"She'll stay with me, give her a key card," you hug him once more, he's chuckling and pecking a kiss on your head. "You're clingy still, remember you always were."

"Maybe, oh Gojo, thank you! I didn't wanna have to ask dad for money..." You're independent, Satoru loves that about you, Suguru is well to do - not rich like Satoru, but well off. But he's mentioned you never ask for a thing.

"No worries, the room is huge, we won't even be near each other much." He's pressing the button to the elevator soon once you all get checked in, and the silver automatic doors close, leaving you two alone, nothing but the soft sounds of your breaths and stupid elevator music.

And there's just one problem.

Satoru Gojo can't help but picture pressing you against those elevator walls, sinking to his knees and slipping up your slutty black dress, the one where he can so clearly see your breasts rise and fall, a nipple daring to slip out. Can't help but picture fucking you better than surely any of your dumb little college boys could.

He can't think that way.

He hastily tugs off his jacket, laying it over your shoulders as the elevator dings on each floor.

"Thanks, it's a little chilly." You say softly, tugging his jacket close on you, he exhales in a mix of relief and hot desire at how good you look in his armani suit jacket. "You're a life saver, really."

"It's nothing, kid."

"Kid! I'm not a kid." Your pout earns his chuckle, the two of you walk through the halls, decked with cream colored walls and fancy paintings, it's fancier than even you were used to. He presses the card against the hotel door and it opens, and that's when you both realize just how alone you were.

Satoru had been a part of your life for all you can remember, him and your dad would go off on the silliest adventures, and your dad’s other best friend Shoko would watch you at times. You don’t remember your mom that much anymore, she has been gone since you were young, and Satoru and Suguru had always been inseparable, especially since she left.

Satoru had taught you how to swim, Suguru had taught you how to shoot a gun, Satoru taught you how to throw a ball into a hoop, and Suguru taught you how to hit one with a bat. Every time he came to visit during the summers, you’d be so excited, he always had some new gift and an easy smile.

Until you got older.

You remember the first time he brought over one of his girlfriends, she was beautiful, and you’d still been young, hopelessly staring in the mirror at yourself after, wondering if you’d ever be pretty like that. And when he came for your high school graduation with another girl on his arm, when he told you that you looked beautiful and bought you the necklace you still wear today?

You’d been insanely jealous.

You try to explain it away as being eighteen, you were still a baby then, and the crush had been raging. So badly you found yourself comparing every boy you dated to the man Satoru was, and every single one fell hopelessly short. You both get settled, taking in the opulent surroundings, it’s surely big enough he’s right, there’s an entire other room, a kitchen, spacious furniture and beds.

Satoru sets down the luggage, as he eyes you in his suit, and you start taking some of your things out. It’s quiet, the sense of unease filling the two of you as you both busy yourselves, little friendly smiles are the only passages between you as you two live in your own minds.

“You can take a shower first,” he offers softly a bit later, slipping that tie down just a bit to loosen it, and then rolling up his sleeves, revealing those muscled forearms, light blue veins wrapping up them from his wrists. Your mouth goes dry as you look at them, while he slips off his silver rolex, smiling at you a bit. “Do you want me to hog all the hot water instead?”

“Huh? Oh…” you blink a bit, it’s not like you’ve never been with anyone, never seen a man naked, but Satoru’s forearms were taking you the fuck out.

He is effortless with his little movements, he must do this almost every day, freeing himself from the confines of his perfect facade, the buttoned up business man who you’ve never seen in the same suit twice. You’re sure he wears them again, it’s just you haven’t seen him enough to have ever caught it, the only thing you’ve noticed is he wears the same cufflinks.

The ones you saved to buy him when you were in high school, storing up all your extra funds where you worked as a waitress to purchase them for his birthday. You eye them now as you still hold the jacket close, fingers brushing along the bright blue sapphire of one of them. You’d walked by a jeweler in the mall with your friends and thought they matched just one shade of his eyes.

“You still wear these?” You ask softly, his attention goes to your little fingers brushing over the gem carefully, and he nods a bit. “Why? Aren’t they kind of not up to your… standard?”

“They’re my favorite, and they weren’t cheap either,” he walks up then, touching the other one, his nearness fucking your senses. “I remember you buying them, I think it was my thirty-sixth birthday. I was having some existential crisis and they really cheered me up.”

“You, a crisis? No way,” he hums a bit, gently tugging the cuff links out now, one by one, setting them next to his Rolex on a little black glass tray he’d brought along with him, the lights catch them and make them glimmer prismatically. “You were young though, still are.”

“Yeah no, I’ll be forty one in December, yuck.” You laugh with him, shaking your head then.

“That is not ‘yuck’ or old, you and dad are super young. Dad was always like the youngest at any parent event, shit usually the only dad altogether. I remember him going to Moms and Muffins.”

“Yes, you put bows in his hair, he showed me.” You both laugh then, Satoru stands against the dresser, his mind racing then.

He can’t want you like this, and it has to stop, the way he keeps thinking of having you naked and his jacket splayed under you, if you could stop looking at him like that!? Your lips parted, your pretty eyes lidded, making him tortured by the thoughts of fucking you so good they roll back, so good you drool. He’s clenching his hands into fists at the thought, almost twenty years between you.

Maybe if he keeps saying the number, it’ll fucking matter, the fact that he’s never even been with a girl ten years younger, Satoru just wasn’t a man to do that. He enjoyed intellect, experience, someone who got his references and shitty jokes - but the problem was you did check all those boxes. You’ve been kicking his ass at chess since he could remember, you laughed at all his dumb jokes.

You were a brilliant girl with your life ahead of you, you’re right, he’s not ‘old’ but he just is ‘older’ than you. Having already had a divorce and two broken engagements, he also was tired of trying, he’d settled on some regular girls for sex and focused on business fully now. Something a young Satoru who hated his parents and the Gojo name altogether would gasp at.

“You’re not old, you look my age you know.” You break his thoughts up, he chuckles a bit at that, before sucking in a breath, when you walk closer, slipping his jacket off to hand it to him.

“Yeah, genetics and Korean skincare products.” You giggle, as he keeps his eyes affixed on your face, not the strap that’s fallen down the gentle slope of your shoulder, he takes the jacket instead, your fingers brushing against each other for the briefest moment.

“Well, they work, I don’t think you’ve ever changed. I hope I look super hot when I’m your age.”

“You will, you already are beautiful…” He trails off, your eyes meet then, as he realizes what he said, and the tone he said it. He smiles to break the tension. “Thank god you don’t look like your dad.”

“Oh whatever! He’s pretty, you know.”

“Psh, okay.” He rolls his blue eyes, and you both laugh then.

“Thank you, that’s nice of you Satoru.” When you say his first name it’s like testing it, you’ve always called him Gojo, aside from when you made him birthday cards, and you’d write Satoru on them.

“Not being nice, you know you’re a gorgeous girl.” He’s clearing his throat now, looking away as he hangs his jacket up, next to the other suits he’d brought, smoothing it out.

“It’s kinda nice to hear from the Satoru Gojo.”

“Uh huh, flattery will get you everywhere.” He pats your head then, ruffling up your hair, you blow a thick strand off your brow. “You go take a shower.”

“Yeah, thank you again.” You smile and head into the bathroom, finally leaving Satoru to exhale in relief after he glimpses your back again, like pure torture, he’s curious just how the fuck he’ll handle a week alone with you.

Hopefully a room would open up or something by then.

The sounds of hot water pounding on the tiles below fills the room now, mixed with some light singing echoing from the bathroom, he can’t help but smile a bit at how pretty your voice is. If anyone should get into Julliard, it’s surely you, talented and just a natural at everything, the sound fills the room and ignites something in him he’d rather not think of.

Comfy, homey, it’s how you make him feel, and maybe that’s worse than wanting to bend you over the bed, worse than wanting to lift you and slip you against that shower wall. Much, much scarier than the thoughts of filling you up with so much cum your tummy is full of him, watching his fucking cock bulge that tummy as he’d make sure your cunt was ruined for anyone.

No, homey and comfy were worse by far, they were things he absolutely never thought before, even during his marriage - and what a disaster that was. Women all wanted him for his looks, his money, what he could do for them, but no one really knew him deep down, just the facade he’s tired of putting on.

Picturing you naked in the shower is his fucking downfall, picturing your pretty body with water dripping down it, his cock is hard by the mental images, he scowls down at it. He’s just in his slacks now, putting up his dress shirt, luckily this suite always had good hot water and pressure, it’s why it was one of his favorites, and he could surely use a shower.

Jerk off in there to act normal.

He’s like some pathetic teenager around you rather than a grown man, and it irritates him to no end. He hears your singing stop after a bit, as he is typing some notes for tomorrow’s presentation on his laptop, slipping on his glasses to see the screen just a little better, when he sees you from the corner of his eye, wrapped in a soft terry cloth towel.

He almost whimpers at the sight, clenching his teeth together to focus on the screen as you walk out. “Okay I feel a million times better.”

He looks up then, and it’s his downfall, as he has to see the way the towel is tied right at your breasts, pushed up and glistening, skin dewy and flushed from the shower, making him want to kiss every inch. “I bet, the plane ride was a long one.”

“It was, for sure, and then to get a ride to the hotel was hard, I’m not used to a city this big,” you’re adorable with your little pout, your own gaze taking in his bare chest then, like a caress. “I failed my drivers test again by the way.”

“Again? Shit,” he’s snorting in laughter, even as you cross your arms and glare just a bit, you play along with the motions, but your gaze can’t rip itself away from his chiseled body. “Do I gotta teach you?”

“Do you drive anywhere, Gojo?”

“Hush.” You giggle at his own glare, he looks too fucking hot in those glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his body shifting a bit to face you now.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless constantly, Satoru had helped you swim after all, and Gojo and your dad were always taking you to the beach. You’d always known how perfect he was, sculpted within an inch of his life, lean defined muscles that begged for your fingertips to brush across them, lines and shadows cast as the bathroom light filters into the now dim room.

You wish you felt bad about how badly you want him, but you only feel bad it can never happen, feel bad he couldn’t have been your first, like you’d dreamed over and over, until you knew it couldn’t happen. It wasn’t like Gojo ever saw you that way, the times you think he looked at you as more than a ‘kid’ you feel it was just your imagination.

You feel this man could fuck, you just feel it.

But no, stuck with losers who couldn’t care less if you cum - in fact, the last guy you fucked asked if you did after not touching you more than a minute and cumming pathetically quick in a condom. You’d smiled and said ‘of course’, making him grin and kiss you all happy, and that’s about the time you just gave up on ever liking sex either, too far in your fucking delusions.

It wasn’t a healthy desire, or okay, but usually with Gojo not seeing you much, and you having moved out of your dad’s, it was better. It was just elusive memories and fantasies that you could lose sight of, you could focus on school and your music, focus on your dream — but part of you wanted him in the front row.

“You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t dry your hair,” he teases, standing then, you watch how his muscles flex as he moves, with ease, his long legs making strides so close to you now, when he touches your damp strands with a sigh. “Wasn’t there a blow dryer in there?”

“There is, but I needed to grab some clothes first- ah!” Your towel threatens to fall then, you gasp, but Satoru’s got it bunched together in a fist quicker than you can blink, bringing you right against him.

The only sounds in that moment are your breaths, and your heart pounding in your ears, when your eyes lock together, and you see the way they dilate, almost black in that moment. Your own hand comes over his balled fist, when he leans down, and for some insane fucking moment you picture it - a kiss from him, from Satoru Gojo, his glossy lips and how they’d feel.

Something you wrote about in endless diaries, it can never happen, it would never happen, he’s making sure you’re not naked if anything, you have to remember it, have to hold back. You smile nervously then, hoping the shower will explain away the flush of your cheeks in front of him, as you take the towel from his hold, holding it together now.

“Thanks, I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s fine,” his voice is darker, huskier than you’ve ever heard it, making your thighs press together, still slick from the water, in need. “I’ll go take one now.”

“Yes,” he stomps away quickly, leaving you to catch your breath, looking in the mirror over the dresser at how badly his nearness affected you. Your own eyes are so dilated you can’t see your iris anymore.

Soon, Satoru’s leaning against the tile wall, stroking his cock in the hot shower, his eyes fluttering shut in a mix of self loathing and need. He has had you pop up in his mind the past couple years, when he’s hitting a girl from the back with your hair color, when he’s fucking one in a spoon position, and her tits are about your size, he’s shoved them all away though.

He’s never jerked off to you specifically, but there’s no denying it, he’s jerking his thick, veiny cock to his best friend’s daughter in the other room. He feels filthy, as filthy as the sick thoughts he has, of making sure he fucked you so good you’d never even look at one of your stupid college boys again. Showing you what cumming really is, because he’s sure no one has done it right.

You’d be so pretty full of him, leaking his cum for him to shove it back inside your cunt, fuck he’d stock up on plan bs if he could do it every night, if he could watch it pour from your perfect pussy. He hasn’t even seen it, but he just knows it’s as beautiful as the rest of you is, god even your thighs in that towel had him leaking more pre, so hard it hurts.

His tip, usually a blushing pink, is now a mean red with how badly it’s been stuck in this fucking state, he hisses a bit as he runs his fingers along it. He’s picturing it all, that towel falling at your feet, and him slipping his hands across that dewy skin, sucking on that delicate neck he’d like his hand around. It’s pathetic, really, he is better than this surely, but he can’t not touch it.

He’s jerking it faster, fisting his long, curved cock, when the fucking door opens, and he tenses, glaring into the shower curtain that thankfully covered him. “I forgot my phone in here, sorry Gojo.”

“Ah, no, it’s f-fine…” he’s sick, he’s sure of it, jerking it even while you’re in there, in fact knowing you’re there has him feeling closer to cumming, hoping you don’t notice the sounds of his fist on his cock.

“Is there still hot water?” You tease, swiping a little bit of the condensation left on your phone with a towel, already wearing your little shorts and a crop top.

“Yeah, plenty, you didn’t hog too much.”

