Using your One Wish Willow was supposed to be a joke. What happens now that Leon Kennedy himself is in front of you, seemingly in love with everything you are?
okay hear me out.. RE6 Leon is female!readers mission partner right… and she trained under him and whenever she would do something wrong he clicks his tongue. ACCIDENTALLY SORT OF CLICKER TRAINING READER and mayhaps it leads to some nsfw stuff during a mission??🫣🫣
I'm so sorry but I could not find a way to sneak the smut in there! But I really hope you like this either way. (Also RE6 is so underrated! I played it with my partner and it was a blast!)
Summary: Leon accidentally clicker trains you. Pavlov would be proud.
One Shot Masterlist
Pavlov was a Dick - Leon Kennedy x Reader
The first time it happens, neither of you notices.
Which is probably why it gets so bad.
Training under Leon Kennedy is, frankly, a nightmare. He’s not particularly cruel or unfair, no. Actually, you couldn’t be trained by anyone better. In a way, that’s the problem. He's annoyingly good at everything he does.
Every stance correction is perfect. Every critique is somehow correct. Every piece of advice immediately solves whatever problem you're having. It's insufferable.
"Your shoulders."
You immediately straighten. Leon nods once. "Better."
You hate how satisfying that approval feels.
You hate it even more when he clicks his tongue. It's never loud. Just a small little sound whenever you do something stupid.
Miss a target?
Click.
Forget to check a corner?
Click.
Nearly trip over your own feet during a drill?
He made the noise twice that time. Click click.
It's not even intentional. Half the time he doesn't seem aware he's doing it. But after months of training together, the sound becomes synonymous with one thing; you've done something wrong.
Unfortunately, your brain decides to take that information and run with it.
.
.
.
It becomes apparent during a mission six months later. Leon is crouched beside you, behind an overturned vehicle, while gunfire erupts across the street.
His hand comes up, holding up three fingers. You understand immediately.
Three hostiles. You nod.
He gestures again, this time waving his hand a little to the left.
Left side is mine. Another nod. With that, you start standing up, readying your weapon-
Click.
You sit back down so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Both of you freeze.
Leon blinks.
You blink.
"...Why did you do that?" The words are whispered, barely audible under the noise of the gunfire.
Your mouth opens. Then closes. You sit there a moment, mouthing out unintelligible words. Then, "...I don't know."
Neither of you thinks much about it.
… At first. Then it happens again. And again. And again.
A month later, while sloughing through the underground ruins of a cathedral, his newest tag along finds out.
She’s a nice young woman. A bit younger than him, with chestnut brown hair and kind eyes. Her name is Helena, if you’re recalling correctly.
You’re reaching for something when Leon clicks his tongue. Immediately, without hesitation, you pull back
Her eyebrow raises. "Wait.”
Both you and Leon give her a confused glance.
“Leon…” she takes a breath, “Make that noise again.”
He does. As if on cue, you step a little closer to him, your eyes snapping to his form, as if waiting for a command.
Helena’s eyes widen. "Oh."
You give her a confused look, before starting to walk again. Helena clicks her tongue.
You freeze. The room goes silent.
Then, Helena lets out a laugh. It’s the most genuine reaction you’ve ever heard from her. You can almost see tears forming in her eyes as she doubles over, chuckles falling from her lips.
"You clicker trained your partner!"
Leon’s arms come up in defence. "I did not."
"You absolutely did." The woman gestures towards you both.
"I did not."
"You made her into a golden retriever!"
More laughter. You can feel yourself melting into an embarrassed puddle as Leon just shouts.
"I DID NOT."
.
.
.
The worst part is that once everyone notices, nobody lets it go.
Chris finds out, while you both try to pursue Ada Wong. Then Piers. Then, Sherry and Jake. Suddenly everyone is testing it.
It's humiliating. It's horrible. It's nonstop.
Click.
You stop peeking out from cover.
Click.
You stop running and start listening.
