ꫂ᭪ Manjiro “Mikey” Sano

You’re standing at the curb outside his apartment, kid’s backpack slung over your shoulder and the faint weight of responsibility heavy in your chest. The drop-off. It’s always awkward, always this thin line between civil and tense, and you hate how predictable it’s become.

Mikey’s already there when you pull up, leaned against the doorframe with that lazy, unreadable face of his, dark eyes scanning you like he’s waiting for you to say something before you even open your mouth. He doesn’t. Typical, he lets silence sit until it starts to suffocate.

Your kid runs past your legs, little shoes slapping against the pavement as they call out, “Daddy!” with that unfiltered excitement only children carry. Mikey’s whole expression shifts, softens instantly, his arms opening wide as if the whole world stops existing the second his kid barrels into him.

“Hey, champ,” he mutters, scooping them up with one arm like it’s nothing. He rests his chin on top of their head, eyes flicking back to you. The corners of his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, not quite anything.

“Everything’s in the bag. Clothes. Snacks. Homework folder’s in the front pocket,” you rattle off quickly, like listing facts might keep this from straying into dangerous territory.

Mikey doesn’t answer right away. He sets the kid down, tells them to go inside and wash their hands before dinner. They sprint off, slamming through the door, and then it’s just you and him again, air feeling way too thick.

“You always rush it,” he says finally, voice even, a little flat. “Like you’re scared to stand here two minutes longer.”

You exhale through your nose, crossing your arms. “Because this isn’t about us. It’s about them. You get your time, I get mine. That’s it.”

Mikey tilts his head, studying you in that way that makes your skin crawl, like he’s picking apart every word you didn’t say. “You really think it’s that simple?”

“It is that simple.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, though his eyes don’t match the movement. They’re sharp, stubborn. “You act like you don’t miss me.”

You blink at him, deadpan. “Because I don’t.”

That gets the faintest grin out of him, a crooked tug at his lips. He looks down at his hands, then back up. “You’re lying. You were happy with me. Don’t try to rewrite it.”

“Mikey—”

“No, listen.” His tone cuts in, calm but heavy enough to stop you mid-word. “I know I fucked up. I know I pushed too hard, went too far, all of it. But you think I don’t remember what it was like? You, me, them. It was good. It can be good again.”

Your jaw tightens, nails biting into your arms where they’re folded. “That’s not happening. Not now. Not ever.”

He stares at you for a long moment, that lazy mask threatening to crack into something rawer. But then he blinks, shrugs once, and smothers it back down. “You’re stubborn as hell.”

“Someone has to be.”

The silence stretches again, except now it’s heavier because he isn’t hiding what he wants. He’s not even pretending to. And you hate the way your chest twists at his words, how dangerous the familiarity in his voice feels.

Inside, you can hear your kid yelling something about toys, their laughter breaking the tension for a second. Mikey glances toward the door, then back at you.

“Fine,” he says lightly, though you can tell he doesn’t mean it. “Play it your way. But I’m not done trying.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just turn, walking back toward your car before he can push further. The whole time, you feel his eyes on your back.

ꫂ᭪ Izana Kurokawa

You can tell before you even park that he’s in one of his moods. He’s leaning against the front gate like he owns the whole damn street, coat hanging open, earrings glinting in the late sun. His expression doesn’t soften when your kid jumps out of the car, calling for him. No, Izana’s eyes flick over you first, sharp, unreadable, like you’re the one being sized up instead of the little person sprinting toward him.

But then the kid’s in his arms, giggling, legs wrapping around his torso, and Izana’s mouth finally shifts into something different. It’s not quite warm, but it’s there. He mutters something low to them, nods, and they laugh harder. He’s good at flipping switches like that.

You walk up, keeping your voice clipped, businesslike. “Everything’s packed. Extra clothes. Homework folder’s on top.”

He doesn’t look at the bag when you hold it out, his eyes stay locked on yours. Eventually, he takes it, still holding the kid balanced on his hip with an ease that doesn’t match the rest of him.

“You always sound like you’re handing them off to a stranger,” he says flatly. “Like you don’t trust me.”