“See!”

“You left strands of your hair on the wall though.”

“Shit, it fell out!” He laughs softly, as if he’s not still stroking it, and you sigh a little bit then. “All right, I’ll leave you to it.”

Why do you fucking think of offering to jump right back in there? Why do you hesitate, wondering just how perfect he looks under that spray? You shut the door gently with a click that echoes, resting your back against it and shutting your eyes, sighing.

You’re already so stressed about the Julliard audition, the last thing you need is this pounding in your head, an impossible fantasy.

When you’re snuggled up in the main bed out in the entryway, Satoru comes out with a towel slung on his hips to grab his clothes, you can’t help but eye the white happy trail, the little v cuts on either side of his hips begging for your tongue on them. You tug your blanket up a little bit, avoiding the sight of the tenting in his towel, and how badly you’re curious about it.

“Feel better?” You tease, he smiles and nods a bit, grabbing his boxers then, hesitating as he realizes he didn’t bring shit else to sleep in.

“Much better.” He’s gone back to the bathroom, you’re exhaling and leaned back, head on the plush leather headboard, fingers tapping in the rhythm you’ll practice tomorrow, focusing.

He finds you like that when he’s back out, sitting down on one of the chairs to tap back at his keyboard once more, and your lips are pursed, fingers tapping along the red silk comforters. You’re beautiful like that, lost in your own world, surely composing some masterpiece only you can hear, a beauty that tugs at his chest.

It’d be one thing if you were just hot, but to be truly beautiful seemed one of life's meanest jokes to him.

Your phone rings, your eyes open and you catch sight of him. “Shit, you saw me like that?”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine, ya gonna get that?” You look at your phone on the nightstand, tugging off the covers just to make him hard again.

Do you wear clothes!? Or just scraps?

“It’s dad!” You’re giggling, picking up the phone, legs dangling high off the floor as he tries not to imagine slipping his fingers across them. “Hey dad!”

“Hey sweetie, you didn’t check in with me, how’s my girl?” Your dads voice instantly makes you miss him, you two are as close as you can be, and you wish he could be here, but he’s out of the country stuck right now because of some stupid customs issue with a pet he and his new girlfriend bought.

She was actually cool as fuck, but you don’t know if your dad really will ever get over mom, though you’d love to see him happy.

“Wishing you were here,” you say, hearing him sigh over the phone.

“I know, shit, I think we should be able to fly out in the next couple days but I’ll miss the audition for sure.”

“Ugh! I’m okay though, actually… Satoru is here.”

“Satoru? Shit, put me on speaker,” you bounce up then, making your tits jiggle as you hop down, Satoru almost chokes when you run up and stand right next to him, popping on the speaker. “He’s here!”

“Satoru, what’re you doing there?” Suguru’s voice is friendly, relieved even. Thank god he can’t sense the dumb fucking thoughts in his head.

“I was actually staying here for business, when the hotel booked her room, so I offered her to just stay in the suite with me.”

“He saved me!”

“Psh.” He’s chuckling as you smile, leaning across his table a bit, tank top slipping off your fucking shoulder, as if the straps were mocking him.

He sure couldn’t stare at your tits while he talks to your dad!?

“Thank you, Satoru, I feel so much better that you’re there with her,” he almost laughs at that, because he sure the fuck wouldn’t want himself around, with what’s brewing in his mind. “I worried about her alone in the city.”

“Dad, I'm a big girl now, you know.” You’re pouting too fucking cute, Satoru can’t drag his mind off your plush lips for a moment as Suguru speaks.

“You’re still my little girl, anyway I am glad it worked out. By the time I even get back you’ll be in Julliard!”

“You have too much faith in me,” your voice is quiet now, and Satoru puts his hand over yours, smiling at you, earning your little smile back.

“She’ll kill it.”

“Exactly, see we both believe in you.” You tear up a bit, sniffling now, it’s been months since you saw either of them.

“I miss you so much.”

“Aw, me too baby, I’ll be home soon okay?” You sniffle as Satoru caresses the back of your hand. “Take good care of her for me, Satoru.”

“I will.” You hang up the phone then, the exhaustion of the flight and your self doubt creeping in, Satoru tugs you close then, hugging you gently as you’re between his thighs, and your arms wrap his neck.

“Hey, hey, you’ll do great. He’ll be back soon,” you’re taking several breaths, burying your face against his neck as the tears fall, and his big hand splays the small of your back, so warm and soothing. “It’s okay.”

“I missed you too.” You say it softly, like a secret, making Satoru pause, his hand still gently running up and down your back.

“Missed me, why?” You just shake your head, hugging him tighter, as his blood rushes to places he wishes it fucking wouldn’t. “Miss me teasing you?”

“Maybe I do,” you pull back, and Satoru swipes your tears, streaking down your pretty cheeks. “You haven’t visited in a long time.”

“Yeah, I know…” He can’t admit why, he eyes your tears still falling, your glassy eyes, it’s too intimate then, too close, your lips a breath away. “I guess work got the best of me, and my nasty break up.”

“She was a bitch.” He snorts in laughter then, swiping more tears as you stand there between his long legs, like you belong there. “I didn’t like her.”

“You didn’t, huh? She was pretty bitchy, it took a lot for me to get her out of the house. I think I considered an exterminator.” You both laugh then, before he realizes he’s still cupping your face. “Why didn’t you like her? She played nice pretty well to others.”

“She wasn’t in love with you enough,” he pauses at your observation, tilting his head, the lights catch the lavender hue on his hair that falls over his brow, still a little damp, the scent of shampoo filling your nostrils. “She didn’t look at you enough, notice you enough. So I decided I didn’t like her.”

“I see, you’re pretty observant huh?” You shrug a shoulder, hand on his wrist now, your thumb brushing over the veins that dance along it. “She wasn’t in love with me, more the idea of being a Gojo I suppose.”

“Well I’m glad she’s gone. I haven’t liked any of your girlfriends.” He laughs now, but you’re dead serious.

“None of them? Now that’s silly, some of them weren’t that bad.”

“Hmm, nope they all sucked.” He’s laughing harder, his hands finally falling, but one of them remains in yours, he looks down at it then, at how small your hand is compared to his. “You deserve someone that really loves you.”

“Yeah, well, I think I give up.”

“What now?”

“Yeah, I’m ancient.”

“Shut up!” You shove at him, he’s chuckling more but you’re very serious. “Stop saying that. I won’t be old at forty.”

“No, you won’t be able to drive then either.”

“Excuse me!?” He’s grinning as you smack playfully, until you smile and sniffle a bit. “You’re such a jerk!”

“Thought I deserve all this love, what now?” His hands found their way to your hips, as he leans forward, before he can think about it, and you suck in your breath, your heart hammering as he pulls back, realizing how natural it felt.

“You do, but you also deserve a few smacks.” You stop his hands before they leave your waist, and he stares right at them, before the gaze drifts to your nipples, glaringly apparent in your top. “Satoru…”

“You should get some sleep,” he barely manages to speak, standing then, towering over you. Your head falls back when he brushes a strand back behind your ear, leaning over to press a friendly kiss on your head, the one that you’d die if it slipped lower. “I’ll have a car ready to bring you in the morning, okay?”

“You’re the best, Satoru, thank you.”

You keep saying it - Satoru - like you’re testing it on your tongue, and it’s never ending hell to hear it, but he plasters on a smile, patting your head like he always does and walking into the room off to the side. Thankful for the privacy and distance, he shuts the heavy cream door and rests his head against it.

He can barely handle looking at you, inhaling your scent, feeling your skin against him, but you saying he deserved love fucked him up completely. He swallows that down, grabbing a water out of the little fridge in there, swallowing it in needy gulps, before finally laying in the bed, forcing himself to fall asleep.

*****

“Good morning, sweets,” Satoru’s bright and cheery as he comes inside the room with two bags full of donuts, muffins and treats, along with two cups of coffee in a carrier. He’s already fully dressed in his suit, looking like a million bucks, so pretty with his smile as bright light filters in the floor to ceiling windows. “You need to eat.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” You yawn and stand, stretching just a bit, when he sees your tit is precariously close to falling out. He flushes and averts his eyes, when you bounce over to him. “You’re so sweet!”

“It’s nothing, all included. You need something in your system so you don’t get shaky,” his thoughtfulness chokes you up for a moment, you just stare at him with a muffin hovering in your hand. “Want a different flavor? I can go grab more.”

“No, no it’s… you remember me getting shaky?”

“Yeah, you were shaking insane at that pool party last year because you were silly and didn’t eat, knowing we were out in the sun all day.” He taps your nose, as you giggle and peel the wrapper. “Bad girl.”

Jesus fuck, does he not know what that does!?

You stare at him, he’s smirking just a bit like maybe he does fucking know, but then he gets to sipping on his sweet coffee, sighing as it hits his tastebuds. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember a lot of shit I guess,” he shrugs a broad shoulder, taking a donut and starting to devour the sweets, you can’t help but smile as you nibble on your muffin, and he’s sucking on his thumb to lap up icing. “What is it, brat?”

“Brat!? Hey now,” he’s licking his other finger, your body responds almost violently at the sight, picturing the most obscene fucking things. Like him licking you off him instead. You hastily look away, blushing, god is that all you do around this man now? “No, just how you keep that body perfect and eat more than Goku.”

“No one eats more than Goku,” you giggle again at that, as he laughs softly, now tearing into a chocolate chip muffin. “Genetics and working out I guess.”

“You have won the gene pool, this will go to my hips.”

“Nice hips,” he trails off then, clearing his throat, and your tummy clenches as his eyes dart across your body. “I mean to say… you can eat a muffin, you look great, okay?”

“Thank you, Satoru.” You smile and do just that, taking another bite, as the tension in the suite grows with every fucking breath, until you can’t breathe, not with how he looked at you just now.

It has to be your fantasy brain again, he was probably being nice, he’s always been supportive and sweet, someone you could come to. It’s you who is the problem, who can’t stop thinking of fucking your dad’s best friend, something he would never forgive either of you for. Something that will never happen.

You have a huge opportunity, you have to focus.

“Tell me you brought something like… not as… revealing for this? Or do I need to buy you an outfit?” You laugh a bit then, and his thin brows lower. “I’m serious.”

“Are you saying I dress slutty!?”

“What!? No… just very revealing.”

“Maybe you are old.”

“What now!?” You’re biting your lip to stop laughing as he stands up, and you find your back pressed against the table, his arms on either side of you. “Do I look old to you?”

“No, you’re the one that says it silly! You’re old fashioned.” You shove at his chest and he smirks a bit.

“I am not old fashioned, but you do have something professional, yes? I don’t mind taking you shopping.”

The visions flash then, shopping with Satoru, on his fucking arm, god it’s too much, you look down a bit nervously, at his neck, the tie just a bit askew. You fix it carefully, watching his adam’s apple bob up and down. “I have something professional, I’ll put it on and show you.”

He eases back and you come out a few minutes later, a pretty white dress shirt and a cute little bow tie, along with a black little skirt and suspenders, you look fucking adorable. He can’t help but melt a bit as he sees you do a little twirl, black tights and pretty black heels finishing it off.

“Now that’s perfect, you look…” Beautiful, fucking beautiful. “You look like you’re going to nail this.”

“Yay! Thank you!” You kiss his cheek and smile against it, on your tiptoes, a hand over his jacket, burning his skin. “I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be, you’re going to do amazing. Are you ready to get going? I have to leave a little early for this meeting and the traffic is terrible here.”

“I’m ready!”

Satoru’s in the back with you on his phone, talking to this person and then that person, negotiating a multi million dollar deal while you’re tapping your fingers, an ear bud in with the three songs on rotation that you’ll be performing. You keep tapping them, shutting your eyes, lips murmuring the notes silently. You don’t realize your thigh is shaking until his huge hand covers it.

“You’re a nervous wreck,” his fingers press gently right above your knee, you’re taking several breaths, eyes locking with his as the car stalls through the heavy traffic, slowing to a crawl. “How much are you gonna jiggle it?”

“A lot,” he’s rolling his eyes now, hand falling off, and you instantly miss its warmth, its presence. “I’m gonna fail it.”

“Don’t go in with that attitude, stop that.” He frowns at you, eyes hiding behind those dark shades, just a hint of blue shimmering as they slip down his straight nose a bit. “You’ll do great.”

“Right…”

You wish Satoru was right.

You’re so nervous, so stuck on your insane desires and thoughts, that you keep missing keys you would never. You’re such a fucking mess, every time you hit a sharp key the sickness sinks in deeper, until you’re fucking it all up. You try to save face, the judges are shocked considering all the references on your lists, all the videos that have gone viral of you.

You can’t perform for shit today, and you’re shaking and sobbing by the end of it, heart sinking as you realize what has happened. Instead of waiting for Satoru, you’re walking blocks until you find the nearest bar, and drinking until you’re a mess, all while you picture the disappointment.

All your life living for this dream, for what. What was any of it for?

A few guys are hitting on you as you sit alone at the bar, you let them buy you drinks, but you don’t speak to them, hardly notice as one of them whispers something in your ear and hands you his info, as another touches your back. You barely remember texting Satoru where you are later on, when he was heading to get you from his meeting.

He’s furious when he does walk into the bar, it’s filled with college people probably partying for the summer, he walks through hoards of them when he sees you, two men on either side of you as you down a shot. You’re not smiling or enjoying yourself, he feels the upset from across the bar, your shoulders slumped when one of them dares to touch your back.

He loses any control he’s had, losing it all for the frustration you’ve just put him through, an enigmatic - ‘i’m getting drunk’ and nothing the fuck else at five pm. He’s stomping right over, clearing his throat and getting the two men’s attention, both trying to shoot their shot at a girl who shouldn’t give them the time of fucking day.

He says your name, and you turn to him, skin flushed and eyes glassy, clearly drunk as fuck. He just hopes you had the good sense to only take drinks from the bartender rather than these creeps, as he snatches you right off the barstool, and you almost lose your balance.