Click.
You skid to a halt mid run.
The last one makes Leon groan loudly enough to be heard from feet behind you. "This is my fault."
"This is absolutely your fault."
He just rolls his eyes. "I didn't mean to do it."
Helena is quick to snort. "You Pavlov'd her."
"That's really not what Pavlov did."
"You know what I mean."
Meanwhile, you're standing still, watching helplessly while this argument happens around you. Honestly, you're still not entirely convinced it's real.
Until after the mission is over.
The two of you are alone in the safehouse. It's late. Everyone's exhausted. You're sitting on the floor cleaning your pistol when Leon walks into the room carrying two coffees.
Without thinking, you reach for yours. You don’t go for the handle. Instead, you reach for the mug itself.
The cup is hot. Very hot. Hot enough to burn. Leon’s brows raise.
Click.
Your hand jerks away before you even register the sound. The movement is instant. Automatic. Reflexive. The room goes quiet. Slowly, you both look down at the coffee. Then at each other. Then, back at the coffee.
"...Oh."
"...Yeah."
For some reason, that's the moment it finally hits him. Not necessarily because it’s funny, or because everyone keeps teasing him, no. It’s because he realizes how much you've trusted him.
For months.
Every correction. Every lesson. Every warning. Every tiny click of his tongue. Somewhere along the way, your brain decided that sound meant safety.
To listen to him. That he's trying to help.
The realization hits Leon right in the chest.
He looks away first, which is unusual. He's never been particularly good at hiding things from you.
"What?" you ask.
His jaw flexes slightly. "Nothing."
"You're being weird."
A pause. "...You listen to me."
Your brow furrows. "Usually? Duh?"
"No, I mean..." He exhales softly. "You really trust me."
The words make you freeze for a moment. He hands you the coffee carefully this time, turning it so that you can grab the handle. His shoulder bumps yours when he sits beside you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He feels warm beside you.
Then, Click.
Your head immediately turns toward him.
Leon bursts out laughing. It’s the happiest he’s sounded in days.
Late Night Confessions - Luis Serra x Reader (Beneath the Rot Part 4)
Summary: After the events of the village, both of you are starting to have your doubts about your employers.
Masterlist
The lab is never truly dark.
Even at night, the fluorescent lights refuse to fully die, flickering faintly above him like something that can’t decide whether it wants to keep watching or not. The refrigeration units hum steadily in the walls, mechanical breath filling the spaces between silence.
Luis has long since stopped noticing it. Or at least, he tells himself that.
He doesn’t notice the time either, until you set your bag down a little too heavily beside the workstation and exhale through your nose like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. It makes him check his watch, sighing when he sees that it’s just a touch past eleven at night.
“Long day?” he asks without looking up from the sample notes.
“You say that like there are short ones here,” you reply.
That earns a quiet huff of amusement from him. Not quite a laugh. Something smaller. Still real, though. That’s the problem.
You move around the lab slowly, more tired than you’ve been letting on lately. He notices it in the way you don’t immediately start organizing your tools. The way your fingers hesitate over the sterile tray before setting down your gloves. Eventually, you take your place beside him.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The parasite under the microscope twitches intermittently, as if reacting to the rhythm of the room. Luis watches it longer than he means to. Watches the way it responds to subtle shifts in light, in sound, in presence.
You break the silence first. “I keep thinking about them.”
He doesn’t ask who. That would be pointless. Instead, he exhales slowly. “The villagers.”
A pause. You nod once. “They don’t feel like ‘subjects’ anymore,” you admit quietly. “Not when you’re actually there.”
Luis leans back slightly in his chair, rolling a pen between his fingers. “That’s the trick,” he says. “If they stayed ‘subjects,’ this would be easy.”
You glance at him then. “Is it easy for you?”
He almost answers immediately. A joke. A deflection. Something sharp enough to keep the question from landing too deep. But it doesn’t come. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Instead, he just shrugs. That makes the room feel colder somehow. You shift your weight beside him, arms crossing loosely.