“Because I don’t,” you answer without hesitation.

The corner of his mouth twitches, not into a smile, more like he finds your honesty entertaining. He turns his head slightly, studying you through his lashes. “Harsh.”

The kid squirms in his arms, tugging at his earring, and Izana’s composure doesn’t break. He shifts them easily, still staring you down like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

You don’t.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?” he drawls, tilting his head, the ghost of amusement in his tone. “Like I could have you back whenever I wanted?”

Your jaw tightens. “You couldn’t.”

“Mm.” His purple eyes narrow, unreadable but intense. “But I could.”

Before you can snap back, the kid pipes up about being hungry, tugging at his collar. Izana finally looks away from you, adjusting them against his shoulder, and the shift is instant—he softens his voice, promises food’s inside waiting. For a second, you almost see something real in him, something that isn’t sharp edges and arrogance.

But then his gaze cuts back to you, and it’s gone.

“You’ll come around,” he says calmly, like it’s already decided. “Maybe not today. Maybe not next week. But you will.”

You scoff, stepping back toward your car. “Don’t hold your breath.”

To that, he simply hums almost like he’s amused.

The sound of your kid laughing as he carries them inside follows you back to the car, sticking in your chest in the worst way.

ꫂ᭪ Haruchiyo Sanzu

You hate that you never know which version of him you’re about to deal with. Sometimes he’s calm, almost detached, handling things with that lazy drawl that keeps you guessing. Other times, well, you’ve seen the cracks. The grinning, unpredictable side that makes your stomach twist when you remember you’re tethered to him because of the kid.

This time, he’s sitting on the hood of his car when you pull up, cigarette pinched between his fingers, smoke curling into the evening air. Pink hair falling into his face. He looks like he’s been waiting too long, like patience isn’t something he bothers with anymore.

The second your kid scrambles out of the car, Sanzu flicks the cigarette away and hops down, arms open. He doesn’t grin, he beams, wild and sharp, scooping them up like they’re the only thing keeping him anchored. “There’s my favorite little human,” he says, voice pitched softer than you expected, chin tucking against their hair. “You miss me?”

They nod, giggling, already rambling about something they saw at school. He listens, or at least, he pretends to, nodding and humming, eyes sliding back to you over their shoulder.

“Clothes are in the bag. Homework’s already started—” you begin, but he cuts you off with a click of his tongue.

“Relax,” he says, that light, mocking lilt in his tone. “You always act like I’m gonna forget how to be a dad the second you leave.”

Your arms cross tight. “Because you make me nervous.”

His head tips back, laugh sharp and sudden. Not amused, entertained. “Oh, I like that. You think I’m dangerous.” He shifts the kid higher on his hip, brushing a hand through their hair gently, the contradiction so blatant it makes your chest ache.

“Don’t twist my words.”

Sanzu tilts his head, eyes narrowing, lips pulling wider with that scarred smile. “I don’t have to. I can see it, you can too.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Not a chance.”

“Mmh. That’s what you keep telling yourself.” His voice drops lower now, almost a whisper, but heavy enough to stick. “But I’m not like the others. You know damn well I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

The kid interrupts, tugging at his shirt, asking about dessert. He breaks eye contact instantly, crouching to their level with a grin so sweet it doesn’t look real on his face. “Cheesecake. Your favorite. Already waiting in the fridge.”

They light up, running for the door, and he straightens slowly, turning back to you once they’re gone. That grin doesn’t drop.

“See you Sunday,” you say stiffly, already moving for your car.

“Countin’ the days,” he hums, sing-song, hands in his pockets as he watches you go. “Don’t worry, pretty, time’s on my side.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look back. But the sound of his laugh follows you, light and lingering, like he’s already decided the ending for you both.

ꫂ᭪ Ran Haitani

You spot him before he even notices you, leaned against the wall of his building like the whole place belongs to him. Ran’s always got that same loose posture, shoulders slouched but his eyes sharp, glinting purple under the streetlight. He’s dressed too nice for a simple pickup, like he just stepped out of a photoshoot instead of waiting for his kid. Always a little too put-together, always aware of how he looks.