“Who’s this, baby?” One asks, Satoru narrows his eyes at the fuck boy.

“It’s Satoru,” you’re hiccuping then, swaying even though you’re not even moving, about to fall if he doesn’t catch you. “Satoru Gojo.”

“Come have another, we can hit a party,” the other says, and you just bury your face against Satoru’s chest, as he carefully holds you.

“She’s going home.” Satoru’s words ring through your drunk ass brain, he lays a tip for you on the table, snatching up your bag and wrapping an arm around your waist, leading you out into the cool night air.

You’re sobbing when he gets to the sidewalk, concerning him to no fucking end, the sun is setting as he guides you gently into the back of the sleek black car, isntantly grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler installed. He twists it open and tilts your chin up gently.

“Drink some water, yeah?” You shake your head, and he scowls. “I said drink some fucking water.”

“Okay, dad.”

“I’m not your fucking dad,” his voice is clipped and harsh then, your eyes try to focus on his angry, handsome face, he swirls just a bit as you let him put the water to your lips. “Drink.”

You do as he says, swallowing greedily then, body craving anything other than the endless shots you’ve just fed it - nothing but a muffin this morning in your body to soak it up. He sighs as he eyes you, unreadable in his gaze, slipping a thumb over your chin as a little bit falls along your chin, before snapping the cap back on.

“Celebrating like this is dangerous, you could have been taken advantage of by those douche bags.”

“Celebrating!” You’re laughing then, until you’re crying, a whole fucking mess as he watches you, swallowing the tightness in his throat. Celebrating, what a joke that was, he looks at you in concern, brows lowering now, the sky is dimming outside, darkening the seat as you try to breathe, try to focus.

“Will you just tell me what’s wrong, what’s going on?” He asks quietly, you sigh then, looking at him, as he gently cups your face.

“I fucking failed, Satoru.”

“What now!?”

“I fucked up, I ruined it.” You’re sobbing again, he holds you against him, as your hands ball his jacket into your fists, tears soaking the expensive material, he exhales and shakes his head. “I did, I did all of this to just fuck it up, dad’s gonna be so d-dissapointed… and you are…”

“Fuck this, I’ll go demand a redo.”

“You can’t!” You pull back and look up at him, the alcohol warming your body, spreading as he’s right near you. “Satoru they will never.”

“The fuck they won’t, you’ve never seen me negotiate shit, have you?” He raises a brow, you swipe at your tears, lip trembling.

“You can’t just fix it for me.”

“I can give you another chance, okay? I’ll meet with them tomorrow, you’ll find I can be very convincing, yeah?” You sigh then, nodding as he brushes back some of your hair. “You’re a mess, ya know?”

“I know.” He frowns contemplatively, as you lean closer, he can taste the liquor on your breath, as your eyes dart to his lips, and the tension coils in your tummy. “You think you can really talk to them?”

“Of course I can, but you better be ready this time. I’ll come watch you, would that help?” You nod then, so quickly it makes you just a little dizzy. “All right then, just let me work my magic.”

You love him.

Fuck you almost say it, the alcohol threatening to loosen your tongue, but you swallow instead, a hand on his chest, and his own eyes lower, snowy lashes casting shadows over those baby blues, the proximity making you both heat up in that moment. He pulls back just a bit, realizing how precarious the moment is, he needs to comfort you, not fucking kiss you, or worse.

Especially drunk off your ass.

“You need more water-” You’ve pressed your lips on his before he can finish his sentence, too far gone to hold back, to stop the motion, pulling back just a bit to look up at him.

He says nothing, eyes wide, and you would apologize if you cared enough to, if you felt bad enough about it, but in that moment it’s all you want, to kiss him, even if it’s only once. You lean back a bit, you want to form the apology you don’t mean on your lips, form it into words, as it’s so silent in the back of that car, all you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears.

“Sorry,” he scoffs then, eyes narrowing, hand slipping into the nape of your neck, tugging your hair just enough to make your head fall back.

“You’re not sorry, are you?” You smile, you can’t help it, you’re too drunk to lie to him.

“Kind of sorry,” he tightens his hand, tugging at the delicate strands of hair, you’re whining out, the sound fucking him completely. “Satoru…”

“You’re forgetting this, okay?” You nod then, understanding him, when he slams his lips on yours, the release so fucking good he can’t stand it, drinking in your cries as your arms wrap his neck.

He’s lost then, letting himself have one moment, where he devours your mouth with his practiced tongue, where his other hand slips up your thigh, up your hip, to your ribcage, brushing right under your breasts. You’re clinging to him, closer and closer, until you’re straddling him, even as he shoves at your hips, you roll them, whining out when you feel him.

“Fuck, you’re a brat…” he’s huffing, biting back a moan as he feels your heat, soaking wet even against your tights, pressing you down for just a moment to torture himself, kissing you deeper, hungrier. It’s messy and desperate, you’re kissing him sloppy, saliva dripping, as you roll your hips against him.

“Please…” He wants to give you it, fuck he wants you to have all of him, but he yanks you off him, holding you up by your hips, kissing you one more time.

“No more, you’re drunk and… this is a terrible fucking idea.” He sits you right next to him, you’re dizzy and breathless. “Forget that happened.”

“Right, sure Satoru.” You glare at him, he glares right back, leaning over and hating himself, he wanted to rip your fucking tights at the crotch, slip his fingers inside your wet cunt, stretch you out on him.

Shit that can never, ever happen.

“You’re upset and drunk, and I’m fucking stupid.”

“You’re not-”

“Drink.” He orders, and you do just that, he’s back to being caring and distant, as you ache for him, more and more as the water sobers you up just a bit.

He’s helping you up into bed later, he puts your hair up off your neck carefully in a pony tail, he makes you eat food that he orders. The alcohol has lost its effects mostly as you lay in bed, and he’s typing over on his laptop, the glasses looking unfairly handsome on his face as you study him.

“Will you really help me get another chance?” You ask softly, his eyes catch you across the room.

“Of course I will, but it’ll be up to you to show them what you can do, show them how good you are. Okay?” You nod then, snuggling against the pillow, eyes drifting shut, neither of you mention the kiss, neither of you breathe a word even close to insinuating it happened.

“Thank you, Satoru. Good night.” You murmur, he sighs, nodding then.

“Good night.” His clicking of the keys drifts you off to sleep, the vivid images behind your eyes of him overtaking your mind, wondering if it was all some fucking drunk fever dream.

But it wasn’t.

When later he closes the laptop and brushes your hair back, studying you for a moment, he tries to make a promise to himself - that it will never happen again, he’ll never let his control slip like that. Even if all he can think of now is slipping into bed next to you and holding you against him, he shoves it all down, going back to his room, and staring at the ceiling.

What had he been thinking?

He can’t feel this way.

He shuts his eyes, failing to sleep as he knows you’re in the next room, while you dream the filthiest things about your dad’s best friend.

Kofi link if you wanna buy me a glass of wine 🍷

the bathroom lights are turned off when you step inside, the small space adorned by some light up candles sukuna bought from the dollar store. stripping off your grimy, sticky clothes, you slowly descend into the bath. warm water (the perfect temperature, of course) sloshes around your body, muscles instinctively relaxing as you finally settle in.

you stayed in the bath until your fingers grew pruny and the water went cold, coming out to find sukuna had already set out your most comfortable pair of pajamas on the bed and a plate of food on the table. padding over to the kitchen sink where he’s washing up for the day, you lean forward and press a small kiss on his cheek. “thank you.”

he doesn’t acknowledge it—doesn’t really find a reason you should be grateful anyways. all he says is: “go eat.” the first bite of the food feels delectable on your tongue after missing out on eating lunch earlier (you left your lunch bag on the bus), broccoli and chicken melting into a sweet-salty mixture that had you quickly digging for more. sukuna plops down at the table across from you, not necessarily needing to fill the silence with meaningless conversation about how your day had been (he knows how it went).

you finish your plate in ten minutes, kicking your feet up on the chair next to you. sukuna slides your plates from the table, moving over to clean up the last of them. “you need help relaxing further?” he only breaks the silence once he’s done, drying his hands on a rag. you only nod in response, letting him carry you over to the bedroom.

you’re unsure how many orgasms he’s pulled out of you since he first suggested the idea, mouth latched to your throbbing clit and two fingers pumping in and out of your dripping cunt. his lips are glossed over with your slick, pink strands of hair flailing messily by his sides with how hard your fingers dig into his scalp.

your legs tremble as he pushes you closer and closer to yet another one, thighs clamping shut around his head. “one more and i’ll give you what you want, soak my face again, c’mon.” crimson eyes snapped up to meet yours, watching for any reaction. your face scrunched up in pleasure, eyes fluttered shut and mouth parted in an ‘o.’

his fingers curled justtt right, hitting your g-spot with each thrust of his fingers while his tongue circled around your clit. “o-oh fuck, ‘kuna, don’t stop,” you moan out, hips bucking up to meet his fingers. your nails dig further into his scalp, a low groan leaving his lips at the pain while you grew closer and closer, the coil in your lower stomach tightening by the second.

sukuna sits up, sliding his sweats down with swiftness. his cock slaps against his stomach, hard and precum dripping down his shaft just from eating you out. though before he manages to slip inside, you press your palm against his stomach and whisper, “wait.”

he expects you to tell him you’re too tired, maybe that your body would end up feeling sore by the time morning comes. what he doesn’t expect however is for you to ask: “do you mind putting a condom on?” sukuna zeroes in on your very pregnant belly before looking back up at you. a concern you should’ve had maybe… seven months ago.

“….you serious?” he finds himself questioning anyways, searching for any indication that you’re joking. he doesn’t find any. you look serious as ever, lips pursed together and gaze unwavering as you stared up at him. normally, you’d be biting your lip trying not to laugh in his face.

you merely raise a brow, “pregnancy is a very serious commitment so yes, i’m being completely serious.”

“it’s not like i can get you pregnant twice, woman,” he grumbles, but he already resigned to knowing he can’t win against you. he tried and lost when it came to what kind of crib you should buy just a week ago.

sukuna gets up from his spot, dick flopping from side to side as he pads over to his nightstand. how to take care of a newborn 101… a half empty pack of cigarettes he hasn’t bothered to touch since you came around with the news… a broken tv remote… and ah, a box of 36 ultra thin trojan condoms stuffed at the bottom he’s had for a year now.

he tears open the packaging, nimble fingers rolling the latex over his cock until the rim sits nice and snug around the base. your fingers scramble to grip onto his biceps as he slowly pushes in, his lips by your ear as he whispers, “fine. let’s see how many times you come by the time we’re finished with the box.”

idea came to me after a condom ad came on, thank you to @suguruss1ut and @sextier for entertaining it 😭

You blink once, twice, slowly. Then you let out a short, incredulous breath that almost resembles a laugh.

“Okay,” You say, voice clipped, polite in the way people get when they’re seconds from blowing their top, “Funny. Now tell me who is actually going to be my partner.”

No one answers.

The directors all exchange tight, nervous glances; the woman who spoke earlier offers you a smile so gentle it feels like pity.

Oh hell no.

“I’m sorry,” You continue, tone flattening into something razor-sharp, “I must not have been clear. I asked for the name of my partner. As in the skater I will be performing throws, lifts, and death spirals with? I assumed that was obvious.”

“It is,” The oldest director murmurs, “And that skater is Gojo Satoru.”

Your jaw tightens, pulse flickering with rising electrical disbelief. You turn to your coach—Sergei Gavrikov, Russian legend who’s developed dozens of world champions, handpicked by your parents because “Russians do it best”, and his face is stone cold.

You know that look all too well. He might genuinely be more pissed off than you.

“Did you know anything about this, Sergei?”

His eyes remain fixed on the board of directors, expression smooth as freshly resurfaced ice. When he finally speaks, the words are accented and glacial.

“Nyet. I did not,” A muscle ticks once in his jaw, “And if I had, I would have stopped it.”

The directors collectively stiffen. A silence settles so thick you can hear the hum of the overhead lights.

Your stomach sinks; Sergei does not do outbursts or raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. His disapproval on its own does exactly that.

You turn back to the board, “So let me get this straight. You’re taking Japan’s strongest women’s singles skater out of her category,” You say, voice deceptively calm, “To put her in an entirely new discipline—with him?”

Your coach adds, “You weaken her career for gamble. This is foolishness.”

“I understand your concerns—” A director starts.

“No,” You snap, “You don’t.”

The air vibrates with tension until there’s a knock. Sharp, casual, infuriating, and the door swings open.

In walks the disaster himself.

You’ve known him since he was eighteen, a white-haired prodigy with too much talent and zero discipline, a boy with no sense of boundaries and even less sense of propriety.

Except he’s not a boy anymore. At twenty-two, he walks into the room like he owns the federation and the oxygen you all breathe.

His hair is still white as ice, but styled now—messy in a way that seems intentional. He’s taller, leaner, stronger with broad shoulders, effortless posture, and eyes so blue they’re practically fluorescent.

And that stupid smirk.

Oh, you remember that smirk.

He used it right before he beat the reigning men’s singles gold medalist in Beijing. Then he used it when he flirted with the reporter interviewing him afterwards, breaking the internet for three days. And he also used it when he fucked probably half the Olympic Village.

Yeah.

So, you hate that smirk.

And today, unfortunately, it’s aimed directly at you.

Gojo steps fully inside the room, hands shoved in the pockets of his team jacket, radiating the annoying kind of confidence that comes from knowing he can charm, annoy, buy, or seduce his way out of any consequence.

“Were you all waiting for me? Sorry, traffic was hell,” He pauses, “And by traffic, I mean I overslept.”

Sergei’s nostrils flare, the Russian equivalent of flipping a table. Gojo tosses himself into the empty chair across from you, “So,” He says cheerfully, “This our big meeting? Our partnership reveal? Should we do icebreakers?”

You glare at him, “If by icebreaker you mean watching you fall through it, I’m open to that.”

Gojo grins wider, “God, I missed your personality, princess.”

That does it.

