his hair, letting the quiet stretch between you. “Mama’s just tired,” you murmur after a while, hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions.

Koji looks up at you, his brows furrowed in a way that reminds you so much of Satoru it’s almost painful. “Are we okay?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut, but you nod, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “Of course we are, baby. Don’t worry about a thing, okay? Mama’s got it all under control.” It’s a lie, but it’s one you tell for his sake. Koji doesn’t need to know how close to the edge you really are. And you’d never let him know just how close you are from sinking completely, he’s too young, too innocent.

After a few minutes, he’s able to drift off to sleep in your arms, you stare at the scattered bills on the floor, your mind racing. Tomorrow, Satoru will be here. Maybe—just maybe—you can ask him for help. The thought makes your stomach churn, pride and desperation warring inside you. Are you even allowed to? What would he say?

But what choice do you have?

You need this place, no matter how ragged or disgusting Satoru—or anyone for that fact may think it is. It’s home. Home to you, and home to Koji. You’ve stopped caring about what others thought og you a long time ago. It still comes back, of course. Especially in your most vulnerable, most small of moments. And when it hits you, you realize how much you didn’t miss the feeling. You desperately wish you can just give absolutely zero fucks all day, everyday.

That might be impossible.

As long as you just hold it down, you’ll be good—you think.

For Koji, for Koji.

Walking Koji home the next day from school, you’re focused on checking the time of your phone; surprised when the young boy suddenly rips from your grip and runs forward. Instantly, you look up and call out for him in a hurry. “Koji! Do—”

“Papa!”

Satoru, who’s waiting outside your apartment door, crouches down to your son’s height, arms held out with a wide smile on his face. Koji melted into his embrace, small arms wrapped around his father’s neck. Satoru hugged the boy, running a hand up and down his back slowly. “How was school, my big boy?” “Good! We learned about plants, and I drew a sunflower!” Koji exclaims, his words tumbling over each other in excitement as he pulls back slightly to look at Satoru's face. His little hands grasp Satoru’s jacket, his wide eyes sparkling with pure joy.

Satoru’s expression softens even further, a rare glimpse of unguarded tenderness crossing his features. “A sunflower, huh? That’s my favorite flower. Did you know they always turn toward the sun?”

Koji nods eagerly, his grin spreading even wider. “Yeah! The teacher said that too. I wanna show you my drawing when we get inside!”

“Of course. I can’t wait to see it,” Satoru says, ruffling Koji’s hair before standing to his full height, the boy still clinging to his leg like a koala. His gaze shifts to you, his smile faltering just a fraction as his expression becomes unreadable. “Hey.”

You stand a few steps away, your heart caught in your throat. Watching the two of them together feels like a punch to the chest—bittersweet and raw. You manage to swallow the lump in your throat and force a polite smile. “Hey.”

Satoru takes a step closer, his tone light but his eyes piercing. He simply nods in response.

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. But there’s an ache beneath the surface, a mix of guilt, resentment, and longing you can’t quite shake. Koji looks happy, that’s all that matters. You step forward to unlock the door. “I have my other job to get to,” you say finally, keeping your tone neutral. “Do you think you can watch him until his babysitter comes?”

Koji rushes in, but Satoru lingers, looking at you. “Who’s his babysitter?”

“Sana, she usually comes a few minutes before I leave, but if you’re here I can go earlier.” You walk in, arm brushing against his that sends an uncomfortable tingle down your spine—one you ignore forcibly.

He follows in, closing the door behind him. Standing a bit awkwardly around the living room, watching you hang your coat and purse up. “I didn’t know you worked two jobs,” he says, almost like he’s not sure if he should be voicing out this small curiosity of his.

You pause mid-motion, fingers lingering on the hook of your coat rack. For a moment, you consider not answering, brushing it off with some noncommittal remark. But the weight of his gaze is palpable, pressing down on you until you finally sigh and turn around to face him. “Yeah,” you say simply, your voice flat. “Bills don’t pay themselves.” There’s an edge in your tone, one you don’t intend but can’t quite help. His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, you think he might argue, but instead, he just nods, his expression unreadable.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head as you move to the small kitchen area to grab a glass of water. “Tell you? What would that have changed, Satoru? Would you have swooped in and made it all better?”

His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides before he crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe I would have. But you never gave me the chance.”