“... We’re not the good guys in this situation, are we?”
The question makes a dry laugh fall from his lips. Luis drags a hand down his face, exhaustion scraping against the edges of him harder than usual tonight. The fluorescent lights overhead continue to buzz faintly, cold against the metal tables and glass slides scattered across the workstation.
“Those cultists upstairs really didn’t tell you anything, did they, hermosa?”
The words come out too harsh, almost like an insult. He mentally scolds himself when his tone makes you flinch.
You look away from him, body turning inwards and eyes downcast to the floor. “Just that they’d pay well and that our research would help people.”
The parasite beneath the microscope twitches sharply against the glass slide, tiny limbs flexing in blind instinct. Luis stares at it too long before reaching forward and shutting off the microscope light entirely. Darkness swallows the specimen.
“That’s what they told me too,” Even in the dim light, he feels far too exposed, “I’m not sure I ever believed them, though.”
Your voice is low, “Then why did you stay?”
There it is. The question that he’s been dodging since childhood, it seems. Part of him wants to lie, just like always. To dress up an excuse. Make it all pretty and flirty until you stop asking.
But you’ve been persistent enough that he knows you’ll probably never stop asking.
“At first?” His laugh is faint and humorless. “Because I was curious.”
The confession settles ugly in the air. He watches your expression carefully, expecting disgust. Judgment. Fear. Instead, you just look sad. That somehow feels worse.
“We spent our whole lives being told certain things were impossible,” he says quietly. “Then suddenly someone places proof in front of you. A parasite capable of rewriting biology itself.” His eyes drift toward the darkened microscope. “Do you know how difficult it is for a scientist to walk away from something like that?”
You nod, “I do.” Then, softer, you mutter, “But that doesn’t make this okay.”
“No.” His jaw tightens slightly. “It doesn’t.”
The refrigeration units hum steadily around you both. Luis rubs tiredly at the back of his neck before continuing, voice lower now. “By the time I realized what they actually wanted these things for...” He trails off briefly. “Leaving became complicated.”
Your brows furrow faintly. “Complicated how?”
He glances toward you, crooked smile returning out of pure instinct. Defensive. Automatic. It’s his default face at this point. “Ah, ah. That sounds dangerously close to personal questions again.”
Normally, that would earn at least a small smile from you. Tonight, it doesn’t. You lean closer to the counter instead, arms folding tightly across yourself. “Luis.”
Something about the way you say his name quietly strips the humor right out of him. His gaze drops briefly to the floor.
“I helped build parts of this,” he admits softly.
The words barely make it out. But once they do, they don’t stop.
“The implantation procedures. Neural synchronization trials. Early behavioral conditioning.” His throat feels dry suddenly. “I kept telling myself I could steer the research somewhere safer. More humane.” Another bitter laugh. “Turns out fanatics don’t care much about humane.”
Silence follows. Not shocked silence. Just heavy. Then, after a long moment, you speak.
“I don’t think this is your fault alone.”
Luis looks up sharply at that.
“You still participated,” you continue carefully. “But so did everyone else in this facility.” Your eyes drift briefly toward the dark hallways beyond the lab doors. “The people upstairs created this environment on purpose. They wanted scientists desperate enough to compromise.”
His chest tightens unexpectedly. You are being far kinder than he deserves. Why aren’t you disgusted?
“You’re very bad at hating people,” he says quietly.
A faint smile tugs at your mouth. Tired. Sad. “Occupational hazard.”
His eyes track the way your arms hold yourself, body shivering slightly in the chill around you both. The chill he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get rid of.
“Why have you stayed? Something tells me that this isn’t the first time you’ve thought about all this.”
Your gaze drops briefly toward the darkened microscope. “No,” you admit softly. “It’s not.”
The answer comes easier than he expected. Maybe because you’re tired. Maybe because the lab at midnight has a way of stripping people down to the truth, whether they want it to or not.