“No,” You snap sharply, standing up so fast your chair skids back, "Absolutely not. We are not doing this.”

Everyone freezes, you level a finger at the directors, “Listen to me very carefully. I am not skating pairs. I am not skating with him. I am not risking my spine, my sanity, my career, or my Olympic trajectory to babysit a—”

You whirl toward Gojo, “—reckless, undisciplined, egotistical—”

“Handsome,” He supplies unhelpfully.

“—irresponsible—”

“Talented.”

“—narcissistic menace with a death wish!”

Gojo presses a hand to his heart, “Aww, you think about my death this much? That’s kind of intimate.”

You nearly choke. Sergei steps forward, relaxed but vibrating with anger, “She is right. You force her into danger. She is champion. He is…clown.”

Gojo gasps dramatically, “Wow, scary Russian spy guy! Clown is harsh. I prefer ‘showstopper’.”

Sergei ignores him entirely, “Pairs is trust, timing, discipline. He has none.”

“Hey,” Gojo protests, pointing at you instead, “I have discipline. It just comes out…creatively.”

You whirl on the board again, “This is insane. I am nineteen. I have never skated pairs. I have never been lifted. I have never practiced throws. I have never—”

“Been tossed around by a guy before? Yeah, we know,” He interrupts smoothly.

Your vision goes white. You lean over the table, voice dropping into something terrifying, “Say that again.”

Gojo’s smile sharpens, delighted, “No.”

The director closest to you is sweating, “(L/N)-san,” He tries delicately, “Please understand—Team Japan needs this.”

“No,” You snap again, louder this time, voice echoing, “You don’t get to ask me to clean up your strategic failures. You don’t get to derail my training because you can’t produce a competitive pairs team. And you definitely don’t get to assign me to him because you think it’ll be some kind of media spectacle.”

Gojo stretches in his chair, long legs sprawling as if settling in to enjoy the show, “This is real cute,” He says, “She’s like a kitten when she’s angry. Hisses and everything.”

Your head whips toward him, “I’ll break your fingers.”

His eyes sparkle, “Promise?”

You nearly lunge, Sergei catching your arm to pull you closer to him, “Do not waste energy on idiot,” He murmurs, low enough only you hear, “He is toddler poking tiger. You are tiger. Do not bite.”

It helps.

Slightly.

You straighten, breath controlled, posture perfect as always, “I don’t want him. Choose someone else.”

Gojo snorts, “Yeah, good luck. They already tried everyone else.”

You blink, “What about Geto?”

The room reacts instantly; directors shift like they’re bracing for impact, Sergei mutters something vicious in Russian, and Gojo laughs.

A full, amused, borderline disrespectful one, “Oh, princess,” He drawls, dragging a hand through his hair, “That’s adorable.”

“Adorable,” You repeat.

He nods enthusiastically, “Yeah. Like watching a baby deer try to fight a bear.”

Your eye twitches so hard you think you might detach a retina, “Excuse me?”

Gojo leans forward, elbows on the table, grin wolffish, “Geto wouldn’t last ten seconds with you.”

Your jaw drops, but not because of the insult, “What? Why—”

“He’s soft,” Gojo says, dismissive, “Like…marshmallow soft. You’d break him.”

A director clears his throat timidly, “Gojo-san—please refrain—”

“No, no, let me help,” Gojo says with faux sincerity, sitting up straighter, “If we’re all being honest—and we should be, right?” He gestures broadly, “Transparency builds trust.”

“Gojo—” Someone warns.

“Suguru’s a great guy,” He continues, “But in pairs? With her?” He points blatantly at you, “She’d snap him in half.”

Your mouth falls open, “What?”

“You’ve got power,” Gojo says, shrugging, “And mass. Nothing wrong with that.”

Mass.

He called you mass.

Sergei’s hand shoots out to hold your arm because he can feel you about to pounce. Gojo holds his hands up, laughing, “Kidding! Kidding. Mostly.”

“Well,” You manage, words breaking from your throat, “Since we’re being honest here…Then let me be honest about you.”

Gojo perks up, smiling like he’s about to be entertained.

He is not.

“You’re an arrogant, lazy, disgusting loser who treats figure skating like a frat party on ice instead of an artistic sport,” Your voice sharpens with every syllable, “You don’t take anything seriously, which is why I will never take you seriously.”

The directors recoil, but you’re far from finished, “You skate like the rules don’t apply to you because life never taught you consequences.”

Gojo’s grin falters, just a fraction, “You win because you’re gifted, not because you work. You show up late, you half-ass training, you coast on talent. You’re sloppy, you’re childish, and everyone here knows it.”

A crackle of electricity seemingly ripples through the room, Gojo blinks once, slowly. You step closer, low and lethal now.

“And the fact that the federation is pairing me with you?” Your laugh is soft but full of contempt, “It’s embarrassing. For me, for them, and for this entire country.”

Gojo’s jaw shifts, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it and keep going, “Geto has discipline, grace, respect. Qualities you wouldn’t recognize even if they punched you in the face. He’s a skater. You’re a circus act.”

Sergei coughs to hide a chuckle, one of the directors chokes. Gojo stares at you silently while you tilt your head, sweet and venomous.

“And do you want to know the real reason I don’t want you as my partner?”

Everyone waits for the answer, “Because I don’t trust you to catch me,” You say plainly, “I don’t trust you at my back, or under me, or anywhere near me on the ice.”

His eyes narrow with something sharp, you deliver the killing blow, “You’re not a partner…You’re a liability."

Silence detonates through the room. Even Sergei pauses, impressed. The woman director whispers a horrified, “Oh my God…”

Gojo just sits there. Ungratefully gorgeous and for the first time, completely still. Then the smirk returns, slow and dangerous, but meaner.

“Oh,” He says softly, “This is going to be fun.”

He stands up with a deliberate purposefulness that sends a flicker of instinct down your spine. He rounds the table, not around the other side, but your side.

Sergei stiffens immediately, eyes locked, weight shifting like he’s preparing to intercept. But Gojo stops just short of you—close enough to feel his warmth and his shadow spills over your shoes.

He tilts his head, studying your face openly, shamelessly, like he’s examining a puzzle piece someone finally gave him permission to touch. His voice drops, low and light, “A liability, huh?”

You lift your chin, refusing to back down, “Did I stutter?”

“You think I can’t catch you,” He murmurs, “You think I’m irresponsible, sloppy, undisciplined…what else did you say?” He taps his lip thoughtfully, “Ah—‘disgusting loser’. That was a good one.”

Your breath comes hotter now, but you keep your face carved from ice. He leans just a fraction closer, your pulse stumbling, “Here’s the thing, princess,” His tone isn’t playful anymore, “You can hate me. You can insult me. You can threaten bodily harm—which, by the way, extremely on brand for you. But don’t you ever mistake me for someone who can’t keep up with you.”

Your blood runs cold, because this part? He means.

He means every word.

“I am not your liability,” He says, “I’m your equal.”

Your mouth opens to shoot something back, anything back, but he cuts you off with a quietly devastating, “And deep down, you know it.”

A tiny sound of warning escapes Sergei, but Gojo doesn’t move. He just looks at you.

Really looks.

Like he’s seeing a challenge so irresistible his bloodstream is buzzing.

“You don’t trust me to catch you?” He mutters, “Fine,” His smirk deepens, “Then maybe you should worry about what happens when I drop you.”

He leans in one last inch, stopping just before your shoulder, breath brushing your ear, “Or maybe,” He adds, “You’re scared you won’t want me to let go.”

Your throat goes dry as your fists tighten at your sides. Sergei steps in, finally, a glacier slipping between you, “That is enough.”

Gojo backs up immediately, hands raised, grin returning but with an edge that wasn’t there earlier, “Relax coach. I’m just getting acquainted with my partner.”

“Do not use that word with her,” Sergei growls.

Gojo shrugs, “Say whatever you want, but tomorrow morning? She’ll be in my arms whether she likes it or not.”

Your heartbeat spikes, he winks and walks out, dead slow. Like he knows you’re watching and wants you to.

And when the door shuts behind him, the silence he leaves behind is suffocating.

You stand there, pulse hammering, breath shaking with the effort not to put your fist though the nearest surface. Then you snap.

“What the hell was that?” Your voice ricochets off the walls, sharp enough to cut, “You are all out of your minds if you think I’m actually doing this. I won’t. I won’t do this.”

The directors flinch like children being scolded, the oldest folds his hands, resigned, “(L/N)-san…the decision is final.”

“No,” You rebel, stepping forward, “No, it isn’t. You don’t get to choose my partner or rewrite my entire future because you’re desperate for medals you couldn’t earn the proper way.”

The woman director swallows visibly, “(L/N)-san, listen—”

“Oh, I’m listening,” You bite out, “And what I’m hearing is incompetence disguised as strategy.”

Sergei murmurs, “Careful,” But you’re way past careful.

“You ruined my singles season,” You accuse, “You sabotaged the work I’ve done since childhood. For what? For…for him?”

The man in the middle exhales like he’s about to deliver a death sentence, “Your replacement has already been announced.

Your stomach plummets, “My…what?”

“Japan will field Geto Suguru in men’s singles as he is the second-ranked skater,” The director continues shakily, “For women’s singles…your spot will be filled by Ieiri Shoko.”

The oxygen leaves your lungs.

Shoko.

Quiet, ghostlike on the ice with beautiful lines, but no jumping power. No quads, no triples past the Lutz.

She is talented, sure.

But she is not you.

You feel the betrayal hit like a cold blade, “She’s not ready,” You whisper.

“She will have a full season to develop,” The woman says gently, “You will still be the face of Team Japan. Just…in a different category.”

“A demotion,” You say flatly.

“A reassignment,” She tries.

Sergei steps closer to you, jaw set like stone, “You insult her career. And mine.”

The older director pinches the bridge of his nose, “This is about medals. It has always been about medals. The Team Event is our priority. We need a powerhouse pair.”

Your throat burns, “And you think he and I are that?”

They all give a terrible, silent nod and you laugh—bitter and breathless, “You all have really lost your minds.”

Sergei places a hand on your back, firm and grounding, “You cannot undo decision,” He says softly, “We adapt now. We survive idiots.”

You breathe hard, furious.

You don’t adapt or bend.

You’ve never had to.

Things have always gone your way because you’ve made them happen.

But the federation glares at you with finality.

It’s done.

You are a pairs skater now.

With him.

And less than two hours later your phone begins to ping nonstop.

At first, you ignore it. Then you don’t.

And you wish you had.

JAPAN SKATING FEDERATION ANNOUNCES SURPRISE PAIRS TEAM: GOJO SATORU & (L/N) (Y/N)

THE DISASTER DUO? FANS QUESTION THE PAIRING

“THE PRINCESS AND THE PROBLEM” — SOCIAL MEDIA REACTS TO SHOCK PARTNERSHIP.

On Twitter, #GojoAnd(L/N) is trending. #WhatAreTheyThinking is too.

Your direct messages are exploding. There’s one from Shoko.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I hope you’re okay.

Surprisingly there’s a text from Geto too.

You delay a moment before opening it, thumb hovering as if the message might burn you.

geto: hey i saw the announcement. are you alright?

You inhale once, shallow. Another bubble appears almost instantly as if he’d been waiting—hoping, you’d read it.

geto: you didn’t deserve this

Your chest tightens. Of all people, he would understand and actually care.

Another message comes in, longer this time, hesitant and confessional.

geto: i don’t know if anyone told you, but…i tried to offer myself as your partner when i heard rumors they wanted to form a new pair. i told them i’d switch disciplines and make it work. i thought we’d skate well together

Your breath catches and you read it again. And again.

He wanted to skate with you. He volunteered.

Before you can process the warmth, or the ache, that curls under your ribs, his next message arrives.

geto: they refused. said they needed me in singles and that gojo was the “optimal athletic match”

You almost laugh.

Optimal.

Right.

Because nothing about picking him is optimal.

A soundless, bitter exhale escapes you before you type back.

thank you for telling me geto

really

The reply comes fast—too fast, like he’d been waiting to see those little dots.

geto: if they change anything…or if you ever want help in practice just call

geto: you shouldn’t have to handle gojo alone

A strange warmth blooms at the base of your throat, something gentle and that you don’t have the luxury to feel right now. He sends one last text, sincere and the kind that lingers in your bones.

geto: you’re strong enough to do anything but still i hate that they did this to you

You swallow hard, lock your phone, and drop it face-down on the bed as if the emotions inside might spill out if you let them.

For a minute, the room is quiet. Then your notifications begin buzzing again, louder and faster and relentless, you quickly realize the world has already moved on with its judgement.

Screenshots, memes, commentary, edits, speculation.

The entire country of Japan has decided what this partnership means before you’ve even stepped on the ice with him.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to see him again and he’ll expect you to let him put his hands on you.

Your stomach twists violently and you press your palms to your eyes.

You barely manage to get any sleep that night, which is a first in years. You’ve been obstinate with your sleep schedule as a dedicated athlete, but of course all it takes is for Gojo Satoru to be the one to screw it up.

You arrive at the rink early, painfully so, thinking maybe the ice will steady you.

It doesn’t.

Because the moment you step out of the car and walk toward the rink a cluster of reporters turn their cameras on you like a firing squad. Phones flash, microphones launch forward, voices overlap in a frenzy.

“(L/N), how do you feel about the demotion—”

“Do you and Gojo have chemistry yet—”

“Fans are calling you the Disaster Duo, any comment—”

“Were you blindsided by the federation’s announcement?”

You push through, jaw locked, chest burning, refusing to give them anything. Inside the lobby, you check your phone again and immediately regret it, again.

GOJO SATORU LEAVES ROPPOGNI HOTEL AT 5AM AGAIN!

PLAYBOY SKATER SPOTTED WITH NEW MYSTERY WOMAN

GOJO SATORU OR GOJO SATURDAY NIGHT? JAPAN QUESTIONS HIS PRIORITIES

FANS ASK: HOW CAN HE TRAIN FOR PAIRS IF HE KEEPS PARTYING?