Your kid rushes forward first, running up to him with open arms. He pushes himself off the wall slowly, like he has all the time in the world, and catches them mid-jump, spinning them around once before settling them against his chest.

“Missed me already, huh?” His tone is light, sing-song, but there’s genuine warmth in the way his hand cups the back of their head for a second longer than needed.

You stop a few feet away, arms crossed. “Everything’s packed. Homework folder’s in the front pocket.”

Ran finally looks at you, tilting his head with that lazy smile. He doesn’t answer right away. He never does. He just stares, letting silence do the work until you’re forced to shift under his gaze. Then, slowly, he says, “You always sound so… official. Like you’re dropping them off with a babysitter instead of their father.”

You exhale sharply. “Because this isn’t about us.”

That makes him grin wider. He leans down, whispering something in the kid’s ear that makes them laugh, then sets them down. “Go on inside, I’ll be there in a sec,” he tells them, patting their head. They take off toward the door, leaving you alone with him.

He closes the distance in a few strides, stopping just a little too close, close enough that you can smell the faint cologne clinging to him. Always in your space.

“Not about us, huh?” he repeats, voice low now, almost teasing. “Funny. You still say it like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

You roll your eyes, stepping back. “I’m not.”

His smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes flick over you like he’s cataloging every little tell. “You’re hard to read. I like that. Makes me want to figure you out all over again.”

“This isn’t happening,” you say flatly.

Ran hums, unconcerned, brushing his fingers through his styled hair before slipping both hands into his pockets. “Maybe. Maybe not. But you and me? We don’t end that clean. Not with them in the picture.” He nods toward the door where your kid disappeared. “So whether you like it or not, I’ll always be in your orbit.”

You shake your head, backing toward your car. “You really love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”

He laughs, the sound low and lazy. “What can I say? You used to love it too.”

You don’t respond. You turn, sliding into the driver’s seat, but you feel his eyes on you the entire time, heavy and deliberate. And the worst part? He knows you feel it.

ꫂ᭪ Rindō Haitani

You pull up, engine humming low, and see him already outside the gate. Your kid jumps out first, backpack bouncing, calling for him. He steps forward, silent until they reach him, then catches them in both arms. Doesn’t ruffle hair much, just one hand under shoulder, other at the small of their back, steady. The quiet kind of holding.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost distant, but soft enough that your kid relaxes in his arms. “Got everything?”

You nod, stepping out. “Bag’s got clothes. Snacks. Homework.”

He nods once, slow, measuring. He takes the bag from you without a word at first, glances over its strap, adjusts something, maybe slipping the bag off your hand, pretending it’s just practical.

You don’t like the way he looks at you, faint tension in his jaw like he’s holding back something.

“You look tired,” he says finally. Not an accusation. More an observation.

You shrug, arms folding. “Long week.”

There’s a silence. He watches the kid shift, asking something about dinner. Rindō lets them go ahead toward the door, keeping a firm grip on the straps, eyes never leaving until they disappear inside. Only then does he turn back to you.

“What? You got nothing to say?” he asks, voice steady but with a hint that he wants more than just that answer.

“I didn’t,” you say. “Just a drop-off.”

“Right.” He takes a breath. The air between you feels colder.

“You know,” he says after a beat. “Wouldn’t kill you to be a little more.. something.”

You want to argue. But there’s something in his posture, rigid and painfully still, that makes you swallow the words back.

He lifts his chin slightly. “It’s okay not to want this back together. But don’t pretend I wasn’t good once. Don’t pretend I wasn’t there.”

You bite your lip, eyes dart. “That was then.”

He flares, just a little: his gaze sharpens, nostrils slightly flared. But his voice stays in control. “Yeah. Then.”

You can feel his disappointment. Or maybe that’s just you feeling guilty. Doesn’t matter. The gap grows.

You back up toward your car. “Thanks for tonight,” you say, tone clipped.

He nods, expression unreadable again. Watches you get in. Car door shuts. Then he stands there, quiet, maybe thinking. After a moment, you see his shoulders drop, as if he’s letting go of something you didn’t hand him in the first place.