You rub absentmindedly at your wrist before continuing. “I kept telling myself I was overreacting at first.” Your laugh is quiet and strained. “That, maybe I just wasn’t used to this kind of research environment.” You gesture vaguely toward the surrounding lab equipment. “Unethical experiments aren’t exactly rare in our field.”
Luis lets out a soft hum of agreement.
“But then we went to the village.” Your expression tightens faintly. “And suddenly it stopped feeling theoretical.”
The words settle heavily between you both. Because he understands exactly what you mean. There’s a difference between data on paper and watching a man’s hands shake while something alive moves beneath his skin.
“You could still leave,” Luis says quietly after a moment.
Your eyes flick toward him immediately. The words that leave you are hollow and empty. “I really can’t.”
Luis stills. He suddenly understands the darkness in your eyes. There's a difference between someone not wanting to leave and someone believing they can’t.
Slowly, he turns toward you fully. “That,” he says carefully, “sounds less like dedication to science and more like blackmail.”
Your mouth twitches faintly at that. Not quite a smile. “I wouldn’t say that,” You murmur lowly, “But I don’t have much of a choice, no.”
He doesn’t miss the way your hands begin to tremble.
He chooses his words carefully, “... What does that cult have on you? Whatever it is-”
You cut him off, “They don’t have anything on me, really. But…” Your exhale is shaky and unsure, “If I leave, then things will go bad for me. I can’t let that happen.”
Even in this light, he can see the way wetness is welling up in your eyes. Without thinking, his arm loops around your shoulders, his body a warm weight against yours.
You stiffen, but he doesn’t let go. “What are you…?”
His other arm slowly comes around you as well, pulling you into his chest, “... One day,” He starts, “One day I’ll get us both out of here, okay?”
Your head shakes, “Luis, I don’t think you understand.”
His hand comes up and pets your hair before he can stop himself, “I don’t, no. I have no idea what’s going on with you, genia. But you’re my friend, and I’m going to help you get out of here.”
For a moment, he almost swears that he feels wetness drop onto his shoulder, and a sniffle falls from your lips to accompany it.
The sound is so small that he almost pretends not to hear it. Almost. Luis has seen people cry before. From pain and fear and grief. Usually loudly. Usually ugly. But this?
This feels different. You’re trying so hard not to let him notice. Something about that hurts worse.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The laboratory hums around you endlessly, lights flickering overhead while refrigeration units breathe cold air into the silence. Somewhere deeper in the facility, machinery rattles behind the walls like distant thunder.
And still, you stay folded against him. Luis realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first genuinely human thing either of you have experienced in weeks. Maybe longer.
Carefully, he rests his chin against the top of your head. “Hey,” he murmurs softly, voice stripped of most of its usual teasing warmth now. “No llores, hermosa.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I’m not crying.”
“Mm.” His hand smooths absentmindedly over your hair again. “Of course not. And I’m the pope.”
That finally earns a weak snort against his shoulder. There you are. The relief that flickers through him at hearing it again is embarrassingly genuine.
After another quiet moment, your voice comes muffled against his chest. “You shouldn’t make promises like that.”
Luis’s brows furrow faintly. “Like what?”
“Getting us out.” Your fingers tighten briefly against the fabric of his coat. “People don’t leave places like this.”
The certainty in your tone unsettles him more than the words themselves. For the first time since meeting you, he realizes your fear may run deeper than the laboratory. Deeper than Saddler. Like this place didn’t just trap you physically. Like something else already convinced you escape was impossible long before you arrived here.
Luis exhales slowly through his nose. “Well,” he says quietly, “good thing I’ve always had terrible judgment.”
You huff another faint laugh, though it trembles at the edges.
He pulls back just enough to look down at you properly. Your eyes are glassy with exhaustion, your expression worn thin beneath the harsh laboratory lighting. God. When was the last time either of you actually slept?