GOJO SATORU IS JAPAN’S BIGGEST RED FLAG

And of course there are photos.

High-resolution ones, literally catching him in 4K.

Gojo is climbing out of a chauffeured car, shirt half-off one shoulder and wrinkled to shit, hair destroyed, and a girl’s hand still clutching his wrist like she’s begging him to stay.

You close Twitter before your brain can finish processing the disgust.

This is the man you’re supposed to trust to catch you?

And because life enjoys attacking you in waves, your torture doesn’t end.

“(Y/N).”

You turn and your mother stands there, dressed like she’s attending a royal gala at nine in the morning.

Floor-length winter coat in white cashmere, hair swept into a flawless chignon, diamond earrings that catch every stray beam of fluorescent light.

She looks like wealth carved from marble and she also zeros in on you immediately, “(Y/N),” Her tone is soft, but the kind of soft that comes right before someone kills, “Tell me everything.”

But you don’t have to. She already knows.

Her phone is in her manicured hand, headlines flashing across the lock screen.

GOJO SATORU PULLS QUAD QUEEN INTO PAIRS

PRINCESS OF JAPAN FIGURE SKATING DEMOTED?

Your mother inhales slowly through her nose, the inhale of a woman preparing to destroy a government, “This is unacceptable,” She declares, “Your father and I did not raise a champion to be thrown to wolves for the sake of a PR stunt.”

“Mom—”

“No,” Her eyes flash, “This federation forgets that we are essentially royalty in this sport. Our family has funded half the training initiatives for the past decade. If they think they can demote you without consequences, they are gravely mistaken.”

Your stomach churns, not because she’s wrong at all but because you know what happens when she gets like this.

“Mom, please don’t—”

But she’s already storming toward Sergei to forge some plan on how to sink her teeth into the directors. You move to intercept her, but the doors slam open once more, and hell walks in.

He looks exactly like the pictures. Sunglasses on indoors like an asshole, jacket unzipped, hair messier than usual, neck marked. He moves with a lazy swagger, almost as if he’s still half-drunk and half-awake.

Gojo looks at you, then at your mother, then slowly removes his aviators.

“So this is the family I’m marrying into?” He says lightly, “Nice. I approve.”

Your mother stiffens so sharply it’s a miracle she doesn’t snap. He continues, “I’m a gold medalist, Mrs. (L/N). That’s part of the criteria, isn’t it?”

Your mother blinks once, the kind of blink that has made full-grown men and Olympic judges reconsider their entire careers. She turns her head toward Gojo with the exact poise of a queen acknowledging a court jester.

“Pardon?”

Gojo smiles wider, because of course he does, and slides his sunglasses into his hair, revealing eyes too bright for someone who absolutely did not sleep.

“I mean, if we’re going to be spending so much time together…” He gestures vaguely between you and himself, “Gotta get to know the in-laws, right?

Your mother goes still, Sergei goes rigid, you go homicidal.

“Gojo,” You grit out, stepping between him and your mother before she murders him publicly, “Stop talking.”

He leans to the side so he can still see her over your shoulder, “Mrs. (L/N), it’s really an honor. Big fan of your skating. Especially your 2002 free skate—your partner was lucky to lift you,” He pauses, then adds as if thoughtfully, “…I bet you were lighter back then though.”

“Enough,” You hiss.

Gojo’s smile doesn’t falter, it just cools, “Touchy,” He says softly, “Didn’t realize saying hello to my mother-in-law was a war crime.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to crack, “Do not call her that. You will never be welcome in this family.”

He leans in, voice dropping to something quiet and poisonous, “Calm down, princess…I wouldn’t curse myself by joining it.”

Your breath punches out of you and even Sergei’s expression flickers, shock, then anger, but Gojo is already straightening, pleased with the damage.

You shove past him before you do something that will get you suspended. Your mother catches your arm, her expression a perfect mask of aristocratic disdain.

“(Y/N),” She says softly, “Why is this cretin speaking to you like that?”

Because fate hates you, the federation is incompetent, and Gojo Satoru is a disease.

Before you can answer, Sergei steps in, positioning himself between your mother and Gojo like a bodyguard, “We start practice. Now.”

Your mother turns to Sergei, voice low and lethal, “I am calling the federation director within the hour. This arrangement will not stand.”

Sergei nods with the grim solidarity of a man preparing for political war, Gojo stretches his arms over his head and yawns loudly, “So dramatic. I didn’t even do anything yet.”

“Yet?”

He smirks, “Give me time, princess.”

Inside the rink, the cold does nothing to settle you like it should. Because Gojo follows behind you like a shadow, skate guards thudding lazily against the floor, humming something that sounds suspiciously like a rap song.

You move toward the ice and he leans in again, voice silk and sin just for you, “You see Twitter this morning?” He asks casually, “Man, they got my good angles. Wild night.”

You clench your jaw, “Congratulations on embarrassing yourself.”

“Embarrasing?” He echoes, rolling his neck until it cracks, “Nah. That was me being responsible.”

He smirks, stepping closer, “Y’know how many girls want to go home with an Olympian and not just any Olympian, but me?” He questions, “It’s practically a public service at this point.”

You stare at him, annoyed and horrified at once, “You’re repulsive.”

“And yet here I am,” He shrugs, “Bright and early for practice,” He lifts his phone, screen lighting up from a new notification, “And look—trending again. I swear, my face works harder than I do.”

You want to vomit as he leans in slightly, dropping his voice to something that slinks down your spine like hot oil, “Besides…last night was fun.”

Your shoulders tense instantly, Gojo notices and drinks it in, “Relax,” He soothes, lips curving, “She didn’t mean anything. Half the time I don’t even remember their names. Makes things easier.”

“That’s vile.”

“That’s efficiency,” He corrects, cheerfully, “Not everyone needs a five-year emotional contract to get through the evening.”

You inhale sharply, “You are unbelievable.”

“Mm,” He tilts his head, studying you, “And you’re worn tighter than an Axle entry.”

You step onto the ice just to put space between you, but he rips his skate guards off and joins you—nimble, effortless in the most infuriating way possible.

He skates backward as you glide forward, matching your pace without looking behind him once, “So, princess,” He drawls, “Did you see the article calling me ‘Japan’s biggest red flag’?”

You grit your teeth, “Unfortunately.”

“It’s lowkey tuff. I kinda want it on merch.”

You stop skating, dead stop. He has to swivel quickly to avoid crashing into you.

“Are you taking any of this seriously?”

“Of course,” He says, eyes sparkling, “I’m taking this very seriously.”

“You partied until sunrise!”

Your voice cracks against the boards like a whip. Gojo doesn’t even flinch, he just smiles, unbothered, “Sunrise is nice. You should try it sometime. Preferably not alone.”

You stare at him like he’s shit on your shoe, “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re judgmental,” He singsongs, “Pretty combo, by the way.”

You continue to skate forward, trying to put literal meters between you, but of course he glides effortlessly into your path, “What?” He smirks, “You never had a crazy night?”

“Obviously not.”

“Oh?”

You regret speaking immediately, practically feeling his interest sharper, “So you’ve never—?”

“No,” You cut in, clipped, cold, dignified.

He stops skating, then bursts into laughter so loud it echoes off the boards, “Oh my God,” He wheezes, “You’re serious. Miss Quad Queen hasn’t even—”

“Gojo.”

“No, no, hold on, I need a second—” He bends at the waist, laughing harder, “You’re actually—holy shit, princess that explains everything.”

Your jaw tightens, “It explains nothing.”

“Oh, it explains everything. The tension? The rage? The stick so far up your—”

“Shut up,” You snap, skating past him.

He catches up instantly, “C’mon,” He prods, far too curious, “What’s the deal? Saving yourself for marriage? Too busy polishing medals to get any?”

You inhale deeply and then you answer, perfectly. Clinically, like you’re giving a TED Talk on Purity 101.

“Coitus,” You say flatly, “Only leads to pregnancy, disease, or distraction. All of which compromise athletic output. Therefore, I abstain.”

Gojo nearly dies.

He actually loses control of his balance for half a second, laughing so hard he had to put a hand on the boards.

“C-Coitus?” He chokes out, voice cracking, “Are you fucking eighty? Who the hell says that?”

You lift your chin, “People with goals.”

“People who have no fun.”

“I take pleasure in winning,” You say, “Not meaningless sweating and moaning.”

“Meaningless sweating and moaning,” He repeats, staring at you in awe, “Princess, I swear to God, you’re my favorite person.”

You glare, “I’m not joking.”

“Oh, I know,” He assures, still breathless with laughter, “That’s why it’s funny.”

You push off again, skating away, refusing to look at him.

But he follows because he always does—like a blue-eyed plague.

“And just so I understand,” He says, overly innocent, “You think sex equals disease and pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

“You ever heard of condoms?”

“Yes,” You say crisply, "Obviously."

Gojo’s grin sharpens, “Ooh, tone of a girl who’s definitely Googled it.”

“I’m not twelve,” You seethe.

“Could’ve fooled me,” He mutters, skating a lazy circle around you, “All that ‘coitus leads to death’ talk. You sound like a Catholic school health class.”

You snap, “For your information, I know exactly how condoms work.”

He lights up like he’s been waiting for that, “Do you now?”

“Yes.”

“Ever seen one?”

Your throat closes, “I—Yeah. In Beijing. They were all over the Olympic village.”

“That was four years ago.”

“I am aware.”

He slows his circles, studying you now instead of teasing blindly, “And that’s the last time you’ve ever seen one?”

You hold his gaze, “Correct.”

There’s a pause. A long one, until, ”Jesus Christ.”

“That reaction is unnecessary.”

“No,” He says slowly, “That reaction is proportionate.”

You fold your arms, “I was fifteen in Beijing.”

“That part is fine.”

“I was focused.”

“That part is terrifying.”

You scowl, “There is nothing terrifying about discipline.”

“Discipline?” He skates closer, “Princess, discipline is choosing not to go out the night before competition,” He gestures to himself, “What you’re describing is self-inflicted harm.”

You ignore him, “I don’t require external validation,” You say coolly, “I don’t need attention, intoxication, or physical intimacy to feel fulfilled.”

His voice drops, “So you’ve never wanted to?”

Your stomach tightens, “That is irrelevant.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

He moves in front of you, blocking your glide. You’re forced to stop or collide, “You’ve never been curious?” He presses, “Never wondered what it feels like?”

“I know what it feels like.”

He raises a brow, “Oh?”

“It’s a biochemical response driven by dopamine and oxytocin release. Temporary euphoria. Followed by distraction.”

He just blankly stares, “You just described sex like it’s a science experiment.”

“It is.”

He laughs once, but it fades quickly, “You’re not a machine.”

“I’m an athlete.”

“You’re a human.”

“I’m fixated.”

His icy blues narrow, “On what?”

“Winning.”

“And when you win?”

“I move on to the next goal.”

“And when you retire?”

“I won’t.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Like arguing with you is the same as talking to a brick wall, “There’s more to life than gold medals.”

“That’s something people say when they can’t win them.”

Those words hit hard. He stops circling, smirking, joking, “Careful.”

You don’t back down, “You asked.”

Silence stretches until he pushes off the ice slowly, skating backward in front of you again, “You think I party because I’m undisciplined.”

“Precisely.”

“No,” He replies calmly, “I party because I can.”

“That’s worse.”

He tilts his head, “You abstain because you’re scared.”

Your pulse spikes, “I abstain because I have standards.”

“For yourself?”

“For everyone.”

His eyes flicker with intrigue, “And if someone met them?”

“No one will,” The confidence in your tone doesn’t waver.

His mouth curves slightly, “Challenge accepted.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“Everything is a competition,” He skates closer, “So here’s what’s going to happen,” He says lightly, “You’re going to let me lift you.”

“Not like I have a choice,” You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“And you’re going to realize I won’t drop you.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“And one day,” He continues smoothly, “You’re going to be curious.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

You move closer instead of backing away this time, “If I ever lose control,” You say evenly, “It won’t be because of you.”

His hues darken, “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”

Before you can respond, Sergei’s voice slices across the rink, “Enough talking, children. We train.”

Gojo doesn’t break eye contact with you, “See?” He murmurs, “Professional.”

You turn away first, skates carving clean, controlled lines across the ice as you move toward center. The cold bites your lungs, steadies your pulse, or at least it tries to.

Behind you, you hear him push off, effortless, confident, and unavoidable. Sergei’s voice carries again, firm, “We start with holds. Basic positioning. Synchronization. No lifts yet.”

Yet.

The word lodges somewhere deep beneath your ribs.

You’ve never been lifted, never had someone’s hands on your waist, never trusted your spine to another person's strength.

Your entire life was built on control and not needing anyone.

But now?

“Princess,” Gojo says lightly as he skates into your peripheral vision, extending a hand toward you like this is some twisted ballroom dance, “Come on.”

Your jaw ticks as you stare at his hand.

You want to refuse, walk out, burn the entire federation to the ground, but none of that changes what’s been decided.

And soon, this demented man will lift you.

You’ll do what you always do though.

Survive.

Reluctantly, you place your hands in his, just to prove you’re not afraid.

His grip tightens, warm and certain. Sergei’s words echo across the ice, “Positions.”

Gojo leans in, “Don’t worry,” He coos softly, “I won’t drop you.”

You don’t look at him, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He just smiles, that signature one plastered on the headlines.

And suddenly, the ice beneath your blades feels too thin.

That’s the curse of legacy.

Most children are given years to experiment with new activities and establish an indentity—like trying soccer, art, piano, or even nothing at all.

Most children are also allowed to be children; have friends, go to school, play video games until their eyes burn, eat shitty processed foods until their teeth ache, watch TV all night.

But you?

You weren’t raised to be most children.

Oh, no. Of course not.

You were raised to be an heir.

The (L/N) family is a dynasty carved out of discipline and obsession. Three generations of Olympic champions, a lineage spoken about with not only pride, but reverence, as if your bloodline itself carries something divine.

Which it probably does.

Because in your family, gold isn’t an achievement.