You drive off. His figure stays framed in the gate’s arch until it shrinks, calm, severe, unbroken.

ꫂ᭪ Shuji Hanma

Your kid pops out of the car first, backpack thumping, looking excited. Hanma steps forward with that almost predatory grace, catches them mid-run with both arms. There’s no warmth in his eyes, just that familiar intensity, but he hugs them anyway, squeezes them once, strong enough they know he’s there.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and even. “You ready?”

Kid nods, chattering about something they saw on the way over, they saw a big truck, or maybe a dog. Hanma listens, then shifts them to his hip, adjusting their grip.

You shut off the engine, walk to meet them. “Everything’s in the bag. Homework folder, extra clothes.”

He glances at the bag, then back to you. His face doesn’t soften. “I know you’re always ready with the list.”

You don’t bother denying it. You’re used to this tone. It’s not cold, exactly, but there’s a barbed edge, like each word is calculated.

Kid steps inside, heading to wash up. Hanma watches them go, then turns back to you. The night air feels tighter.

“You always leave so quick,” he says, hands shoved into pockets.

You shrug. “There’s nothing more to say.”

He smirks slightly. “You do know, that silence, it’s not peace. It’s something else.”

You look away. Because you know that’s true.

Hanma takes a step closer, the brim of his glasses catching light. “We both messed up,” he says quietly. “But I don’t think you believe I care anymore.”

You want to argue. Want to say you do believe, sometimes, but it comes with trembling edges you’re not ready to show.

“I did care,” he adds, almost under his breath, “Still do, don’t know how to show it better.”

You swallow. It’s unfair, but his admission hits somewhere deep.

“I know,” you finally manage.

He nods, but doesn’t move closer. Keeps that space between you, like safety or distance or both. “See you Wednesday,” he says after a moment.

You don’t say anything back. You get in your car, door shuts. Through the windshield, you see him standing there, strong, tall, hands at his sides, watching until the tail-lights fade.

ꫂ᭪ Hajime Kokonoi

Your kid jumps out of the car first, bag bounce and excited words. Koko pushes off the light post easily, stepping forward. His posture stiffens just enough to tell you he was waiting. He catches them not too far from your car, arms strong, grip firm but careful, not tight. There’s a pause in his face when he sees them, something almost regretful, hidden under the flat surface.

“Hey,” he says. Voice low, precise. “Good to see you.”

Kid chatters, tells him about school, a friend, something funny. He listens, nodding, makes small interjections. You leave the car and walk toward them.

“Everything in the bag?” he asks you, turning, eyes sharp.

You nod. “Homework. Clothes. Snacks.”

He takes the bag from your hand, fingers brushing yours by accident. He notices, of course, his eyes flick to your hand and back to yours, an internal calculation you know he can’t help doing.

“I checked it earlier,” he says, voice neutral, like you expected. “Don’t want you calling me later saying I forgot something.”

You grimace. “Thanks.”

He pauses, folds arms, weight shifting. Looked you over under the streetlight. “You look tired,” he says. Not gentle. Just observation.

You turn away, eyes toward the house your kid runs toward, distant. “Long day.”

Silence hangs. The kid starts inside, waves you off. Koko watches them disappear through the door, then turns back to you.

“You always are in a rush to leave.”

“Because I should be,” you retort, quieter than you’d like.

He steps closer, but stops maybe two feet away. “Is that because you don’t want to see me?” He doesn’t mean it to be soft, but something in his tone cracks.

You want to say no, maybe, or something, but you don’t.

He exhales. “I could stay. For a bit. Just to talk.”

You shake your head. “We both know talking doesn’t fix what broke.”

His lips tighten. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push harder. Just stares at you, calculating, maybe hurting, maybe wanting.

“Okay,” he says finally. Voice flat, low. “See you Thursday.”

You don’t respond. You head back to your car. Doors shut.

From the window, you catch him standing in the lamplight, rigid, the bag in his hand, as if waiting to toss it aside. Then his shoulders drop a little. And he watches until you’re gone.

Add my ig .