You set the glass down harder than you meant to, the sound of it hitting the counter echoing in the silence. “You don’t get to say that,” you snap, turning to face him fully. “You don’t just show up now and act like you care about how I’ve been keeping things together.”

“I do care,” he shoots back, his voice rising slightly. “You think I wouldn’t? That I don’t give a damn about you—Koji?” The small correction doesn’t get missed by you.

“You didn’t care enough to stay,” you bite out before you can stop yourself.

The words hang in the air, sharp and cutting. His expression falters for just a moment before his face hardens, a wall going up that you recognize all too well. God damn it. Why do you keep bringing up the past and your shitty breakup?

“That’s not fair,” he says, his voice low. “You made that decision for the both of us.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t speak. The two of you stand there, the room thick with tension, until a small voice interrupts.

“Mama?” Both of you turn toward the hallway, where Koji stands in the hallway, tilting his head. Holding his colored paper of a sunflower in his hands. “Are you fighting?”

Your heart aches at the sight of him, his small frame dwarfed by the weight of the conversation he doesn’t understand. You put on a smile, crouching down to his level. “No, baby. We’re just talking, that’s all.”

Satoru steps forward, his face softening as he kneels next to Koji. “Yeah, buddy. We’re not fighting. Everything’s okay.”

Koji looks between you both for a long moment before nodding, though his expression still carries a hint of worry. “Okay,” he turns to Satoru. “Here Papa, my drawing.”

The two move to the couch, Satoru listening with fascination as Koji talks and talks and talks. His father doesn’t seem to mind, however. Occasionally touching his cheek or pushing hair out his face as if to remind himself this is real, that this is his son. You look away and go to your room, locking the door as you begin changing into your uniform for the convenience store. In a few minutes, you’re out and putting your shoes on. Satoru and Koji are now discussing video games.

“I’m heading out now, baby.”

“Alrigh—”

“Okay, Mama.” Koji cuts off Satoru, to which the latter is glad because why the fuck did he just almost respond to you? He knows you weren’t talking to him, he knows you wouldn’t ever call him baby again, but it just felt so natural and instinctual.

Strange.

He watches you come on over to give Koji a hug and kiss, awkwardly clearing his throat in the seat beside his son; looking away like he’s intruding on something. And so you won’t see the odd flush to his pale cheeks.

“I’ll watch him, don’t call the babysitter.”

You pause mid-motion, your arms still loosely wrapped around Koji. Slowly, you pull back, giving your son a soft smile before turning your attention to Satoru. “Are you sure?” you ask, your tone careful, guarded. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

Satoru scoffs lightly, waving a hand in dismissal as he leans back in his seat. “It’s not an inconvenience. I’m his dad, remember? I can handle one night.” His words feel heavier than they should, loaded with the unspoken history between you two. You don’t miss the slight edge in his voice, though he keeps his expression neutral.

Koji, oblivious to the tension, beams up at his father. “Can we watch that superhero movie, Papa?”

Satoru grins, ruffling Koji’s hair. “Of course, big guy. Popcorn too. But after you finish your homework.”

You hesitate, your eyes flickering between the two of them. It’s hard to argue when Koji looks so happy, his excitement practically radiating off him. Finally, you nod. “Okay,” you say, grabbing your bag and coat, walking over to the door. “Just... don’t let him stay up too late.”

“Got it,” Satoru replies, his tone almost flippant, though there’s a hint of seriousness beneath it. You linger for a moment longer than necessary, your hand hovering on the doorknob. There’s something about leaving the two of them together, about seeing Satoru slip so naturally into this role, that stirs something warm in your chest.

“Alright,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I’ll be back around twelve.” With that, you step out into the cool evening air, the door clicking shut behind you. You exhale, trying to shake off the strange mix of emotions swirling in your chest—wary, relief, maybe even longing.

Inside, Satoru watches the door for a beat longer than he should. Then he shakes his head, turning back to Koji with a forced grin. “Alright, champ. Let’s see what homework you have today.” But as Koji chatters excitedly, Satoru can’t help but feel the weight of your absence pressing down on him, more than he’s willing to admit.

It’s around eight at night now. Satoru took the liberty of making some dinner for Koji, but after sifting through your bone empty pantry and refrigerator, he orders take out. The two are watching Spiderman: No Way Home. His arm is slung around his son’s shoulders, the two sharing a bag of fries. He can almost feel Koji starting to drift off, the sensation of his body sinking further into his side makes him smile subconsciously. However, that small, tender moment is broken when there’s a sudden pounding at the door.