It’s an inheritance.

Your great-grandfather won Olympic gold in speed skating in 1956, a man whose presence was mythic. Your great-grandmother earned gold in artistic gymnastics, the first woman in Japan to do so, a being of balance and grace who believed perfection was a moral obligation.

Your grandfather claimed judo gold in 1976, a fierce fighter carved from stone. Your grandmother followed with marathon gold in 1984, endurance made flesh, a woman who never understood the definition of quit.

Your father took alpine skiing gold at Nagano in ‘98–charismatic, fearless, a storm embodied on the slopes.

And your mother?

Ice dancing gold, 2002. The original Ice Princess.

Elegant, invincible, severe in her beauty and even more severe in her expectations.

Together, they passed down more than just athletically inclined genes.

They passed down prophecy.

From the moment you could stand, the world didn’t ask what you’d become—only when you’d earn your first gold medal.

When you were born, doctors cheered, “Congratulations, it’s a healthy baby girl!”

Your parents only thought, future gold medalist.

And so, then, it was decided that you’d follow similarly in the footsteps of your mother.

Figure skating.

Women’s singles.

Yes. That it’s it.

They placed you onto the rink, tiny skates strapped to even tinier feet, frigid air stinging your cheeks before you even knew how to pronounce the word cold.

You can remember the first time you fell, a sharp smack against the ice, palms burning, breath stolen from your lungs.

Your mother didn’t scoop you up or console you like most mothers would. Instead, she knelt beside you, her voice soft but unyielding.

“Up. Champions rise on their own.”

So you rose.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until falling stopped being failure and became part of the choreography of becoming extraordinary.

You grew up in rinks rather than playgrounds. There were no lullabies sung to you, only the scrape of blades and toe picks. Childhood friendships were nonexistent—future champions didn’t have time for those as they were far too distracting.

Birthdays were celebrated between practice sessions, candles blown out only when your schedule allowed.

Yet despite the stringency and strictness, you never rebelled. Because even from a young age, you understood your purpose.

The world expects greatness from you, and you were perfectly built to deliver it.

At nine, you landed your first triple jump, stunning an entire coaching staff into silence. At eleven, you became the national novice champion, reporters calling you, “Japan’s new hope.”

At thirteen, you swept the junior international circuit with a precision that bordered on inhuman.

Your name became its own frequency. At fourteen, the world began whispering it and a year later, they began screaming it.

Because at fifteen, you stepped onto Olympic ice representing Team Japan in Beijing.

And not once did you tremble, or waver, or let the enormity of the moment crack your composure.

Neither did you skate like a child, you skated like a girl who from birth was destined to be legendary.

Four quads executed cleanly, footwork so sharp it could draw blood, a final pose held worth the poise of someone who’d lived a hundred lifetimes on the ice already.

When your routine ended, the arena went silent for a heartbeat. Then it erupted.

And for the first time in your life, you felt something warm beneath your ribs—victory.

Oh how sweet it is.

Addicting.

Enthralling.

You had finally fulfilled the prophecy.

A gold medal was placed around your neck. People deeming you the “The Quad Queen”, “Japan’s Ice Princess”, “The Champion Born of Champions”.

The youngest Japanese woman to win gold in Figure Skating. The youngest woman since Tara Lipinski.

Your throne was sculpted in frost and you sat on it alone, perfection the loneliest kingdom.

Now you’re nineteen years old, still undefeated in Japan, the federation’s pride and joy, the face of their Olympic campaign for 2026.

Your life has remained a straight, pristine line.

Until today.

The boardroom of the Japan Skating Federation is unusually tense, executives shuffling papers they don’t need to read; your coach sits beside you with a stiffness usually reserved for judicial hearings.

You fold your hands neatly in your lap, another inherited habit, “Please. Explain this meeting.”

The oldest director clears his throat, “(L/N)-san…as we prepare for the next Olympic cycle, Team Japan must optimize its medal chances. Particularly in the Team Event.”

A flicker of annoyance sparks under your sternum.

The hell does this have to do with you?

“And?”

“We’re assigning you to pairs skating for the coming season.”

Silence swallows the room. Your heartbeat doesn't stutter, no you’re too trained for that, but your voice lowers into ice.

“Why?”

“Because you are our strongest female athlete,” The woman beside him says gently, “And only you have the adaptability and power to transition in time for the Games.”

The words slide off you like snow down a slope. A cold, controlled fury begins to spread within your chest.

“I am the strongest women’s singles skater in Japan,” You explain quietly, “And you want to…move me? Replace me? Undermine my category? Why sabotage your best chance at gold?”

“You are,” The director agrees, “That is precisely why we need you to lift the entire team.”

You inhale once through your nose, knowing that they are right.

Milano Cortina, the 2026 Olympic Games are only a year away, and it would take the best skaters alive to survive a transition like this.

Good thing you are one of them.

And if this is the cost of legacy, you will pay it.

“Very well,” You sigh, “If this is your decision, then tell me my partner.”

There is only one acceptable answer you’re willing to hear.

Geto Suguru.

A respectable, graceful skater—the gentleman prince.

Someone whose lines match yours, discipline that mirrors your own, and quiet strength you’ve admired for years.

You lift your chin, “Tell me it’s Geto.”

The room goes entirely still, causing your stomach to drop. A director finally speaks, voice brittle.

"Ah, shit," he groaned, flipping off the burners in quick succession as you stared at what had previously been your perfectly clean kitchen.

You pressed a soft kiss to Umi's forehead as you cooed to soothe her, glaring up at him as he sheepishly stared at the remains of the breakfast he'd surely have to dump.

Was this just your life now?

A whiny baby and a whinier baby daddy? Burned breakfast before you had the chance to even use the bathroom?

"Can I just get like, a coffee?" You asked, not even feeling like telling him off as you turned towards the couch, tempted to just collapse and feed Umi so at least one of you didn't have to go hungry.

"Yeah, whatever you want," Gojo mumbled, all low and defeated. "I'll just order delivery."

"Thanks," you exhaled, curling up into the corner of your couch and lifting up your shirt to let Umi drink, her chubby little fingers digging into your skin as you made a mental note to trim her nails later.

To your surprise, after he placed an order, he actually did start to clean the mess he made. Wiping down counters as he chewed his bottom lip, throwing out the food he failed to cook properly before doing the dishes and sweeping the flour off the floor.

Sometimes, it felt remarkably strange to watch him act all...domestic.

Like he really lived here instead of the frat house across the street.

Doing chores without complaints, existing in your life like he always had a place in it. You guessed he would from now on. You couldn't exactly untie yourself to him when you shared a daughter.

Would he always stick around to do the laundry? To order you food and vacuum the floor? Or would he get sick of fatherhood after a few more months? Resign himself to being the kind of dad who only sent cards around birthdays and holidays?

It was hard not to think that.

Not when you'd heard so many horror stories and seen it for yourself how easily men could discard someone the moment a better option came along.

It was simpler to assume that someday you would get replaced by a younger, prettier model. One who didn't have a child he never asked for.

Gojo was the kind of guy who'd marry someone like him. Rich and beautiful and well-bred.

Not the broke girl he accidentally knocked up in college.

"Um, by the way, my parents asked to keep her overnight next weekend," he awkwardly said, sheepishly running his hand through his hair the way he always did when he was on edge.

"Don't you think she's still a little young for sleepovers?" You asked, pushing a few wispy strands of white hair back from her face as she sleepily shut her eyes.

"I mean, I don't know, they just asked," he floundered, blinking too fast as he finished cleaning, drying his hands off on a paper towel and tossing it in the trash.

"Gojo," you said his name, resisting the urge to roll your eyes as you squinted, trying to figure out what his angle was here.

Was he going to try and ask you on a date?

Jealous that Suguru had taken you out before him?

A sick thought crossed your mind that maybe the only reason they both seemed so interested was because they liked the competition. You felt a little fucking ill considering it, picturing them bickering over who would get you to be their girlfriend first - just to dump you when they got bored.

You wanted to believe Suguru was genuine.

That he had a crush on you too - before you let his best friend put a baby in you.

"There's also, uh, a party next Friday, and I just thought, that maybe you'd wanna go," Gojo added. "Or go hang out with your other friends. I don't know, you deserve a break and-"

"Fine," you grumbled, gritting your teeth. Despite how their spawn turned out, you didn't mind his parents. They were relatively normal. Responsible.

More importantly, they adored their granddaughter.

And for some reason, actually liked you too.

At first, you were sure they probably secretly hated you. Harbored resentment for screwing up the big plans they had for him.

Instead, it seemed like they thought you were the only reason he'd gotten serious. Or well, as close to it that someone like Satoru could come.

His mother had confided in you that she was grateful he'd gone from a frat president to a father.

"You're her dad too, you know you have a say in decisions like these," you muttered under your breath as she popped off your nipple.

You glanced up at Gojo, expecting him to play it all off, pretend to be all unbothered like usual. But his blue eyes were soft, touched. Looking at you all tenderly as he scooted a couple inches closer.

"I never want to make you uncomfortable," he murmured.

"Thanks," you cleared your throat, the words coming out nearly a whisper as Umi squirmed in your hold, her head turning towards her dad, reaching out for him. "I'm just saying, she's ours."

You wished you'd kept your mouth shut once it came out.

But it was the truth.

She wasn't just yours, or just his.

She belonged to both of you.

It was just fucking annoying that he smiled at you all soft and cute, eyes crinkling as he echoed, "Yeah, ours."

ꕤꕤꕤ

You were supposed to be having a girl's night out.

How that ended in you at Gojo's goddamn frat party four drinks in?

Your head was too fuzzy for you to precisely recall.

Chest sore and swollen, nipples rubbing uncomfortably against the pads in your bra, the tiny dress you'd shoved yourself back into for the first time in nearly a year and a half rolling uncomfortably up your thighs as you downed another shot. A chorus of giggles erupting from friends you sincerely missed hanging out with, an arm wrapped around your waist as someone slurred in your ear, "Don't look so sad."

"I don't look sad," you argued, huffing at her as you untangled yourself. "I'm very happy."

Not particularly.

But you couldn't stop yourself from desperately trying to believe you weren't miserable walking around the house that had landed you in this situation before.

You'd only managed to get a few conversations in with Suguru all week. Mostly just talking about how much you both enjoyed your date (even if you spent the majority of it in your car) and how he missed you and Umi, too busy with some paper he had to write and his part-time job to visit for more than a handful of minutes at a time.

Gojo, on the other hand?

Wouldn't fucking leave your apartment.

Usually something would draw his attention away, whether it was school or work or one of the other thousand responsibilities he seemingly had.

But every time you needed him (and every moment you very much didn't), he was there. Whenever you needed someone to watch Umi so you could go to class. Whenever you were attempting to take a shower in peace.

Sleeping on your couch even when though the springs creaked and groaned with just the slightest movement. Waking up at midnight to coax Umi back to sleep with a bottle you pumped.

He had managed to successfully pack you a lunch in the fridge this morning, accompanied by a little note saying he hoped you attended the party tonight.

You weren't going to come.

But somehow, your paths always seemed to intersect right when you hadn't planned on it.

"How's it going with Geto?" Shoko asked, as if she wasn't friends with him and your baby daddy and hadn't already heard first hand.

"Good," you answered before half-heartedly shrugging. "I think."

It wasn't like he was your boyfriend yet.

Or the two of you were exclusive.

For all you knew, he could be talking to ten other women.

"How's Gojo taking it?" She pressed, a hint of amusement betraying her bored tone as she tilted her head to the side.

"I don't know," you mumbled, wondering if the guilt the question stirred was normal. Neither guy had ever treated you remotely normal - no wonder you were constantly so confused when it came to them.

Her mouth parted, but then Utahime came up, squealing and giggling as she drunkenly grabbed her arm.

You excused yourself, slipping away from them as your head swirled with questions you didn't want the answers to. God, it'd been so fucking long since you'd been drunk.

Chest all warm and fuzzy, your thoughts thick clouds that kept slipping away from you as if someone had stuffed cotton balls between your brain and your skull.

Your hangover tomorrow morning would be definitely be a bitch.

But that just sorta sounded like tomorrow you's problem.

People let you squeeze past them - even though you heard familiar whispers as you slipped through the thick throngs of sorority sisters and assholes trying to get recruited.

Slut.

The common theory around campus was you were just some poor whore who managed to baby trap Gojo.

Like you'd held him fucking hostage and demanded that he take care of all your needs or that you were somehow just playing hard-to-get to manipulate him into doing what you wanted.

Clueless that what you wanted was for him to just move on already.

"You're here."

You stalled at the sound of his voice.

Freezing right before the bathroom, glancing back to see him standing there, a red solo cup in hand and a cheeky smile plastered on his face. "You actually came."

"Uh-huh," you replied, not sure how you were supposed to feel as your throat went all dry.

"You look gorgeous," he grinned, letting his brilliant stare sweep over you, looking you up-and-down three times before his eyes finally settled on your face. "Holy shit."

"I'm drunk," you muttered, blinking a few times as you tried to come up with an excuse to evacuate. "I really need to pee."

"I'll go with you," he eagerly said, before realizing how that sounded and backtracking, "I, uh, I'll wait outside."

And like a needy puppy, he really did just stand there when you shut the door to the bathroom, pacing the tiled floor as you kicked aside a few empty cups to sit on the closed toilet seat and take a couple minutes to breathe.

He didn't seem drunk.

Maybe he could call you an uber or something or walk you across the street back home.

Staying seemed like a mistake waiting to happen. Someone would say something or you would do something stupid and you'd have just another mess to take care of in the morning.

You got up to splash water on your face, a pathetic attempt to sober up as you sighed.

No matter how much you wanted to, hiding away and pretending none of your problems existed wouldn't solve anything.

But when you opened the door, Gojo wasn't alone anymore.

No, just like you knew there would be here, a pretty blonde was grabbing his bicep, squeezing tight and laughing at something he said that surely could never be that funny. She had dragged him a few feet away from the door, trying to subtly pull him deeper into the crowd.