After Satoru’s little chat with Maki he begrudgingly made his way to his classroom. A part of him cursed his mother and father for not having him the same year as you. He wanted nothing more than to be able to sit next to you in class and gaze at you in person. Gojo sighed, guess the cameras Getou and him set up will have to do. He especially enjoyed the view of the one under your desk.

Satoru didn’t bother pretending to pay attention in class, instead opting to lean back in his chair with his phone in his face, not worrying about prying eyes due to him sitting in the back. He knew his teacher wouldn’t dare bring it up, and if she did, all he’d have to do is shoot her a glare to remind her of her place. Besides, thanks to the education the Gojo Clan provided he was already set for university, high school was just a formality. One he was recently very thankful for.

The Gojo prince would occasionally switch from looking at the live feed of your classroom to searching your name on any social media he could find. He wasn’t super surprised you didn’t spend much time online, you were a hard working honor student after all, but it disappointed him nonetheless. He made sure to save any photo and screenshot any personal information he came across, however, he had been doing this since that night with his mother two days ago, so he was running out of material.

So far he learned you had a mother and two younger brothers along with a few relatives you kept in regular contact with. He wasn’t sure where your father was, just that he wasn’t in the picture anymore. He’d have to look into that later. The second year also managed to learn about your mom’s health situation. With a wicked grin, Satoru quickly sent a text to his mother was instructions to send him the desired medical documents.

Satoru started to get a little bored and decided why not have a look at his favorite camera angle. His blue eyes watched intently as you shifted every now and then, sometimes even rubbing your thighs together. Satoru couldn’t help but wonder what was going through your head as he caught glimpses of your cute panties and bit his bottom lip.

By the time the bell donged, signaling it was time for lunch, Gojo was half hard. The white haired boy pocketed his phone and shifted until he felt comfortable getting up.

He exited the classroom with his bag to find Suguru waiting there for him and fell in step with Satoru. “Saw you on your phone the whole time. You had a creepy grin on your face too,” his best friend chuckled, “You been stalkin’ your little commoner?”

Gojo couldn’t help but hum in satisfaction at hearing someone call you his. “You make me sound like some criminal, Suguru. Besides, if I wasn’t supposed to do all of this, then why is it so easy?”

Getou chuckled again, shaking his head. “You got a point there. You and Megumi seem to really enjoy doing this. Maybe I should find a cutie to stalk as well.”

“Sure! I’ll help so long as you find your own and it doesn’t take my time away from my y/n.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” At that moment, Getou happened to look in front of him. The ravenette grinned and nudged his elbow into his taller friend’s arm to get his attention. “Speak of the devil and she’ll appear, it seems.”

Satoru’s gaze shot in the direction Getou was looking and, low and behold, there you were. You were walking with your nose in your phone and a bento box in hand. Funny he hadn’t noticed that this morning, but it was definitely not from the school. Must have been in your backpack which you didn’t have.

Gojo watched your approaching form with wide eyes. “More like an angel.”

Getou raised an eyebrow at his friend but simply shrugged, not personally seeing the appeal. Too plane for him. Come to think of it you were Gojo’s normal type either. Weird.

When it became obvious to Satoru you weren’t going to pass close enough to bump into him like this morning, he kissed his teeth in disapproval. As you came within a meter radius, Gojo held out his foot far enough to catch yours. He watched in satisfaction as your smaller form tumbled to the ground and your phone clattered out of your hands while you barely catch your bento.

Both Satoru and Suguru laughed at the yelp you made as you landed on your knees in the busy hallway, that was now slowing to watch the interaction taking place. The two watched as you looked up at them before looking around for your phone. Satoru’s expression fell. You hardly even spared him a glance!

“Tch.”

You finally seemed to spot your phone and a sense of relief flooded your face as you reached for the remarkably undamaged device. You were about to wrap your hand around your phone when a large shoe came crashing down on top of it out of nowhere.

Crunch!

Satoru tilted his head to the side at your trembling hands as you stared at the now shattered phone under his foot before you raked your eyes up his leg all the way to his face. The white haired boy couldn’t stop the smile that curled across his face as you locked eyes with him. ‘Finally.’