Satoru looks back over the couch, confused as to who the hell could be trying to see you at this time of night. A hookup? Boyfriend? No, no. Don’t think that.

He looks back down at Koji who’s giving him an equally confused, but tired face. “Is that Mama?”

“No, don’t think so, little man.” You said you’d be back by twelve, it’s only eight. That’s weird. “Stay here, okay? I’m gonna go see who it is.”

Koji nods, Satoru gently laying him on his side and grabbing a fuzzy throw blanket to tuck him in with. He stands with a small grunt, walking over to your front door. He peeks through the hole and sees a man he’s never seen before, Old, ugly, and hairy. He scoffs. The hell do you want? He unlocks it, opening up and coming face to face with the man.

Mr. Sato regards Satoru with surprise and confusion, bushy brows furrowing. “Where’s Y/N?” he asks, tilting his head to try and get a look over his shoulder.

“She’s at work.” Satoru replies, on guard and a hint of firmness in his voice. “You need her?”

“Correct.”

“And who are you again?”

“The landlord.” Mr. Sato says, heavily huffing as he gazes back up at Satoru. His frown deepening when he feels his neck angle up. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Late.” Satoru simply mutters, arms crossing. “Gotta come back another time.”

“I can’t,” Mr. Sato gruffs. “I need to talk to her about the money now.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens at the mention of money, and a flicker of realization crosses his sharp features. He leans against the doorframe, casually intimidating, his sheer presence making the older man falter for a second. "Money?" Satoru repeats, his tone cool but laced with an edge. "What money are we talking about here?"

Mr. Sato straightens, trying to regain his composure despite the younger man's imposing demeanor. "Rent," he clarifies, his voice firm, though his eyes avoid Satoru's piercing gaze. "She’s late on payments. Again. I’ve already given her an extension, but this can’t keep happening. I gave her until Friday but something came up and I need it now.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow slightly, his posture shifting. Late on payments? He processes the words, his mind jumping to the extra hours you’ve been working, the tired look in your eyes, the way Koji’s jacket was patched up with care but still clearly worn. The pieces click together uncomfortably.

"How much does she owe?" Satoru asks, his tone still calm, though the intensity in his eyes makes the landlord hesitate.

"That's between me and her," Mr. Sato replies gruffly, puffing out his chest as if to assert some authority in this lopsided interaction.

Satoru doesn’t miss a beat, his expression hardening. "Well, she’s not here, so now it’s between me and you." There’s a beat of silence, tension thick in the small space.

Mr. Sato shifts uncomfortably under Satoru’s gaze, his confidence wavering. “Four thousand,” he finally admits, his voice lower. “I told her I need it by Friday, but things changed. She said she’d have it.”

Satoru lets out a slow breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he processes the number. Four thousand. A drop in the bucket for him, but for you? It might as well be a mountain.

“If she doesn’t have it, I’m gonna push forward with the eviction, I already have possible renters lined up with a more stable income.”

Eviction? And from a place this shitty? Satoru’s jaw clenches, eyes raking over the older man. “Well, she’s not here.”

“Then let me call her.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in his gaze as he steps fully into the doorway, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallows the smaller man in front of him. The landlord, suddenly aware of the shift in the air, takes a half-step back. "You’re not calling her," Satoru says, his voice low and measured, carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

Mr. Sato frowns but falters slightly, the confidence in his stance wavering. "Look, this isn’t personal. It’s business. If she can’t pay by the deadline, I have no choice but to move forward. That’s how it works."

Satoru tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, but there’s no humor in it—just a cold, calculated edge. "Business, huh? Funny thing about business—it’s always personal when it’s someone else’s life you’re messing with."

"She’s late. I’ve been lenient," Mr. Sato protests, though his voice is quieter now, almost defensive.

Satoru’s smirk vanishes, replaced by an icy glare that feels like a physical weight. "Lenient? Let me tell you something. You don’t come here throwing around eviction threats like you’re some kind of god deciding who stays and who goes. That’s not how this is going to play out."

Mr. Sato scoffs with a scowl, arms crossing. “Listen here, I don’t know who you are, or who you think you are. I don’t give a damn about that. All I care about is having the money, right here,“ he holds his palm out. “Right now.”