You couldn't see what face he was making.

You didn't think you wanted to.

Fuck.

You knew this was a bad idea.

But once again, you doubted your fucking instincts and paid the price.

Slipping your way back through, nearly spilling a few drinks as you had to force your way past where people had clustered, head swiveling to find the exist despite your disorientation.

A voice in your head begging you to just go, go, go, as you mumbled awkward apologies to anyone you brushed against.

And then you heard a low chuckle, and you were pausing your escape to look back over your shoulder - where you almost immediately spotted your other suitor.

Suguru was leaning against a wall, no drinks in his hand, but an easy smirk on his face as he listened to some dark-haired girl beside him.

God. Of course.

Zero for two tonight.

Minding your own business probably made you an easy mark.

How simple was it to sneak under your nose when you were walking around blind to what they did behind your back?

Once they were outside of your apartment, they were free agents.

It wasn't like you had caught them actually having sex with anyone. But you'd been the pretty girl at a party they smiled at before. You knew where it led.

They could go fuck whoever they wanted.

You could too.

All the maturity you'd been clinging to, pretending you were so abundant in flung out the first fucking window you saw at the realization that all you were ever going to be was a prize for them to win.

You fumbled for your purse once you finally made it through the front door and into fresh air, blinking too fast as you yanked your phone out and scanned through your contacts. Clumsily clicking on the screen until you found the one you wanted.

"Hi, um, Sukuna?" You breathed, swallowing hard. "Can you come pick me up?"

You roll your eyes, and then turn your cheek. You won’t give him the satisfaction of leering at your displeased face — why is it not working? You used to sate yourself just fine before you were married, but you haven’t touched yourself since. Now when you try, even with such a mountain of a man at your beck and call, nothing compares. 

Your fingers aren’t as big as his are. Your crafted dildo doesn’t curve and pulse like his cocks do. You lack the warmth on top of you; the loud, sleepless nights he gives you, the pleasure so overwhelming it bleeds into pain. 

“You’ve ruined self-love for me, you know?” You sulk. 

Sukuna rolls his eyes beneath you, jaw working as you’re sure he’s trying not to spit something demeaning from his lips. He fails. “You’re just incapable,” he bites. “Don’t hold yourself to such high standards, wife. I am not to be rivalled.”

His ego is ruinous. A part of you wants to feign your pleasure, start moaning like a whore and show him exactly what he’s missing out on, but your husband has always had a penchant for knowing insincerity when he sees it. He’d punish you worse for faking your pleasure than for taking it without his aid. 

“Fine,” you grumble, your teasing mood soured. “Help me then, you oaf. But you remain beneath me. Where you belong.”

You tack it on as an afterthought, but it feels odd to say. The man who towers over the world and those within it, is laid beneath you… you can’t help but feel special. He laughs at your words, chuckles vibrating through his stomach and into you, but he doesn’t punish you for his tongue.

Yet.

“Take that fucking thing out of you,” he starts, glancing down at where you keep the dildo buried between your thighs.

You oblige, working it out slowly. A string of slick connects it to you as Sukuna grips it in one large hand and raises it up to your eye-level. Snap. It’s in halves before you can blink. The wood splinters, creates a small dust of shavings that dissipate through the air and makes your eyes widen. 

“If you bring another object like this into our chamber again, I’ll stuff you full of it and have you walk naked across the length of the estate with it inside,” he lectures, eyes so set in his ways that you know he isn’t making empty threats. “Now, let me do what you cannot.”

Before you can allow yourself the dignity of pretending this is a favour to him, Sukuna’s stomach splits across the taut seam you had been sitting on. A long, obscenely wet tongue shoots up and flattens against your pussy, warm and disgusting in its eagerness. Hot breath fans your skin from below, and you gasp as what feels like buckets of spit wet your cunt in preparation. 

Your husband just watches as the mouth on his stomach gets its fill. His grip on your waist tightens and holds you down against the slippery second tongue that licks a lewd stripe from your ass, to your hole, up to your clit. You whine, shrinking away from such messy devouring, but you have nowhere to go, and no fight left in you to object — you spent all of that on trying to pretend you could cuck a man like Sukuna. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

“Fuck,” you splay your hands out across your husbands chest for purchase as his stomach-tongue circles once, twice, around your clit before worming its way inside of you. It fills you with the ease of a muscle; pliant, not having to stretch you quite as far as his cocks do. And it moves, explores the topography of your insides like it’s trying to chart you out, taste every inch of your womb…

Through your blurred vision, you watch Sukuna raking his gaze over you. He keeps licking his lips, shifting ever so slightly as he had when you were trying to deny him. Your brows knit together.

“Can you taste me?” you ask, words broken by a moan as his stomach-tongue starts thrusting in and out of you, pushing all the way in just to retreat back into the mouth to savour the slick it coats itself with. “Can you… taste what it does?”

“Barely,” his jaw ticks. “It’s dull. Not the same.”

Oh? A surge of something mean shoots through you, and for a moment you’re unsure whether it’s pleasure from his tongue taking another course inside, or the satisfaction of knowing that, in a way, you’re still cucking him.

“So,” you glide your fingertip across the plane of his chest. “If I cum on this tongue, you’ll hardly be able to taste it?”

He doesn’t answer. A dog that bites and barks opting instead for silence is as telling as it is terrifying. You love it.

You throw your head back with a dramatic moan, using your thighs to push yourself up and start riding his stomach-tongue as you would his cocks. It’s lewd, makes these god-awful squelching noises with each pump in and out of you, but there’s a certain eroticism to the mess you’re making. His cocks are leaking behind you, desperate to tunnel inside of you and find their release, but you don’t allow it — you’re busy riding that tongue of his. 

“I should—gods—do this more often,” you pant. “You’ve been hiding this from me, husband. Scared I’ll put the better parts of you to use?”

“Tch. Quiet yourself and take your release.” He’s tetchy, restless. 

You can tell he’s straining himself not to pick you up and force you down onto his cocks like he so often does. Luckily for him, your climax is close, and you aren’t sure you’d have the heart (or will) to deny him any longer. 

The tongue inside of you quickens in pace. It thrusts in and out in emulation of a cock, dragging wet muscle across your g-spot in rhythmic bliss. You can feel yourself going stupid on it, such a mess being made between your thighs. Your skin is covered in saliva, from your thighs to your cunt, all the way up to your stomach; you’re glossed with the stuff. Coated.

It’s when the tongue slips out of you to once again lap at your clit that your orgasm comes. You clench around nothing, grimacing at the feeling of emptiness that dampers your climax, but your legs shake and breath hitches in your lungs as you forget how to breathe, and be, and stay fucking quiet.

Your moans are melodious and loud in the same right, spurring Sukuna from a scowl to a slack jaw as his hips buck up once, and then twice, and a sudden splurt of heat covers your ass and lower back.

“Did you just—” you start, but your mind spins. You’re lurched forward by the force of two strong hands, and brought down to your husband’s chest. The mess of warm spit sticks your skin together, but you don’t have even a moment to complain as he covers your mouth with his, kisses you with a reverence that can only be shown by a king in adoration of his queen. Or a man warring to distract from the fact that he just came untouched.

“You are a petulant brat who has lost her sense of subservience to me,” he speaks against your lips. “But you are beautiful to an ungodly degree when you disobey me. You will look even better split in half on my cocks, crying for mercy from this man who is so ‘beneath you’, yes?”

A beautiful jolt of erotic fear surges through you. You’re one wrong-answer away from sexual torture; better keep your words kind. 

You smile against his lips, peck them once, twice, and then speak. Your words are simple.

"… yes, well. i'll talk to him, thank you for letting me know. have a good day." your mind was elsewhere as you took your tight-lipped son out of the classroom, and the silence stretched all throughout the car ride home moreover. you snuck a couple glances into the backseat and he still held that far away look in his eyes as he stared out the rainy window.

when you entered the dimly light apartment you two shared, you set his backpack and things on the breakfast nook. megumi could tell you were gearing up to say something, so he stops in the hallway after he's pulled off his ratty red tennis shoes. you wondered when exactly he'd learned that silence; swallowing his thoughts instead of sharing them with all the graceless honesty children his age were supposed to have.

"megs honey, c'mere."

"i'm okay, mom."

you give him a softly stern look and his mouth presses into a thin line. for a second, you see the argument forming behind his eyes, but he seems to think better of it. begrudgingly, megumi pads his way back toward the kitchen and climbs onto one of the stools at the breakfast nook.

you stand in front of him.

up close, the bruise looks worse and your stomach twists.

"who hit you?"

"it doesn't matter."

"megumi."

"he got hit too."

you blink. goodness, those public school teachers really don't pay attention. "thank you for letting me know, but that's not what i asked."

his gaze drops toward the counter. the refrigerator hums behind you, rain tapping unevenly against the balcony doors. you take a slow breath through your nose before speaking again.

"your teacher said there was a fight. she didn't see what started it." you pause, studying his face. "so i'm asking you, because i'd like to know what my kid has to say first."

something in your voice makes him look up and you soften immediately. god, he was so little. sometimes you forgot.

megumi had always carried himself with an odd seriousness that made people speak to him older than he was, so much so even you were guilty of it sometimes. he'd been tying his own shoes before the other kids in his class, packing away his own belongings without being asked, checking that the front door was locked whenever you came home late from work. he never even begged for toys or new gadgets, and that should've worried you sooner.

you reach out carefully, brushing your thumb underneath the uninjured side of his face.

a cute little pout formed on his mouth. "he was being annoying, okay?"

"you punched someone because they were annoying? that doesn't sound like you."

"makoto said something stupid about you." his jaw clenches. you knew the kid's mother, a rather standoffish lady you grew up with. born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

you know that face. it's the one with a stubborn furrow between his brows, the one he gets whenever he doesn't understand why the world refuses to operate according to the rigid sense of justice that reminds you far too much of someone you once knew. your son was never the violent type, but there were a couple things that he felt deeply passionate about.

you weren't oblivious, you knew there probably were questions from classmates. why doesn't your dad ever come to school events? where did he go? is your dad dead?

children were curious, but they were also capable of being cruel without knowing the difference.

"what did he say about me?"

megumi's eyes flick toward yours before dropping again.

"he said you must be bad."

your brows knit together in confusion. "bad?"

"he said it's your fault dad left us."

the words settle heavily in the apartment. you don't find words to respond quickly enough, so he continues.

"and he said his mom said women like you can't keep men."

you had gotten good at ignoring adults. from distant relatives with loud opinions that talked behind your back, to "well-meaning" acquaintances who had looked at you like your life was an unfortunate cautionary tale instead of something you'd fought tooth and nail to build. it was unfortunate children were malleable clay that parroted what they heard.

"so i punched him, 'cus that's not true."

your gaze snaps back to your son. megumi looks almost defiant now, chin tipped slightly upward. oh, your poor baby boy.

"he shouldn't have said it."

"i agree, he shouldn't have."

his expression changes slightly, surprised by your quick support. he was sure you were getting ready to scold him. "but you still can't punch people, my love."

"why?"

"because that's not how i taught you to solve your problems."

megumi slides off the stool suddenly, frustration working across his features. "he wouldn't stop, mom!"

"then you should've told your teacher."

"she wouldn't do anything!"

"you don't know that."

"yes, i do!"

the certainty in his voice catches you off guard.

"they always say stuff, and nobody cares!"

his face crumples for half a second before he forces it away. the anger dissipates, and you can see the tears forming in his eyes. your chest tightens painfully.

"hey… hey."

you crouch down in front of him. megumi immediately looks elsewhere. you knew he hated to cry in front of you nowadays.

"look at me."

you wait until eventually, reluctantly, those watery dark eyes meet yours.

"you don't have to defend me."

"i do, you're my mom."

you shake your head. "no, baby. you don't."

he hates when you call him that now. usually you'd get an immediate grimace, some irritated insistence that he wasn't a baby anymore. this time however, he says nothing.

"like you said, i'm your mom." your hands settle gently on his shoulders. "i'm supposed to protect you, you're not supposed to spend your day worrying about protecting me." you can tell he's listening. his lower lip is still trembling despite how hard he's trying to keep it still.

"you know what matters more than what they say? what you know." your hands move to cup his tiny face. "i know who i am, and i know who you are. nobody gets to decide either of those things for us."

you pull him into your chest without a warning and megumi stiffens instinctively, embarrassed by affection even in the privacy of your apartment but you don't let go. after a few seconds, the tension leaves his shoulders and his forehead presses into the crook of your neck.

"the next time this happens, you tell me," you murmur against his hair. "if your teacher isn't listening, then i'll make her listen."

"you'll embarrass me."

you smile despite yourself. "yeah, i probably will."

"mooom!" even though he sounded irritated, a muffled laugh escapes against your shoulder. there he was. your fingers comb gently through the spiky, shaded mess of his hair. you stand up, walking towards your noisy fridge and grab a frozen bag of peas from the freezer.

"now sit back down and put this on your bruise before your eye swells shut. can't have my kid looking like rocky." he climbs onto the stool again, obliging without protest. though, a question mark appears on his face.

"who's rocky?"

you groan. "honey, you're making me feel old."

the rest of the evening passes quietly. you make dinner and megumi finishes most of it while complaining that the vegetables taste weird despite them being the exact same vegetables he'd eaten two nights ago without complaint. you let him have the argument this time. after today, you figured he deserves one meaningless victory.

by the time the rain settles down outside, the apartment has grown warm with that particular nighttime stillness you'd learned to appreciate. the television plays quietly from the living room while you wash two plates in the sink, and megumi is sprawled on the couch doing his homework until you tell him to wrap up for bed.

when he's finally changed into pajamas and climbed beneath the blankets, exhaustion has taken over your son. his bruised eye still looks awful beneath the warm light of the bedside lamp, and even though you'd checked it several times throughout the evening, you find yourself inspecting it once more as you sit beside him and gently sweep his bangs away from his forehead. megumi tolerates the attention for a few seconds before sinking deeper into his pillow with a sigh.