“You know,” he says softly, thumb brushing beneath one of your eyes before he can think better of it, “for someone claiming they aren’t crying, this isn’t very convincing acting.”
Your brows pinch together immediately. “Luis.”
“There she is,” he murmurs, smiling faintly. “I was worried the personality had died.”
You roll your eyes weakly, but you don’t pull away from him entirely. Progress. For a while, the two of you simply stand there beside the darkened microscope and scattered research notes, suspended in the strange quiet that only exists very late at night. The kind where honesty slips out easier because both people are too tired to keep carrying it properly. The warmth between you is comforting and safe, even as you continue trying not to sniffle in his arms.
Eventually, you glance toward the workstation again. Toward the stacks of notes detailing synchronization rates and behavioral degradation and parasite adaptation. All the terrible things both of you helped measure. Your expression dims.
“What happens if we keep going?” you ask quietly.
Luis follows your gaze. He knows what you’re really asking.
What happens to the villagers?
What happens to the research?
What happens to them?
His jaw tightens faintly. “I think,” he says slowly, “eventually there won’t be enough left of these people to save.”
The words hang in the air like smoke. You swallow hard beside him.
Then, quietly, “And us?”
That question hits harder. Luis looks at you for a long moment before answering. “I don’t know.”
It’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. Your eyes drift shut briefly, exhaustion pulling at every line of your face. Without thinking much about it, Luis guides you toward the chair beside the workstation and nudges it lightly with his foot.
“Sit,” he says gently.
You blink up at him. “Are you giving me orders now?”
“Absolutely.” A faint grin tugs at his mouth. “I’m a terrifying authority figure.”
“You flirt during emotional breakdowns. That’s deeply concerning behavior.”
He clicks his tongue, “Ah, but it’s charming concerning behavior.”
That finally earns a real laugh from you. Quiet and tired, but real. God help him, there it is again. That warmth in his chest. Dangerous thing.
You sink reluctantly into the chair while he reaches automatically for the abandoned paperwork scattered across the counter. Sample reports. Implantation observations. Behavioral notes. For the first time in a long time, Luis looks at them and feels tired all the way down to his bones.
Beside him, your voice softens again. “Luis?”
“Hm?”
“If you ever do figure out how to leave…” You hesitate briefly. “Don’t stay because of me.”
He stills. Then he snorts quietly, shaking his head as he gathers the papers into a messy stack. “Too late, princesa,” he smiles.
But the joke lands too softly to hide the truth underneath it anymore.
Summary: Working together was never supposed to become personal.
But somewhere between late nights in the lab, the dangerous field research in the nearby village, and the whispered conversations about morality neither of you should be having, the line between scientific partnership and something far more dangerous begins to blur.
And in a place built on control, devotion, and infection, caring about someone may be the deadliest mistake of all.
The New Hire - Luis Serra x Reader (Beneath the Rot Part 1)
Summary: While working on a new strain of Las Plagas, Luis encounters the Los Illuminados' newest hire.
Masterlist
If it wasn’t for the white lab coat adorning his body, Luis would be freezing his ass off right about now.
Of course, rationally, he knows that the cold temperatures of the lab were for the parasite’s own good. Even a few degrees too warm, and it would interfere with their growth, and, his overall research. But even then, he can’t help but feel a slight shiver course down his spine as the chill nips at the skin of his face.
The cold, sterile air seems to cling to him like a second skin no matter what he does. No matter how much time he spends outside the lab, rejoicing in the warm, humid air of Spain, his bones still retain the chill like the laboratory is where they belong.
In his hands, the metal tools glint up at him, gleaming in the fluorescent light. Behind him are refrigeration units, humming softly. Somewhere in the facility, there’s the rattling of machinery.
Luis barely notices any of it anymore.
Currently, he’s leaning over an examination table, gloved hands steady as he adjusts his microscope lens another fraction downwards. This particular parasite that he’s currently working on is adjusting very well to the prior experiments. It’s gotten stronger, and when he peers at it through the microscope, he can see that it’s wet, tiny limbs are twitching.