Satoru chuckles lowly, but there’s no warmth in the sound—it’s laced with something menacing, something dangerous. His eyes, usually glinting with mischief, now burn with icy resolve as he steps closer, forcing Mr. Sato to look up at him again. "Who I think I am?" Satoru repeats, his voice soft but unnervingly steady, like the calm before a storm. "Let me make one thing clear—you don’t get to care about anything except what I tell you to care about. And right now, you’re going to care about backing the hell off." Mr. Sato’s scowl falters, his mouth opening to retort, but Satoru raises a hand, cutting him off before he can even start. "Because if you don’t," Satoru continues, his tone dropping lower, a subtle, menacing edge creeping in, "I’ll make sure you have a lot more to worry about than late rent. Understand?"

The landlord stiffens, visibly uncomfortable now, though he tries to hide it with a scoff. "You threatening me? That’s illegal, you know."

Satoru smirks again, but it’s colder this time, a predator toying with its prey. He leans in just enough that his towering presence feels suffocating, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Illegal? Oh, I know all about what’s illegal. But see, the thing is, I don’t need to do anything illegal to make your life a living hell. A call here, a visit there… You’d be surprised how quickly someone like you can lose everything they’re so desperate to cling to. You should really care about who you threaten, this is my son and his mother you’re talking about.”

The unspoken promise in his words hangs heavy in the air, and for the first time, Mr. Sato’s bluster cracks. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as though expecting someone to step in and save him. Satoru straightens, his piercing gaze never leaving the man. "Take the money," he says simply, pulling out wads of cash from his wallet—carelessly tossing them at him, "and don’t let me see you again. Ever."

For a moment, it looks like Mr. Sato might argue, but the weight of Satoru’s presence, the absolute certainty in his voice, crushes whatever resistance he might have left. With a grunt, he snatches the money, shoving it into his pocket. "This isn’t over," the landlord mutters, but his voice lacks conviction as he turns to leave, his shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of Satoru’s words. Satoru watches him go, the cold fury in his expression lingering even after the door clicks shut. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, the tension in his body slowly unwinding.

Not over? Satoru smirks to himself, shaking his head. "Senile bastard doesn’t know what he’s saying.” He turns back toward the living room, his eyes softening slightly as they land on Koji, still sleeping soundly. The weight of his own actions sits heavily on him, but he pushes it aside. There are more important things to worry about—like making sure you and your son never have to deal with scum like that again. But also, finding some way to talk to you about this eviction.

Would you have ever told him? Would you have asked for help? Are you going to continue to keep secrets from him, even though they directly affect his son—affect you?

The sound of hurried footsteps, practically running footsteps, sounds throughout the long corridor. Ignoring and maneuvering out the way of the office employees who regard the person with confusion and annoyance. There’s a singular focus in their movement, a sense of urgency that prickles the air. The familiar, large doors of the office are in line of sight, to which the person rushes inside. The grand, imposing doors of the executive office burst open. Usually, he’d knock and wait, but not this time.

Inside, Yamato Gojo sits at the head of a polished, expansive table, his wife, Akane, poised elegantly at his side. Around them, a small group of sharp-suited businessmen turn toward the intrusion, their murmurs of surprise quickly silenced by Yamato’s cold, calculating glare.

The informant can barely get the words out, stumbling over. “M-Mr. Gojo! I have—there’s—I—!” Their face pale and slick with sweat. Words fail them at first, a garbled mess of syllables spilling out in their panic. Finally, they manage to force out, "M-Mr. Gojo! You need to see this!"

Yamato leans forward, his eyes narrowing as he motions for the informant to come closer, his long fingers curling in a beckoning gesture. The air in the room seems to thicken as the informant, trembling, hurries forward and hands over a tablet. Akane leans in as Yamato taps the screen, her expression calm and unreadable—at least, until her eyes land on the image.

The sound of shattering glass cuts through the room like a gunshot as Akane’s wine glass slips from her hand, crimson liquid pooling across the pristine floor. Her gasp transforms into a piercing shriek that sends a chill through everyone present.

Because on the screen, displayed in haunting clarity, is an image that chills the air in the room: their son, unmistakably, embracing a younger version of himself—while your figure stands to the side.

a/n: uh ohhhh

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