"mom, you've looked at it like a hundred times and it still looks the same, i don't think staring is going to make it disappear."

"i'm aware that glaring at a bruise is not medically proven treatment, thank you very much smartypants." you chide, smoothing the blanket over his chest before your expression softens again.

"megumi, honey, listen to me because i'm being completely serious right now. i know i don't always have every answer. our life isn't exactly like everybody else's, but there has never been a day where taking care of you felt like a burden i wished i could put down. you are my favorite person in this entire world. even though i don't condone what you did today… between you and me, that kid deserved it."

megumi's mouth twitches slightly. "you said i shouldn't have punched him, but you also said he deserved it... i think you're sending me mixed messages."

you let out a quiet mocked gasp and gently pinch his cheek. "i said no such thing."

"you kindaaaa did."

"i kinda-absolutely-did-not! goodness, this conversation is supposed to be about how deeply and unconditionally i love you, you little menace."

that manages to get a small laugh from him, and the sound immediately fills you with happiness. you bend down and press a long kiss against his forehead, then rest your hand against his hair as you speak more quietly. "can i get an 'i love you' for the road?"

he watches you for another moment before mumbling an "i love you". you smile and brush your thumb over his temple before standing.

"goodnight, megumi."

"goodnight, mama."

the sincerity in his voice pangs in your heart. you hadn't heard him call you mama in a good while. when you glance back, he's already curling toward the wall with the blanket tucked underneath his chin. you leave the door cracked the way he still secretly prefers and stand there for several seconds longer than necessary, watching until his breathing begins to even out.

only once you're back in the kitchen does the weight of the day settle. you feel pathetic for letting makoto's cruel comment ruin your night, even more so because you know it wasn't really the child who'd gotten beneath your skin. perhaps, part of you still worried they were right. not about megumi—never about him. but rather about yourself. you stare at the half-clean kitchen for another minute before deciding you've had enough emotionally mature mom-ing for one evening.

"fuck it," you whisper to yourself, opening the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulling down the cheap bottle of wine you saved for moments like this. you pour yourself a generous glass and carry it toward the living room. after a few bitter sips, a knock echoes from the front door. for a few seconds you wondered whether you'd imagined it due to how late it was. another rap comes a moment later, heavier and more deliberate this time.

you set the wine glass on the coffee table and glance toward the hallway by habit, checking that megumi's bedroom door remains undisturbed before approaching the entrance. nobody you knew had any business coming over at this time without calling first, and the uneasiness gathering in your stomach only worsens as you lean forward and look through the peephole. your entire body goes cold at the realization. what a sick coincidence.

there was no logical reason for toji fushiguro to be standing outside your apartment after years of silence. you unlock the door but keep the chain latched, opening it only enough to stare at him through the narrow gap. "i'm assuming there's some emergency happening, because i can't imagine another reason you would think showing up at my apartment without warning was even a remotely acceptable thing to do."

toji's gaze moves over your face before flicking toward the chain. "wow, nice to see you too."

you almost laugh at the audacity. "you don't get to feel any kind of way right now, toji. i didn't ask you to come here."

his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "if you're planning on turning this into an argument, save yourself the effort because i didn't come here to fight with you."

"unless you have something useful to say, i suggest you leave."

toji exhales through his nose, his patience already wearing thin in that familiar way that used to drive you insane. "can you open the damn door first? i don't feel like airing our personal shit where every fucking person on this floor can hear us."

you scoff in disbelief. you remember all those months passing without so much as a text message, and whatever sympathy that was threatening to surface disappears immediately.

"you gonna let me in or not?"

you stare at him for several long seconds before shutting the door in his face. there's an immediate thud against the other side.

"babe, seriously?"

"i'm taking the chain off, jackass. don't call me that."

the hallway falls quiet. you remove the chain and reopen the door, stepping aside just enough for him to enter.

"five minutes, toji. i'm serious. i've got work and megumi has school tomorrow. unlike some people, we operate with an actual schedule."

his eyes narrow slightly as he walks past you. "you always gotta throw something in there, don't you?"

"you give me plenty of material."

you close the door quietly behind him and fold your arms across your chest. there had been a time when toji's presence could consume whatever room he entered, when you knew the shape his jacket in the back of your mind and exactly where he'd kick his shoes despite you asking him a thousand times not to leave them in the walkway. now, he looks almost displaced.

his gaze drifts across the apartment and you hate yourself for noticing every place it lands. megumi's backpack is still on the breakfast nook with his homework folder peeking out, the corner of one worksheet folded where he'd erased too aggressively earlier. the frozen bag of peas sits abandoned beside the sink, already softened enough that condensation covered it. from your shared past experiences, he knew you always kept a spare bag when he came home from a bad job. toji's eyes linger there.

"something happen?"

you know better and should've lied because the last thing you needed was to give toji ammo to stay longer. alas, your honesty betrays you.

"megumi got into a fight at school." toji's attention snaps toward you so quickly that you immediately regret saying anything.

"what? our megumi?"

that jilts you. when did he believe he had any claim over your son?

you answer flatly. "he's fine."

"what do you mean he got into a fight?"

"i mean exactly what i said, toji. before you start working yourself up, i've already handled it and he's sleeping now."

his expression darkens. "just tell me what happened."

you exhale slowly and move toward the coffee table, reaching for your wine because you need something to do with your hands when you got on edge. "another boy said something, megumi punched him, the other kid hit him back. he has a little shiner, that's it."

"what did the kid say?"

you take an extended sip.

"mm, it doesn't concern you."

"stop, don't do that."

you look at him over the rim of your glass. "don't do what?"

"hide whatever caused this. obviously it fucking matters if a level-headed kid like megumi hit somebody first."

"interesting. coulda fooled me that you're the expert on my child."

the words leave your mouth before you can stop them and toji's jaw ticks. you know what strikes his nerve.

"see, there it is."

"there what is?"

"the actual reason you let me in."

you laugh humourlessly. "you think i invited you inside because i've been waiting forever for an opportunity to argue with you? trust me, toji, i've had plenty of mental arguments when you were gone and they were all more productive than this."

"then tell me what happened instead of playing games."

"i'm not playing games."

"tell me what the fucking kid said!"

you stare down into your glass. you wish, more than anything, that you didn't still possess this stupid, ugly desire for toji to hear what happened and react correctly. not violently or defensively, not with the same pride that had poisoned half your conversations while you were together. that small part of you that still loved him hard wanted him to understand and kiss away your tears and tell you it was going to be okay.

"he told megumi it was my fault you left."

toji's eyebrows pull together, and you continue before you lose your nerve.

"apparently his mother has some opinions about me, and like most people who don't know when to shut their mouth, she shared them where her son could hear. he told megumi that women like me can't keep men, and megumi punched him because he thought he had to defend me."

toji looks away, but you see it. that flash of guilt.

"that's fucked up."

you wait, but nothing else comes. your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass.

"that's it?"

his gaze returns to you. "what do you mean, that's it?"

"i don't know, i suppose i imagined there might be something more substantial. finding out your son got into his first real fight because another child was making fun of him and his mother for not having a father around means nothing, then?"

his expression twists. "don't turn it into that."

"turn it into what?"

"you know what i mean."

"actually i don't, so please explain it to me. i'm dying to know what exactly you're insinuating."

"you're making it sound like i wanted to fucking leave."

you stare at him. you don't even feel angry, just stunned.

"didn't you, though?"

toji exhales sharply, already irritated by the direction the conversation has taken. ""no, of course not. you know damn well that's not how it happened."

"that's funny, because i don't remember being given much information to work with."

his jaw shifts. "you knew what i did for a living."

"don't you dare."

"i'm not throwing it in your face, i'm saying you knew there were gonna be times i couldn't tell you everything."

"everything?" you repeat incredulously, lowering your glass. "toji, i knew you killed people for money, i think we were several miles past the point of expecting full transparency about your work." his expression tightens, but you continue before he can interrupt. "i knew what you were capable of before i ever decided to build a life with you, what it meant when you disappeared. i knew better than to ask names or know where you were going, and god knows i learned very quickly not to ask when you'd be home because half the time you couldn't answer me anyway."

toji's gaze drops.

"you'd leave for a three day job and come back after five, and we'd fight about it because i was worried sick spent those extra forty-eight hours wondering whether something had happened to you. you gave me lousy apologies and we'd move on. those were our bumps, toji. i understood because i had no other choice."

"this wasn't like those jobs, it was high risk."

you laugh quietly, but there is nothing remotely amused in it. "high risk and you took five fucking years."

you hated stating it literally because the duration of his absence felt easier to manage when you didn't give it a time. time blended together more kindly that way, reduced to birthdays and school pictures and clothes megumi outgrew rather than one enormous stretch of life in which toji simply did not exist. a blip where your husband should have been. instead, you lived life like a widow.

"i couldn't contact you, it was too dangerous."

you study his face waiting for signs of bluff, but toji isn't lying and that made it worse.

"and not knowing nearly destroyed me. you don't know how hard it was to care for megumi without knowing whether you were alive or not."

your words shut him up. you set down the glass before your hands can fail with how badly they've begun to shake. you press your lips together, but the emotion has already climbed too high in your throat to force back down.

"i didn't know whether you were somewhere choosing not to call me or whether you were lying dead in a ditch."

"i wasn't dead."

"fuck, i know that now!"

your voice jumps before you can stop it. your eyes dart toward the hallway. the anger drains from your face and toji notices.

"baby, i was trying to come back."

"i said stop calling me that. i don't care because trying didn't help me when megumi had a fever and i was so terrified i stayed awake all night to make sure he was breathing. or when i had to choose between missing work and watching him because daycare fell through even though i wasn't making rent that month."

"did you not get the money i sent you? i thought it was covering something, but—"

"what money are you talking about?"

the irritation that had been taut across his features falters. "the money i sent every month."

you stare back at him with such complete disbelief that his brows slowly upturn, and the horrible realization begins creeping across his face before you even have to answer him. "there was no money. not one cent from you showed up after you disappeared. if somebody convinced you otherwise, then congratulations on trusting the wrong person with the well-being of your family."

"that's not fucking possible. he told me it was handled."

a scoff. "congratulations, you were scammed."

toji drags a hand down his face as he turns away from you, and for once there is no immediate rebuttal, only restless movement as he paced the room. "i left enough to cover the apartment for a long time. i sent it in portions so it wouldn't look suspicious. the whole point was making sure nobody could trace anything back to you or megumi."

"well whoever you trusted clearly decided he needed it more than we did, because i spent the first year after you disappeared selling half the shit we owned just to keep us from drowning."

his head snaps back toward you. "if i'd known there was even a chance the money wasn't getting to you, i would've found another way."

"i don't care about the money, toji!"

toji goes completely still. you let out a shaky breath before continuing, an ache growing in your stomach. "i showed him pictures of you when he cried. i would tell him fairy tales about where you were, but megumi got older and smarter and knew they were pathetic excuses. he stopped asking about you."

"it fucking kills me inside that i missed everything. please, you have to give me a chance."

you blink.

"tell me what i missed. i already know saying i had reasons doesn't magically erase what happened. but he's my son and you're still my wife, and maybe that doesn't mean shit to you anymore—but it means everything to me."

his gaze made you stir still after so long, and the anger between you seems to collapse beneath the exhaustion of finally saying something neither of you had been willing to acknowledge.

"he looks like you when he smiles." your voice cracks when you say it. "every single day he gets closer to looking like your copy. there were so many nights where i'd cry myself to sleep with a picture frame of you. i don't hate you, toji, and that is part of what makes this so fucking unbearable. i needed my husband."

the confession rips out before you can reconsider it. you feel a tear roll down your cheek and finally realize you'd begun crying. he steps closer, slow enough that you could easily move away, but your heartbeat stumbles and you stay put. his hand lifts toward your face, cupping your cheek and you instinctively lean into the touch. his knuckles brush carefully beneath your eye to wipe away stray tears. you should stop him.

your shared muscle memory moves faster than good sense and when his mouth finds yours your body answers out of pure habit. your hand catches automatically against the front of his shirt, and you lean your entire body into the feeling. then reality hits. you pull back so quickly that your shoulder bumps against the edge of the wall, and the sudden nausea rising through your stomach forces you to press one hand against your mouth while the other shoves weakly against his chest.

toji moves away immediately. "shit, i shouldn't have done that."

you stare at him through watery eyes. the look on his face makes you feel worse because he doesn't appear triumphant or smug or even hopeful, only devastated that you seemed regretful.

"i'm sorry."

"you need to leave."

"i swear, i wasn't trying to push you into anything."

you wipe furiously beneath your eyes, your demand still standing. his gaze shifts briefly toward the hallway before returning to you, and the longing there is so obvious that it feels invasive even though he makes no move toward megumi's room.

"just don't let him forget about me, even if you don't tell him i was here tonight."

he pauses.

"i will always love you. to my dying breath."

your face crumples before you can stop it. "get out."

toji's expression breaks slightly, but he nods and pulls the door open without another word, leaving with a click.

you lock the door the instant it closes, your knees finally giving out. you sink onto the floor beside the entrance with one hand clamped over your mouth because the first sob leaves you far louder than you intended. you press your palms against your eyes until colors burst behind them, desperately trying to keep yourself quiet enough that megumi won't hear.

however, you don't hear the faint movement from the bedroom down the hall. megumi stands barefoot just beyond the edge of the living room, mostly hidden by the darkness stretching, with one hand curled tightly around the doorframe and the blanket he'd dragged with him gathered against his chest.

he had woken sometime around the first raised voices, disoriented enough that he'd nearly called for you before recognizing the unfamiliar man's voice coming from the living room. his father had been standing inside their apartment.

and you, his mother, was sitting on the floor beside the front door with her face buried in her hands because of him.

he doesn't approach you. instead, he watches with tears gathering silently in his own eyes before retreating toward his bedroom as carefully as he can manage, closing the door behind himself and crawling beneath the blankets without turning on the light. i hope the bruise stays, he thought to himself. i don't want to look like him.

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