It’s not a random twitch. No, this movement is controlled. The appendages move in his direction, like it’s trying to get closer.
Fascinating.
“Still ugly.” He mutters to himself absentmindedly.
Another twitch from the parasite, body reacting to the sound of his voice.
According to the higher ups, this progress is encouraging. Promising, even. A sign that all of Luis’ hard work and their money is worth it. Exciting results.
Concerning results, according to the part of Luis’s conscience he’d gotten very good at ignoring.
His hand goes down to the notepad next to his lab equipment, scribbling down notes and chemical formulas. Things he’s going to have to try. Ideas that he’s going to need to rule out. Either way, this is a breakthrough. Or, in his mind, a potential catastrophe. The parasite is reacting to the presence of organic material. It’s fascinating in the worst of ways.
Behind him, the laboratory door buzzes open with a slight hiss.
He doesn’t bother looking up, eyes still squinting to look through the microscope.
“Unless someone is actively dying,” he said, adjusting a dial lazily, “I’m very busy over here.”
A dry voice answers instead. “New recruit.”
Ah. That gets his attention.
He finally glances up from the microscope, eyes flicking towards the door. At the door is his boss. A rough looking man, with tanned skin and sandy colored hair. He’s used to seeing him. The man breathes down his neck constantly, after all. But what intrigues Luis is the woman next to him.
She’s standing slightly behind the man, eyes scanning the room curiously. A beige colored message bag is slung across her body, her hands carrying a bundle of papers. When she meets his eyes, her mouth tilts up into a smile.
His boss keeps speaking, “Mr. Serra. This is your new researcher, Ms. Y/N L/N. She has a background in parasitology and toxicology. I imagine that she will be of great help to our cause.”
Our cause. The phrase still makes his skin crawl after all these years. As if Luis is part of those crazy cultists.
He leans back slightly, resting his weight against the table as he studies you. You’re around his age if he had to guess, with intelligent eyes and a guarded but friendly face. Your posture is alert but still casual. That rules out a military background, at least.
His boss turns and leaves, leaving the two of you alone.
“And here I thought they were finally promoting me to sainthood.” He offers a small smile. “Luis Serra Navarro. Welcome to our humble little basement of horrors.”
When he extends his hand, you seem cautious to take it, your body hesitating before your palm meets his.
“... That’s not exactly reassuring. Is it always this cold in here?”
He shrugs, turning back to the microscope with practiced ease. “You’ll get used to it. Hell isn’t always hot, Corazón.”
He can hear you step a little further into the lab, your shoes tapping on the tile floor. When he glances back at you, your attention has already drifted across the laboratory, curiosity tinting your eyes.
Like a scientist. Or an optimist.
Both are equally dangerous things to be here.
You speak again, eyes rolling as you set your messenger bag onto one of the spare chairs, “Well, aren’t you a charmer, Mr. Serra.”
He chuckles, finally facing back to you again and stripping off his disposable gloves, “Ah, too formal. Call me Luis, please. ‘Mr. Serra’ sounds like someone with better life choices.”
Your head tilts when you see the microscope, a brow raising. “I take it that you’re looking at…?”
“The newest strain of the plaga.” He watches as you step forward, body already leaning down to look into the lens, “I assume you’ve been given a rundown on what we’re researching?”
You nod, though don’t bother looking back at him. You’re too busy looking down at the parasite.
“This is…”
He expects the next words you say to be many things. Disgusting. Horrific. An affront to god. But instead, when you speak again, your tone is light. “Fascinating.”
He chuckles, “Really, now? I’m used to hearing repulsivo.”
Even as you shrug, your eyes don’t stray away from the specimen. “My line of work isn’t pleasant. I’m used to that. It takes a lot to scare me away now, Luis.”