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Satoru stepped back and off the device that you had deemed more important than him. “Did I break it,” he asked despite having felt the piece of technology crumble beneath him.

You gingerly picked up what once was your phone. “W-why?”

“What do you mean? It was obviously an accident. No need to freak out about it,” Satoru shrugged and his long haired friend hummed in agreement.

You now held your broken phone in both hands as you hunched over to shield your face from the growing crowd. Your tormentor took note of your shivering shoulders and bent over to try and get a better look.

“Oh my god. Are you crying?” Satoru stood up and used his hand to muffle a burst of laughter as he looked down his nose at you while Suguru didn’t hide his amusement.

You couldn’t hold in the sobs any longer as other students in the hall joined their mocking.

Satoru finally decided to take pity on you and crouched down to your level. He placed an elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm as he stared down with a pout.

“Awww. What’s wrong, y/n?”

“I n-needed this phone a-and I can’t afford a ne-new one,” you stuttered out softly as you attempted to wipe away your tears.

“What’s that,” Satoru shouted, cupping the hand he was leaning on around his ear, “you said you can’t afford a new phone?”

You nearly collapsed flat on the floor in shame as you sobbed louder.

“Hey, now. None of that.” Satoru placed his hand on top of your head and gently pet you as if trying to calm a child, in reality he was just enjoying the feel of your hair. “Even though it was an accident, I’ll give you a new one. How does that sound?”

“Y-you will?” You looked up at the Gojo heir in hope.

“Of course I will. I love to help those less fortunate,” he then paused to move both of his hands to cup your face and swipe away your still flowing tears with his thumbs, “but you know. Nothing is free in this world.”

“B-but I just said I can’t affor-”

Satoru cut you off with a hushed tone like you were a scared animal. “Shhh. Let me finish. Though, it is cute that you think I need your money.” Your face flushed in embarrassment. “How about this, I’ll give you a new phone and in exchange you give me that bento box. I’m quite hungry. Think you can do that?” Satoru gave an innocent closed eyed smile with a slight head tilt.

“Yes! Of course!” You didn’t realize that in your haste to accept his offer you ended up pushing your face closer to his. Not like he minded, though. Quite the opposite actually.

“Wonderful!” Satoru threw his hands in the air in excitement before turning to rummage through his messenger bag. “Lucky you, I have such a terrible issue keeping phones in one piece,” he said as he pulled out a brand new phone still in the case. “Tada!”

He placed the box on top of your head and you scrambled to catch it before it fell. “Oh god. This is so expensive. Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent, babe! Besides, my family owns the company that makes them so it’s whatevs. However, that doesn’t mean you can back out on our deal.” Satoru tapped your forehead to get your attention back on him.

“Absolutely! I always pay back my debts,” you exclaimed as you clutched the new device to your chest protectively.

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” He ruffled your hair teasingly as he chuckled darkly. “Now gimme!”

“Right! Here you go,” you placed lunch you made into the outstretched hand that wasn’t stroking through your hair. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate this, um… I’m sorry. W-what’s your name again?” In truth, you could only recall his last name, although, you were pretty sure it started with an ‘S’.

Gojo felt a tick mark form on his forehead, but quickly snapped out of it when he heard you squeak in pain. And looked down to see that he had unconsciously grabbed a fistful of your lovely hair.

“Oops. My bad. Thought I saw a bug for a second. Guess it was just my imagination. Anyway, my name is Satoru Gojo. Do try to remember it this time,” Satoru said through gritted teeth and a fake smile.

“I promise I will, Gojo.”

“You better. Now run along.”

“S-sure!” You quickly grabbed your old phone and ran off to set up your new one.

Once you were out of sight, Suguru wrapped his arm around his best friend’s shoulder after he stood up. “I can’t believe it! That couldn’t have gone more according to your plan, my man.”

“Well, obviously! Not even god would dare defy my will,” Gojo giggled mischievously as he brought his thumbs to his parted lips to taste the ruminant saltiness of your tears. He may have posed this whole thing as an exchange, but that was just so you wouldn’t suspect any ulterior motives. You’d never know that he bugged the phone he gave you. At least, not until it’s too late.

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