You seem to be testing the name on your tongue. For some reason, the way you say it makes something unfamiliar tighten in his chest. Your voice is intelligent but warm, lips turning upwards into a smile even as your hand adjusts the microscope slides.
You mutter something to yourself before asking, “Tell me, what stimulation have you given it to respond like this?”
He chuckles, head shaking a little, “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, genia. I have not poked or prodded it at all. Its movements have been programmed into it by hereditary traits only.”
At his words, your head finally turns, eyes squinting as they meet his. “Hereditary?” you repeat. “So the behavior is being passed between generations?”
Luis grins a little at the immediate understanding in your expression.
“Exactly.” He steps closer to the microscope again, resting one hand against the edge of the examination table. “The original specimen reacted aggressively to direct stimulus only. Pain, sound, movement. Predictable things.” He gestures vaguely toward the writhing parasite beneath the lens. “But this one…”
Your gaze drifts back toward the microscope. “It’s anticipating.”
The answer leaves your mouth so quickly it almost catches him off guard. Not many people keep up with him this easily. His grin widens despite himself.
“See?” he says lightly. “Now you’re making me look good.”
You snort softly under your breath before straightening, arms folding loosely across your chest as you study the parasite. You’re sure in your movements. No signs of fear. No flinching.
Most newcomers either stared too long or looked away too quickly.
You’re not doing either.
Interesting.
“What’s the long-term goal?” you ask after a moment. “Adaptability?”
There’s no judgment in the question. Only curiosity. It should make answering easier. Instead, Luis finds himself hesitating. Because the official answer and the truthful one were two very different things. He reaches for the notepad beside him, mostly to avoid your eyes.
“The cult wants fewer weaknesses,” he says finally. “Greater control. Faster synchronization between host and parasite. Less resistance during implantation.”
Something flickers across your face as he speaks. Not something disturbed, necessarily. But you go quiet, gaze moving between him and the microscope.
“And what do you want?”
Oh.
Luis glances toward you again. Most researchers here never asked questions like that anymore. They cared about results. Funding. Approval from men upstairs pretending to be prophets.
But you?
You sound like you actually expect him to have an answer.
For a moment, only the low hum of refrigeration units fills the silence between you. Then he laughs softly through his nose, though the sound lacks its usual ease. “That,” he murmurs, “is a dangerous question for your first day.”
A faint smile tugs at your mouth. “Should I save it for the second?”
Something unexpectedly warm flickers low in his chest. God help him.
Luis shakes his head, looking back down toward the parasite before answering.
“When I first came here,” he says slowly, “I thought we were standing at the edge of something revolutionary.” His fingers tap once against the metal table. “A parasite capable of rewriting the relationship between the body and disease? Controlling infection itself? You can imagine the possibilities. We could learn so much with these things.”
Your expression softens slightly. “That sounds almost hopeful.”
Almost. The word hangs there between you. Luis stares at the twitching specimen beneath the microscope.
“It did,” he says. Past tense.
“And now?”
Another chuckle. It’s hollow and fake, scratching against his throat like sandpaper. “Careful, now. I’m not looking to scare you away from your job just yet.”
Again, your face betrays some kind of emotion. One that he can’t place, but he would say almost looks sad. Remorseful, even. Before he can question it, you’re talking again.
“Trust me, Luis. I’m not one to run. Besides,” You smile at him, “I’m here for more reasons than just science.”
“Oh, really, now? Like what?”
The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. For a second, you don’t answer immediately. Instead, your attention drifts past him, toward the thick observation windows lining the far wall of the laboratory. Beyond the glass, shadowed hallways stretch deeper underground, disappearing into dim red emergency lighting.
The deeper parts of the facility.
Luis watches the subtle shift in your expression. It’s not fear. It’s something quieter than that.
“Let’s just say that I got tired of hearing the word ‘impossible’.”
The way you say it almost sounds like you have hope.
Hope. Not the blind, stupid kind the cult liked to preach upstairs. Not salvation or divinity or any of Saddler’s bullshit. Just human hope. Messy. Desperate. Real. The kind that he didn’t have anymore, and hadn’t had for quite some time.
“They told you this research could change everything,” he says quietly.
Your eyes meet his again. “They told me it could help people.”
The sincerity in your voice hits harder than he expects. For a moment, he almost envies you. Not because you still believe in the work. But because you still believe in people. Luis looks away first.
His gaze settles on the parasite writhing beneath the microscope lens, tiny appendages flexing against the glass like searching fingers.
“You should be careful with that kind of optimism down here, corazón,” he murmurs.
A faint crease appears between your brows. “That obvious?”
“To someone like me?” He gives a soft snort. “Painfully.”
That finally earns a real laugh from you. It’s soft and unrestrained, tickling his ears and petting his hair. The sound echoes strangely against the cold metal walls of the laboratory.
Very suddenly, he’s aware of how long it’s been since he’s heard laughter down here that didn’t sound cruel. Something about that realization unsettles him more than the parasite ever could.
He clears his throat lightly, stepping away from the examination table. “Well,” he says, reclaiming some of his usual charm, “before this place corrupts you entirely, I should probably show you where they keep the coffee.”
Summary: A compilation of all the Resident Evil One-Shots I've done. (See notes at the bottom.)
Leon
Drunken Confessions - He confesses his feelings to you after an alcoholic spiral
Shared Pain - You both comfort each other through chronic pain episodes
6 Months Sober - In which Leon gets his 6 month sobriety chip, and you two celebrate together
A Touch Too Much Blush - You broke your hand and can't do your makeup. Leon to the rescue!
Stitches - You stitch him up after a mission gone wrong
Dirt Looks Good On You - You both head to a plant nursery to start the gardening season off right
Bare Faced - He sees you without makeup for the first time
Big Scary Dog Privilege - You're goth, and some random dude tries to hit on you. Leon puts a stop to it!
A Lil Jealous - One of my most popular one shots. Luis flirts with you and chaos ensues
In The Eye of the Beholder - You're an artist. Leon admires that very much
Just A Nibble - You give him a lil chomp when things get hot and heavy! (Suggestive but no actual smut.)
Unprofessional - He sees you outside of work for the first time ever. Your fashion sense is not what he's used to
Slumber Party - Rookie! Leon AU. His first time with you, his girlfriend, who also happens to be the RPD receptionist. (NSFW. PURE SMUT.)
Office Fairy - You clean up things around the DSO office, but no one knows its you. Your coworker, Leon, catches you in the act of cleaning up his desk
Bad Ideas - You two have smexy time on the balcony of his apartment (NSFW. PURE SMUT.)
Harm Reduction at its Finest - How Leon helps you through a self harm episode. (Content warning for semi explicit self harm.)
Everybody Knows That I'm a Good Girl, Officer - You're a street racer. One night, Rookie! Leon pulls you over
Too Late - In which you get bitten and he arrives too late to help you
Drawing Together - You two draw weapon plans together
Let Me Save the Day - You fix things around the house. He has mixed feelings about it
Mr. And Mrs. Kennedy - Mr. And Mrs. Smith AU (Smut but not super explicit.)
Chronic Pain and Pillows - You have h!EDS. He helps you with it!
Carlos
Wouldn't Dream of It - You worry about him after the events of RE3.
Chris
Coming Soon...
Luis
Coming Soon...
More Characters
Feel free to request!
Feel free to request for any character and any overall ask! I will write for female and male characters. I'm most comfortable writing gender neutral or fem reader, but I'm open to writing male readers too!
-Angel
Write whatever you want. Write that incredibly niche thing that only two other people on earth will get. Write the super indulgent cliche thing that makes you kick your feet giddily. Write the angry rage story that whumps them all and makes people cry.
Whatever it is that YOU want to write. Write it. Because only YOU can.
꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
